MY MUSIC (Part 1)
I have dedicated the past eight years to the field of education, and in doing so passed from a 24-year-old whose evenings out did not really get going until at least 10:00 pm to a 32-year-old whose Target bed-in-a-bag comforter is usually tucked up around his chin by 11:00. The second thoughts and repercussions of this life choice may fill a future blog or two, but is not the subject of tonight's spiel. The subject of tonight's spiel is music, and emotional ownership of music.
I am privy to any number of conversations carried on by high school freshman and sophomores when they are supposed to be engaged in whatever drivel I have assigned them. Recently, I heard one freshman lass make repeated references to a "Pete." Playing the part of stern classroom disciplinarian, I reprimanded her to stay on task, and who was this "Pete" person anyway? Turns out, she was referencing Pete Wentz of the band Fall Out Boy. I made a disparaging comment about the state of young folks' music, and went back to pretending to work. The freshman girl in question wasn't even pretending to work, so I guess that puts her one up on me.
Having not heard a lick of Fall Out Boy's music, but having seen a number of glossy hairstyle-oriented photos and read some reviews, I feel pretty secure in dismissing them as utter horseshit. But I am not the target audience, and the emotional investment of the girl who was discussing them was just as fervent as my own to my own musica long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Noactually about 15 years ago in the exact same dead-end town of Yuba City, California.
FALL 1991:
In this era of download-able music, kids will never know the tactile sensation of walking into a music store the size of a walk-in closet (Camelot Music at the Y.C. Mall), going to the three-foot wide section of rack labeled "Alternative" (a brand-new category just added a few moths ago), picking up that copy of "Frizzle Fry" by Primus that I had been eyeing ever since a friend played me their cut from the Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey soundtrack on the cassette (!) player in his Chevy stepside pickup in the high school parking lot. The CD was housed in a long cardboard box, and paid for with a bulging pocketful of $15 in change, some saved, some pilfered from the change jar on Dad's dresser.
CHRISTMAS 1991:
I am firmly convinced that the impact of Nirvana on my generation is the exact equivalent to the impact of the Beatles playing on the Ed Sullivan Show on a previous generation. I had been a subscriber to Rolling Stone magazine for about a year at this point, and read their polite but dismissive 3-star review of Nevermind a month or so earlier, along with a more enthusiastic review from the '91 year-end issue of Spin (Perry Farrell on the cover), so I was aware there was something brewing.
Sometime in early '92, my friends Jeff W. and Jeff O., arriving in recently acquired cars driven with the permission of recently acquired licenses, mounted the stairs to my bedroom. Jeff W. had a CD. He kept it tucked behind his back, as if it were some kind of glorious secret. "See if you know who this is," he said, and placed the disc in my player. The opening chords of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" blasted out from my Quasar speakers. It was the first time I heard it, but having done my magazine homework, I knew who it was, and said so, proudly. The three of us stood there at the foot of my bed, and listened. I was dumbfounded, transported. Believe it or not, Nirvana's major label debut was hard to come by in Yuba City in December 1991. Jeff W. let me dub off a cassette copy that day. (Which was worn out by the next summer, when I actually bought the CD for the first time, from an "Alternative" rack that was a full fifteen feet wide)
The likes of Paula Abdul and Color Me Badd had only recently been knocked off the charts by Guns N' Roses, and now here was something that made GnR seem like antiquated dinosaurs. It all happened in a matter of weeks. Jesus, it was exciting
TO BE CONTINUED
I have dedicated the past eight years to the field of education, and in doing so passed from a 24-year-old whose evenings out did not really get going until at least 10:00 pm to a 32-year-old whose Target bed-in-a-bag comforter is usually tucked up around his chin by 11:00. The second thoughts and repercussions of this life choice may fill a future blog or two, but is not the subject of tonight's spiel. The subject of tonight's spiel is music, and emotional ownership of music.
I am privy to any number of conversations carried on by high school freshman and sophomores when they are supposed to be engaged in whatever drivel I have assigned them. Recently, I heard one freshman lass make repeated references to a "Pete." Playing the part of stern classroom disciplinarian, I reprimanded her to stay on task, and who was this "Pete" person anyway? Turns out, she was referencing Pete Wentz of the band Fall Out Boy. I made a disparaging comment about the state of young folks' music, and went back to pretending to work. The freshman girl in question wasn't even pretending to work, so I guess that puts her one up on me.
Having not heard a lick of Fall Out Boy's music, but having seen a number of glossy hairstyle-oriented photos and read some reviews, I feel pretty secure in dismissing them as utter horseshit. But I am not the target audience, and the emotional investment of the girl who was discussing them was just as fervent as my own to my own musica long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Noactually about 15 years ago in the exact same dead-end town of Yuba City, California.
FALL 1991:
In this era of download-able music, kids will never know the tactile sensation of walking into a music store the size of a walk-in closet (Camelot Music at the Y.C. Mall), going to the three-foot wide section of rack labeled "Alternative" (a brand-new category just added a few moths ago), picking up that copy of "Frizzle Fry" by Primus that I had been eyeing ever since a friend played me their cut from the Bill & Ted's Bogus Journey soundtrack on the cassette (!) player in his Chevy stepside pickup in the high school parking lot. The CD was housed in a long cardboard box, and paid for with a bulging pocketful of $15 in change, some saved, some pilfered from the change jar on Dad's dresser.
CHRISTMAS 1991:
I am firmly convinced that the impact of Nirvana on my generation is the exact equivalent to the impact of the Beatles playing on the Ed Sullivan Show on a previous generation. I had been a subscriber to Rolling Stone magazine for about a year at this point, and read their polite but dismissive 3-star review of Nevermind a month or so earlier, along with a more enthusiastic review from the '91 year-end issue of Spin (Perry Farrell on the cover), so I was aware there was something brewing.
Sometime in early '92, my friends Jeff W. and Jeff O., arriving in recently acquired cars driven with the permission of recently acquired licenses, mounted the stairs to my bedroom. Jeff W. had a CD. He kept it tucked behind his back, as if it were some kind of glorious secret. "See if you know who this is," he said, and placed the disc in my player. The opening chords of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" blasted out from my Quasar speakers. It was the first time I heard it, but having done my magazine homework, I knew who it was, and said so, proudly. The three of us stood there at the foot of my bed, and listened. I was dumbfounded, transported. Believe it or not, Nirvana's major label debut was hard to come by in Yuba City in December 1991. Jeff W. let me dub off a cassette copy that day. (Which was worn out by the next summer, when I actually bought the CD for the first time, from an "Alternative" rack that was a full fifteen feet wide)
The likes of Paula Abdul and Color Me Badd had only recently been knocked off the charts by Guns N' Roses, and now here was something that made GnR seem like antiquated dinosaurs. It all happened in a matter of weeks. Jesus, it was exciting
TO BE CONTINUED