1. "Doin' It" - LL Cool J. Note: My tears were in no way related to the Doin' of It, the fabled act of which has rarely reduced me to tears. Yes, there was one incident involving gallons of rum, unfortunate angles and an alarming inability to urinate for the next eight hours, but that was an exception, damn it.
I was sitting in the DecrepiCivic, gritting my teeth through a midsummer traffic jam. My fuel gauge had dipped from "sort of empty" to "hell yes, I'm empty" to "miss, please hook a Honda up with some Iraqi Black, PLEASE, I just need a TASTE!" In the interests of conserving my last few dregs of fuel, I'd turned off the air conditioner. Car horns and exhaust fumes drifted in through my open windows. The former shredded my nerves like a Microplane, the latter mingled with my sweat and oozed down the back of my neck. Harried and headachey, I'd forsaken the AM traffic report in favor of Top 40. At its best, Top 40 is the Cookie Crisp of the airwaves - delicious, sugary crap.
I was sitting in the DecrepiCivic, gritting my teeth through a midsummer traffic jam. My fuel gauge had dipped from "sort of empty" to "hell yes, I'm empty" to "miss, please hook a Honda up with some Iraqi Black, PLEASE, I just need a TASTE!" In the interests of conserving my last few dregs of fuel, I'd turned off the air conditioner. Car horns and exhaust fumes drifted in through my open windows. The former shredded my nerves like a Microplane, the latter mingled with my sweat and oozed down the back of my neck. Harried and headachey, I'd forsaken the AM traffic report in favor of Top 40. At its best, Top 40 is the Cookie Crisp of the airwaves - delicious, sugary crap.
I was hoping for light entertainment. My FM dial, however, had other plans. For "Throwback Thursday", the local Top 40 station had unearthed "Doin' It", LL's paean to skillful sexin'. While the lyrics made me snicker ("Baby I wanna hit it in the worst way / Schemin' on that ass since the first day"), the rush of memories the song invoked made me choke up. "Doin' It" had thrust its way to the top of the pop charts while I was in junior high. The era - like the song - had been simpler, sillier, brasher than anything which followed. Sex - along with love, life, adventure, and everything else - was a purer concept back in tha proverbial day. Lack of context is a better lubricant than anything the KY corporation can conjure up. It's not "Doin' It (And Crying In the Bathroom Afterwards)", or "Doin' It (With Someone Who Will Never Understand You on a Deeper Level". It's doin' it, and doin' it, and doin' it well. I represent Queens, she was raised out in Brooklyn. It represented time - heavier even than Biggie Smalls - and I was rubbing my eyes with my sleeve, giggling, praying that my fellow motorists' eyes were trained on less-ridiculous spectacles.
2. "When the Levee Breaks" - Led Zeppelin. This ditty is notable for a fantastic Jimmy Page guitar solo, for being name-checked in a thousand hamfisted Hurricane Katrina articles... and for being the first-ever song that made me cry. I was slouched in the back of my parents' rusty Crown Vic, a surly pre-teen with a Walkman permanently welded to her head. My musical tastes were proudly iconoclastic. While my peers were exploring the plagiariffic pleasures of Vanilla Ice, I was rocking out to the 60's greats: Zeppelin, Hendrix and the like. Led Zep IV was a perennial favorite; it's a wonder the damned thing didn't melt from the combined force of my love and my auto-reverse button. I'd listened to "When the Levee Breaks" hundreds of times before, but that afternoon, it was subtly different. The lull before the break ("Don't it make you feel bad / when you're tryin' to find your way home / You don't know which way to go?") was a moment of high-voltage calm; the break itself pure bluesy bombast. The wetness unexpectedly dribbling down my face was a drop in the bucket, a harbinger of the rough weather ahead. There's no AccuWeather for one's teenage years, and thank Jehova for that... I couldn't have anticipated the hormones which would batter my body and mind, the depression which would periodically blot out the sun, the alt-rock snarls and emo sighs. I was also unaware that this was the birth of a tradition. Music would be a constant in my life, and so would my emotional connection to it... I'd sob along to Springsteen, bawl with Bad Religion. Which brings us to...
3. "Infected" - Bad Religion. I should've joined stage crew. I should've been on the newspaper staff. I should've teased my hair, slathered on the glitter gloss and lettered in intramural fellatio.
Anything - ANYTHING - but drama club.
It was a dumping ground for histrionic bitches of both genders, a boot camp for those constitutionally unsuited to army duty. Every fall and spring, they formed a dysfunctional, incestuous family. They held court in cramped classrooms which reeked of ambition and Aqua Net. And lo, the showtunes echoed from the walls... along with the fake tears, shrill laughter and vicious rumors.
The knives may've been props, but the backstabbing was all too real.
I have never been more out of place in my life.
I'm the quintessential introvert. I'm a bit shy, a little slow to warm up in social situations. Calling attention to myself is anathema to my nature. Other people jump in front of TV cameras... I duck behind the nearest immobile object, hoping to remain inconspicuous. My sense of humor prevents me from being a total social pariah - never underestimate the power of a good dick joke! - but "character actor" would be a stretch, let alone "leading lady".
And yet at fifteen, my confused little soul hungered for the stage. I wanted to prance across weathered floorboards, belt out Rogers & Hammerstein lyrics, feel the warmth of the house lights beaming down on my theatrical greatness.
It was not to be. Everyone knew it. My family knew it. My friends knew it. My drama teacher (enamored of Anne Taylor suits, sycophantic seniors and high-pitched psychological meltdowns) damned well knew it. "It's okay... you don't have to sing it again," she informed me after my halting, atonal rendition of "Getting to Know You". It was the closest she'd ever come to kindness... sparing us both 03:26 of misery by cutting my audition short.
I wasn't surprised, exactly, when the list of roles was posted in the auditorium. Our teacher had a coterie of favorites; the leads were a sure thing, the supporting roles relatively certain. I was a chubby, unpopular sophomore, incapable of singing "Happy Birthday" on-key. This put me at the bottom of the drama club hierarchy... which meant that I was an extra. No lines, no love. Back page of the program, baby.
I wasn't surprised. I was enraged.
I stormed out of the building, throat constricting, eyes burning. It was totally fair and completely expected. It was, within the warped little universe of Drama Club, right and just.
So why did it still hurt so MOTHERFUCKING BAD? WHY?! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, WHY?
It was a four-mile walk from my school to my house. I must've kicked every single rock, mushroom and discarded soda bottle along the way.
I still remember what I was wearing (a much-beloved sage thermal and paint-stained jeans). I remember what the weather was like (unseasonably warm; when I wasn't sobbing, I was wishing I'd worn a t-shirt). And I remember exactly what I was listening to.
Bad Religion will always occupy a special spot in my heart... an obnoxious, pissed-off little spot. They've rocked their way through three decades, and have not once deviated from formula... a handful of chords, an abundance of adjectives and a heaping helping of fury ("They've only got one song," explained my sister Junket, "But that song fucking rocks!"). Organized faith? Fuck you! Societal convention? Fuck you! A corrupt power structure's willful blindness regarding the catastrophic effects of climate change? Fuck! You!
Getting a taste of exactly how embarrassing and agonizing a seemingly-petty rejection can feel? FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK YOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!
Stop. Rewind. Play-it-again. Stop. Rewind. Play-it-again.
My batteries were fresh. My "Turbo Bass" button (in reality, a "muddy the shit out of the lower end" switch) was firmly engaged. Music and misery mingled freely in my frontal cortex. Like all great pairings - rhythm and lead, Jagger and Richards, warmish bourbon and unfiltered Camels - each one rendered the other a bit rawer, more intense.
I haven't set foot on a stage in years, and gladly so. "Infected" has been with me for over a decade... from cassette to CD to MP3, from high school to college and beyond, as Bad Religion and I both grew older and wiser (although thankfully no less snotty).
It's almost enough to make one tear up.
2. "When the Levee Breaks" - Led Zeppelin. This ditty is notable for a fantastic Jimmy Page guitar solo, for being name-checked in a thousand hamfisted Hurricane Katrina articles... and for being the first-ever song that made me cry. I was slouched in the back of my parents' rusty Crown Vic, a surly pre-teen with a Walkman permanently welded to her head. My musical tastes were proudly iconoclastic. While my peers were exploring the plagiariffic pleasures of Vanilla Ice, I was rocking out to the 60's greats: Zeppelin, Hendrix and the like. Led Zep IV was a perennial favorite; it's a wonder the damned thing didn't melt from the combined force of my love and my auto-reverse button. I'd listened to "When the Levee Breaks" hundreds of times before, but that afternoon, it was subtly different. The lull before the break ("Don't it make you feel bad / when you're tryin' to find your way home / You don't know which way to go?") was a moment of high-voltage calm; the break itself pure bluesy bombast. The wetness unexpectedly dribbling down my face was a drop in the bucket, a harbinger of the rough weather ahead. There's no AccuWeather for one's teenage years, and thank Jehova for that... I couldn't have anticipated the hormones which would batter my body and mind, the depression which would periodically blot out the sun, the alt-rock snarls and emo sighs. I was also unaware that this was the birth of a tradition. Music would be a constant in my life, and so would my emotional connection to it... I'd sob along to Springsteen, bawl with Bad Religion. Which brings us to...
3. "Infected" - Bad Religion. I should've joined stage crew. I should've been on the newspaper staff. I should've teased my hair, slathered on the glitter gloss and lettered in intramural fellatio.
Anything - ANYTHING - but drama club.
It was a dumping ground for histrionic bitches of both genders, a boot camp for those constitutionally unsuited to army duty. Every fall and spring, they formed a dysfunctional, incestuous family. They held court in cramped classrooms which reeked of ambition and Aqua Net. And lo, the showtunes echoed from the walls... along with the fake tears, shrill laughter and vicious rumors.
The knives may've been props, but the backstabbing was all too real.
I have never been more out of place in my life.
I'm the quintessential introvert. I'm a bit shy, a little slow to warm up in social situations. Calling attention to myself is anathema to my nature. Other people jump in front of TV cameras... I duck behind the nearest immobile object, hoping to remain inconspicuous. My sense of humor prevents me from being a total social pariah - never underestimate the power of a good dick joke! - but "character actor" would be a stretch, let alone "leading lady".
And yet at fifteen, my confused little soul hungered for the stage. I wanted to prance across weathered floorboards, belt out Rogers & Hammerstein lyrics, feel the warmth of the house lights beaming down on my theatrical greatness.
It was not to be. Everyone knew it. My family knew it. My friends knew it. My drama teacher (enamored of Anne Taylor suits, sycophantic seniors and high-pitched psychological meltdowns) damned well knew it. "It's okay... you don't have to sing it again," she informed me after my halting, atonal rendition of "Getting to Know You". It was the closest she'd ever come to kindness... sparing us both 03:26 of misery by cutting my audition short.
I wasn't surprised, exactly, when the list of roles was posted in the auditorium. Our teacher had a coterie of favorites; the leads were a sure thing, the supporting roles relatively certain. I was a chubby, unpopular sophomore, incapable of singing "Happy Birthday" on-key. This put me at the bottom of the drama club hierarchy... which meant that I was an extra. No lines, no love. Back page of the program, baby.
I wasn't surprised. I was enraged.
I stormed out of the building, throat constricting, eyes burning. It was totally fair and completely expected. It was, within the warped little universe of Drama Club, right and just.
So why did it still hurt so MOTHERFUCKING BAD? WHY?! JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, WHY?
It was a four-mile walk from my school to my house. I must've kicked every single rock, mushroom and discarded soda bottle along the way.
I still remember what I was wearing (a much-beloved sage thermal and paint-stained jeans). I remember what the weather was like (unseasonably warm; when I wasn't sobbing, I was wishing I'd worn a t-shirt). And I remember exactly what I was listening to.
Bad Religion will always occupy a special spot in my heart... an obnoxious, pissed-off little spot. They've rocked their way through three decades, and have not once deviated from formula... a handful of chords, an abundance of adjectives and a heaping helping of fury ("They've only got one song," explained my sister Junket, "But that song fucking rocks!"). Organized faith? Fuck you! Societal convention? Fuck you! A corrupt power structure's willful blindness regarding the catastrophic effects of climate change? Fuck! You!
Getting a taste of exactly how embarrassing and agonizing a seemingly-petty rejection can feel? FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK YOOOOOOOOOOOOOU!
Stop. Rewind. Play-it-again. Stop. Rewind. Play-it-again.
My batteries were fresh. My "Turbo Bass" button (in reality, a "muddy the shit out of the lower end" switch) was firmly engaged. Music and misery mingled freely in my frontal cortex. Like all great pairings - rhythm and lead, Jagger and Richards, warmish bourbon and unfiltered Camels - each one rendered the other a bit rawer, more intense.
I haven't set foot on a stage in years, and gladly so. "Infected" has been with me for over a decade... from cassette to CD to MP3, from high school to college and beyond, as Bad Religion and I both grew older and wiser (although thankfully no less snotty).
It's almost enough to make one tear up.
"She mouthed the words along to 'Running Up That Hill' / that song got scratched into her soul."
- The Hold Steady, "Hornets! Hornets!"
Labels: Existential Angst-astic, La Musica, The Compleat Thumbscrew
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R., at 10/09/2007 11:51 AM