What's He Saying?

The year was 1988. Summer had been spent swimming, staying up late to watch 120 Minutes on MTV, and trying to figure out the lyrics to “It’s the End of the World as We Know It.” But now it was the beginning of high school freshman year and there were much more important things to figure out.

Like what to wear. I mean this in all seriousness. After 8 years of catholic school uniforms I finally had my chance to show my real identity beyond belligerent acts of too long earrings or purposely mismatched socks. But just what was that identity? I flip flopped between long hippy skirts, goth-y tops, trendy pants – most times unsuccessfully merging all three. I’m sure I looked a mess.

I had to ride the bus. No license yet. No parents or older friends willing to drive into the city every morning. The bus came early and took a circuitous route through the suburbs – plenty of time (I would later learn) to catch up on homework left undone or papers only half-written. Enough time to listen to most cassettes end to end. Which is what I did every morning.

There were two older students on my bus whose sullen faces made it obvious that this was not their preferred method of transportation either. Francie used her time to apply layer upon layer of makeup. Foundation, eyeliner, blush, mascara – she was a woman transformed by the time we arrived. Kevin, like me, slunk into his seat with his walkman on, eyes closed. Maybe he was trying to figure out the words too.

One day, he decided to talk to me. “What are you listening to?” I can’t remember my response but I do remember being smug in the answering. For the purposes of this essay, let’s say it was Echo and the Bunnymen or some other appropriately alternative name. He was impressed. “What are you listening to?” I asked. “Only the greatest band ever. R.E.M.”

I knew about R.E.M. or at least I thought I did. They wrote the song that drove me crazy with lyrics I couldn’t decipher and a video of the skater who I couldn’t decide was hot or not. The lead singer had long hair and came off as kind of a dick when interviewed. He was always being asked about how he felt about their newfound commercial success. I honestly didn’t know they existed before their newfound commercial success. Sure I had Document. Who didn’t? It was a 120 Minutes staple and whatever 120 Minutes sold, I was buying.

Once Kevin decided he could trust me (?) the daily exchange of tapes began. Reckoning for Crocodiles. Murmur for The Head on the Door. Dead Letter Office required some negotiation until Kevin was satisfied that he was receiving something of equal value. None of our tapes were originals. They were recorded from CDs or other tapes or other recordings of CD’s or tapes, making Michael Stipe’s words all the more illegible. I always felt like I was furrowing my brow and really, really listening to try to get the mystery out of these tapes.

The stash that I was NEVER privy too was Kevin’s collection of bootleg performances that he and another upperclassmen were apparently in competition to collect. These guys were hell-bent on amassing one-off performances, tracking rumours of unannounced shows. Any city, any club where Stipe was alleged to appear, they were somehow tracking down, trying to get a copy of the show. I have no idea how they did it. I picture a clandestine network or R.E.M. fans slipping unmarked manila envelopes in the mail to each other under the cover of darkness.

Frankly, I still didn’t get it, but the tunes were catchy and their obsession was fascinating. I kept listening. And I listened enough to know that I wanted Green for Christmas and needed to tape Eponymous off a friend. I never saw R.E.M. as masterful lyricists, but keep in mind, I could barely make out the words. Years later, as I give Murmur a proper listen, I can finally give it its rightful respect. click here to
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This is the new sound, just like the old sound

For over a decade I scoffed at Rage Against the Machine. I called them posers, spoiled Ivy leaguers, misguided, opportunist in their anger. I repeated the easy phrase: "oh you're so anti-establishment yet you're signed to Sony" dismissal.

And why? Because I read an article in SPIN saying much of the same after their 1993 silent protests on stage at Lollapalooza against the the Parents Music Resource Center (PMRC).

Had I done my homework (beyond the pages of SPIN), I would have known there are no posers here. Zach de la Rocha's dad was the first Latino artist to be shown at LACMA. Tom Morello's dad was a Mau Mau guerrilla and revolutionary. Morello's great-uncle, Jomo Kenyatta, was the first elected president in Kenya.

This rage isn't misguided; it's informed and razor sharp. There are no opportunities here, simply alarms and warnings.

The fire in the Master's house is set.

And as for being signed to Sony, now that I am older and wiser and actively working for social change instead of simply bitching about a need for it, I understand, just as they did, that it's not enough to voice dissent; someone has to hear you. And before MySpace, file sharing, and other network enabling mechanisms, signing to a major label was just about the only way you could reach out beyond a marginal audience.

I know that venerableseed had his own beef with the boys. My frustration isn't with the band, but with the fact that the Battle of Los Angeles is still relevant and its message timely in 2008.

Morello himself said that their reunion at last year's Coachella was a vehicle to voice the band's opposition to the "right-wing purgatory" the United States has "slid into" under the George W. Bush administration.

Listen to the facist sing
"Take hope here
War is elsewhere
You were chosen
This is Gods land
Soon we'll be free
Of blot and mixture
Seeds planted by our Forefathers hand"
A mass of promises
Begin to rupture
Like the pockets Of the new world kings

I wish The Battle of Los Angeles were dated. But songs like "Ashes in the Fall"might as well have been written this year. I wish its chords didn't make my heart race, its word incite my, well, Rage. But the fact is, everything didn't change on a New Year's Day.

And incidentally, even though SPIN named Battle #53 in its "greatest albums 1985-2005," they still hatin'.

Fucking Bono was right. click here to
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What's Past is Prologue

Gifts, indeed! The images and sensations that this album evokes for me are purely commercial. Instead of sugarplums, I start visioning malls, chain stores, poorly planned parking lots, bags of goodies in my back seat, stacks of receipts….And that’s ok. You see, I don’t really buy into the True Meaning of Christmas as the birth of baby Jesus. I’m not dissing baby Jesus; I just think that folks forget that an earlier version of this winter holiday was all about the presents. The celebration of the Roman feast Saturnalia was "marked by the making and giving of small presents (saturnalia et sigillaricia) and a special market (sigillaria)". Phil Spector has provided a perfect soundtrack not for Christmas, as many claim, but for Saturnalia.

To celebrate here is my free association between each song and the special market or activity that it calls to mind:

• Darlene Love's "White Christmas" = Bath and Body Works
• The Ronettes' "Frosty the Snowman" = Target
• Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans’ The Bells of St. Mary = Navigating someplace stuffy that I never wanted to be. Boscovs?
• The Crystals' "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" = Bed Bath and Beyond
• The Ronettes' "Sleigh Ride" = CostCo
• Darlene Love's "Marshmallow World" = Wegman's
• The Ronettes' "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus" = Circuit City
• The Crystals' "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" = Best Buy
• Darlene Love's "Winter Wonderland" = Victoria’s Secret
• The Crystals' "Parade of the Wooden Soldiers" = Picking up last minute wrapping supplies at the Dollar Store
• Darlene Love's "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" =Sitting in a suburban parking lot trying to decide which route to take back to my apartment.
• Bob B. Soxx and the Blue Jeans' "Here Comes Santa Claus" = Borders
• Phil Spector and Artists' "Silent Night" = I’ve never heard this before in my life.

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She Meant You No Harm

I can't empathize with Len Barker's need for brevity in Blood Sugar Sex Magik. Not because I disagree with his insightful post, but because my version of the recording has already truncated itself.

Poor little battered cassette tape. Heavy usage in my parent's minivan, my friend Sarah's trusty Honder and numerous unforgiving, tape-chewing portable stereos has turned the Chili Pepper's alleged manifesto (though I would argue Mother's Milk is the superior work) from a 17-song album that is "just too damn long with too much filler" to an eleven song teaser. Maybe. On a good day.

Side one starts off strong. But midway through "If You Have to Ask" the tape warps and a few seconds of a backwards "My Lovely Man" bleeds through. Don't worry, the previous song returns the favor if one is lucky enough to get to "My Lovely Man" on side two. Towards the end of "Funky Monks" the tape just stops. And somehow creates an immovable force which makes it impossible to either forward or rewind the tape. You are stuck in time. Wait a bit. Let the cellophane cool. Then try again. Don't even think about rewinding all the way back to "Blood Sugar Sex Magik" at the start of side two. That ain't gonna happen.

Like the mysterious Bermuda triangle-like spot in "Funky Monks," I get sucked back into a very specific point in time while listening to this Rick Rubin production. One that's filled with long drives between Providence and Harrisburg and Pittsburgh and Ocean City, often late at night and ill-advised. In fact, most of my decisions then were ill-advised. Reckless. Indulgent. Preoccupied with sex (although unlike Kiedis, I wasn't getting any). It was a phase with far too much filler that probably lasted a little longer than it should have.

Blood Sugar Sex Magik was the perfect soundtrack. click here to
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Apologies to Jahidi

My intro to the Boss came December 1984. Born in the USA was at the top of the charts and must have been one of the automatic answers to "what album would my daughter like for Christmas?" at the record store. Boston's self-titled opus must have been the other because I received multiple copies of both. On vinyl AND cassette.

Yes, obviously. Those are perfect choices for a ten year-old girl. F*ck you, Sam Goody.

Now that I am at a point in my life where Bruce is age appropriate, how does he strike me?

Old. He sounds old. He makes me feel old. I age as I listen. In fact, I feel as if these earphones are sucking remnants of youth right out of my soul. Get them off!!

The songs that I do recognize on Tunnel of Love conjure aural memories of early jobs at mall food courts and piped in music from the adult contemporary station. The ones that I don't honestly just blend together with the rest of the late 80s pop offerings. "Ain't Got You" reminds me of a failed demo track of U2's "All I Want Is You" which would be released shortly afterwards. "Tougher Than the Rest" is just Chris De Burgh's "Lady in Red" in a different color scheme.

"Spare Parts" once again invokes Bono's "When Love Comes to Town" mixed in with some Fabulous Thunderbirds' "Tuff Enuff." "One Step Up" = Cyndi Lauper's "Time After Time" (which, incidentally, was penned by Harrisburg's own The Hooters)

"Tunnel of Love," I admit, I like. But only because the Boss is doing his best Lloyd Cole impression. And there's no one smoother than Lloyd Cole.

Listening to Tunnel of Love makes me crave Boardwalk Fries washed down with an A&W root beer float. That, mixed in with its aforementioned reverse Botox effect, cannot be good for my health. click here to
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This Is What You'll Get

“He wants you to translate for him. What does it mean?”

“You mean the words? He wants to know the words of the song?”

“No. he knows the words. He wants to know what they mean. He doesn’t understand what they mean.”

We listened for days in a tiny basement apartment in Warsaw. Karma Police in particular was on a constant loop that should have burned a hole in the pirated cassette. All of us transfixed, none of us really understanding Thom Yorke’s verbal message. I was the native speaker – what was my excuse? But we all felt it in the chords. The urgency, the indescribable yet delicious pain, the immediacy of the moment. This moment. Right now. It would never happen again.

In Poland almost everyone lived at home with their parents, so if you had a flat of your own, it was fair game. You may have had the great idea to host the after party when the clubs closed. Days later, you would still find partygoers on your couch and rifling through your fridge as you were getting ready for work.

That’s what happened to Frank, a French expat who was never clear about his “job” in Poland. That weekend, I was one of the stragglers. But my train back to Wroclaw wouldn’t leave for several hours and I was supplying the soundtrack and making tea so he didn’t complain.

I didn’t know that Ok Computer was a worldwide hit. Even when the Polish Tower Records, Empik, carried them, the NME and Melody Maker were rare and expensive indulgences. And the only use I had for the Internet was in the ten minutes it took me to check my newly created hotmail account at the internet café. I knew that I loved The Bends and that the guy outside the train station had the new Radiohead tape for 10 zloty (a steal! Literally).

When our ears were still ringing with bad techno, I had offered up my new purchase as a sound alternative. That was early Saturday morning. By Monday afternoon there were just a few of us still lingering, still listening. Frank had given up hope of throwing us out. Kaczor and I shared the space closest to the stereo.

Kaczor was beautiful. A confused thug who thought he needed to look tougher so he shaved his head earlier in the weekend. Only it had the opposite effect. He now looked angelic, naïve, and more desperate, if that was possible. It was a desperation that could get dangerous, particularly after sleepless nights. Despite his beauty, if I hadn’t known Kaczor, I would have crossed a dark street to avoid him, especially if he were surrounded by his peers. That morning, he was alone and he looked it. I knew he had nothing to go home to and would have liked, more than anything, for those moments safe and quiet in the basement flat, to last a little longer.

Kaczor asked me again, directly this time, “So what does it mean?”

I did what I always did as an inexperienced English teacher. I made something up, something that would fit the limited Polish I would have to use to explain it.

“He’s bothered by people that don’t make sense. He doesn’t want to be around people that make him miserable. It makes him crazy.”

Sweet Kaczor. He nodded at my translation. Completely satisfied. click here to
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