In the Book Notes series, authors create and discuss a music playlist that relates in some way to their recently published book.
Bridget Crocker’s novel The River’s Daughter is a mesmerizing story of personal resilience and healing.
Kirkus wrote of the book:
“Heartrending in its maturity and its quest for empathy . . . A brave, sincere story of the shattering and saving powers of adrenaline and humility.”
In her own words, here is Bridget Crocker’s Book Notes music playlist for her memoir The River’s Daughter:
Music was ever-present in my childhood as a medium for good storytelling. In our home in the trailer park on the Snake River in Wyoming, we ha ad a vast collection of 8-track tapes rooted in the center of the house. They helped me to understand the human condition without sugarcoating it, educating me on the many forms of heartbreak and how to survive them.
Music has tethered me and helped me overcome my own suffering, by enabling me to better access my emotions and encouraging me not to quit. Change the song, change your mood, is one of my mantras, and I relied heavily on music while writing The River’s Daughter both to conjure memories of scenes and tap into the emotions to bring more complexity to the work.
“Lucille,” by Kenny Rogers
As a child, I loved all kinds of music, but my favorite type of song told a story, and I regarded Kenny Rogers as the master storyteller, with his songs like “Lucille,” “The Gambler,” “Coward of the County” and “Ruby Don’t Take Your Love to Town.” I loved how the songs were narrated by a bystander and zoomed into the scene where the wheels were falling off.
I’ve always believed “Lucille” to have one of the most breathtaking opening lines of any story:
“In a bar in Toledo / across from the depot/ on a barstool/ she took off her ring.”
Like Lucille, the beginning of The River’s Daughter gives the reader a front row seat to a family being demolished, and includes drinking, leaving, and cheating. David Allen Coe says in the classic song “You Never Even Called Me by My Name” (which is featured in my chapter “Riches to Rags”) that to be a perfect country western song, the song must include mama, trains, trucks, prison and getting drunk, and that edict is well covered in both “Lucille” and The River’s Daughter.
“Lizzie and the Rain Man,” Tanya Tucker
“Lizzie and the Rain Man” is another exceptional storytelling song that my mama played frequently and has always been one of my favorites. It’s the story of an interloper who arrives at dawn in a drought-stricken West Texas town, claiming to be a rainmaker. The Rain Man—who can communicate with and conjure the elements—fascinates me, as does Lizzie, the defiant girl who calls him out in her thick, powerful drawl. “A fancy man in a fancy wagon with some fancy things to say.” Lizzie courageouslystands up to the Rain Man on behalf of the community, “You call yourself a rain man? / Well ya oughta be ashamed / startin’ all these people dreamin’ / thinkin’ you can make it rain.” The Rain Man meets Lizzie where she is, then challenges her to change her perception, “Oh come with me, Lizzie / and the stars will write your name / And if you still think I’m lyin’ to ya / look a yonder there comes the rain.” The heavy drums sound thunder cracking as the miracle of rain happens. Ultimately, this is a song about faith, “Step back nonbelievers / or the rain will never come.” The River’s Daughter is filled with Rain Men, Lizzies, miracles of nature, and changes in perception, just like this song.
“Dinner with Ivan” and “The Moose Song,” Big Head Todd & The Monsters
In the 1990s, Big Head Todd & The Monsters was the quintessential Rocky Mountains band, and I saw them perform countless times in Jackson Hole, Ventura, Missoula, and Bozeman. I am an enormous fan of Midnight Radio, and the song “Dinner with Ivan” has been a touchstone for me. Consider the lines:
“Welcome to the wild world, brother / Sometimes it’s gonna rain on you / It rains all over the world, brother.”
It’s a reminder that devastating things happen; no one’s immune. I highlight this theme in the book’s Zambian chapters, where literal rain creates a devastating turn of events. Many of us mistakenly fall victim to the idea that our misfortunes are unique, when really, our wounds give us incredible opportunities to connect.
Also from Midnight Radio, “The Moose Song” stayed with me for years: “When it hurts / when it hurts inside / why can’t you see it’s only you he’s thinking of?” This line helped me understand that my father’s rage was rooted in his grief and loss. “Whoever told you it’s your right to be alive? / If your heart is breaking / you are lucky to be in love.” I wasted a lot of time in resentment, thinking that I was owed something by the people who caused me harm, which is something the chapter, “If You Are Ugly Know How to Dance,” dives into. Even more than its lyrics, however, “The Moose Song’s” driving lead guitar and frenetic tempo of the bass and drums so perfectly capture the pure despair of things not being the way you think they should be. This is still one of my go-to songs when I feel kicked in the gut by love.
“Crazy,” Seal
The song was a huge hit in southern Africa when I was there running the Zambezi River. It was used in every carnage video, to the point where the Zambezi and the song are inextricably linked in my mind. I love how the lyrics, “We’re never gonna survive / unless we get a little crazy,” encapsulate the insanity of hucking yourself over horizon lines, as whitewater guides do regularly.
One of the main themes in The River’s Daughter is survival, and surviving the chaos of my childhood required that I do crazy things to overcome what seemed insurmountable. As a result, my nervous system became accustomed to firing at a high voltage. This development prepared me for the high intensity required to survive on the river.
“Don’t Give Up,” Herbie Hancock, P!nk, John Legend
I love this cover of Peter Gabriel’s classic because it really captures the tenderness that was the spark between one of the book’s main characters, Steve, and me. Both of us were rock-bottom sad and at the point of giving up when we began our romantic relationship, having each survived terrible trauma. “I’ve changed my face / I’ve changed my name / but no one wants you when you lose.” The entire song applies to the emotional landscape that brought Steve and me together, but particularly, “Got to walk out of here / I can’t take anymore. . .whatever may come / and whatever may go / that river’s flowing / Don’t give up, no reason to be ashamed /don’t give up / you still have us / don’t give up. . . ‘cause I believe there’s a place / where we belong.” Steve and I needed a place where our unconventional relationship could flourish, which we imagined to be on the other side of the world in Zambia; far away from the snow-covered Tetons where we’d been hurt.
“Possession,” Sarah McLachlan
“Listen as the wind blows / from across the great divide / voices trapped in yearning / memories trapped in time. . .would I spend forever here / and not be satisfied?”
Written by McLachlan about her stalker, this song has always captivated me, particularly the hauntingly performed opening lines above. I didn’t understand why until recently, when someone said, “I have a stalker and it’s my mother.” Those words rang through my body with the force of truth and resonated in my cells.
“Through this world I’ve stumbled / so many times betrayed / trying to find an honest word / to find the truth enslaved / Oh you speak to me in riddles and / you speak to me in rhymes.”
I write about some of the betrayals I endured as a young woman. As someone who comes from a dysfunctional family system that relies heavily on denial and gaslighting to keep abuse and trauma hidden, learning to trust my instincts was not a straightforward process. Trying to make sense of the riddles and rhymes within that system of control is like being recirculated in a hole or hydraulic on the river—it’s very difficult to tell which way is up, or how to get free—and it’s one of the biggest dangers in whitewater.
“And I would be the one / to hold you down / kiss you so hard / I’ll take your breath away / And after, I’d / wipe away the tears / just close your eyes, dear.”
When the person charged with protecting you is also the one betraying you, it can be even more challenging to realize and accept that they’re holding you down and siphoning your life force. I wanted to illustrate the process of learning to recognize and develop my intuition and instincts for readers who might be caught in a similar cycle, unable to break free.
“Right Hand Man,” Hamilton, Lin-Manuel Miranda
After reading my book, a friend who witnessed many of the difficult things I went through texted, “I can’t imagine how you got the courage to write it.” I credit the Hamilton soundtrack with getting me through the part that took the most courage: hitting send and releasing the story into the world.
I wrote in the Epilogue that I ran on the track at night to process the complex emotions I had while doing battle alongside my parents during the Covid pandemic. While running under the stars, I listened to the Hamilton soundtrack; the story of going to war felt familiar to me, with the constant refrain of “Rise up!” throughout the album as a rally cry. Lines like, “Dying is easy. . .living is harder,” reminded me that a lifetime is really a very short period to transform multigenerational trauma. Framing the fight like a battle, as in “Right Hand Man,” helped me to connect with the fighting lineages I’ve descended from: generations of soldiers back to the Revolutionary War and beyond. I may have inherited generational trauma, but alongside it, I also inherited extraordinary fortitude and bravery.
There’s a scene where I argue with the Zambezi River god, Nyaminyami. It’s during a river evacuation, where, like the lyrics in “Right Hand Man,” I am “outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered, outplanned,” and I’ve got to “make an all-out stand.” In the scene, I compare myself with Nyaminyami, noting that, “Years of disregard and disappointment had left only rage—we had that in common. I had generations of rage bred into my DNA.”
Ultimately, my courage stems from the spark of rage that warriors and survivors carry, the constant core fire that either incinerates you or forges resilience.
“I’m that Girl,” Beyonce
Alongside the Hamilton nighttime running playlist is Beyoncé’s album, Renaissance. Of particular importance is the constant refrain that runs like a baseline: “Please motherf*ckers ain’t stoppin’ me.” The spirit of that lyric is most evident in the chapter where I respond to a fellow guide telling me I can’t do something because of my gender with, “The f*ck I can’t.”
To succeed at the highest levels in the whitewater rafting industry, I had to constantly navigate the obstacles of prejudice and sexual harassment from company owners, fellow guides, and clients. There’s a baseline defiance and take-no-shit attitude I had to employ to advance and claim space for women in my field. “I’m That Girl” encourages me to keep going despite the haters.
“Overture to a New Day: Dance of All Beings,” Paul Winter et al
When I feel homesick for Jackson Hole, where I was raised, I play the album Prayer for the Wild Things and hear my childhood home singing to me through this incredibly beautiful compilation. I love the song “Overture to a New Day: Dance of All Beings,” which features the White Eagle Singers, one of North America’s best pow wow singing groups, and blends human and animal beings’ voices in a celebration of the high alpine ecosystem. The idea that humans are separate from nature is an illusion that keeps us from truly connecting with ourselves, each other, and the earth—our home.
I feel tremendous kinship with the creators of this album and am awed by the artistry—it’s completely transporting. Listening to this album is the next best thing to sitting in the cottonwood forest next to the Snake River.
I mention many songs directly in the text of The River’s Daughter (which I’ve compiled into a separate playlist). I am grateful to Largehearted Boy for the opportunity to highlight in my Book Notes some behind-the-scenes music that had a huge impact on the writing of The River’s Daughter. For all the readers who identify with my story, I hope that the music that informed it may bolster and support you as you navigate your way to greater connection with your true nature.
Bridget Crocker is a trailblazer in women’s empowerment within the outdoor industry. A leading whitewater rafting guide, she has led remote river expeditions down many of the world’s greatest river canyons. She is a contributing author to Lonely Planet guidebooks and The Best Women’s Travel Writing series, and her work has been featured in magazines including Men’s Journal, National Geographic Adventure, Trail Runner, and Outside, as well as Patagonia’s blog, The Cleanest Line. She lives in Malibu, California.