A couple of years ago, Adam Yauch
of the Beastie Boys died after a battle with cancer. When this happened, Lindsey Way (Lyn-Z from the
band Mindless Self Indulgence) stated on her Twitter account how much she loved
the Beasties and that “they were like the Beatles to me”. This puzzled me, as I was never a big fan. I’m apparently one of those cranky old farts
who found them loud, rude and annoying. (I
know; that was pretty much the point of
the group. I also still maintain that
white people shouldn’t rap, since we mostly sound ridiculous when we do.) My kids admire the Beasties, too,
though. Obviously I’d underestimated
their influence.
It occurred to me recently what
Ms. Way was actually saying: that everyone who loves music has their moment when
an artist’s music speaks to them, and lifts them out of whatever situation
they’re in. This could be someone’s
“Elvis moment”, which would likely apply to many young people in the late 50’s
(and long thereafter) who picked up a guitar after witnessing Presley on the
Sullivan show. For those a few years
younger—an entire generation, as it happens—it would be the “Beatles moment” of
seeing them live, also performing on Ed Sullivan, and the hysteria they caused.
For me, the Moment happened during
a vacation with my folks in Florida in the spring or winter of 1973. I seem to remember being outside when I heard
the haunting strains of an unfamiliar song. It turned out to be “Daniel” by
Elton John. When I found out what it
was, and who sang it, I was crazy to hear it again, and eventually, to own a
copy. I still have the 45—backed with a
non-album track that I played and sang all the time: “Skyline Pigeon”. The first album I ever owned was Don’t Shoot Me, I’m Only The Piano Player,
its artist and title photographed on a theatre marquee as if the album was
actually a movie, its singer the star. Naturally,
I have my beat-up original copy to this day.
Replacing that worn vinyl disc with something that might sound “cleaner”
is as inconceivable to me as selling one of my children.
The simple act of hearing
something that caught my ear in a particular way propelled me into a fandom
that (in those primitive pre-internet days) I couldn’t really share with
anyone. That made it all the more precious. I had scrapbooks where I housed magazine
interviews, song lyrics, and any tiny mention of the name that had become so
important to me. I pored repeatedly over
a brief biography; I stayed up late and taped the soundtrack from a
British-made documentary of the making of Goodbye
Yellow Brick Road. I cut out
pictures of every costume, every pair of glasses (why was my own eyewear so boring??), and kept my ears wide open
for any news that might bring me even more joy.
As much as it embarrasses me to admit it, I was inspired by a series of
Partridge Family novels (the first fan-fiction I ever read!), and in 7th
grade, I wrote my own fiction involving Elton John and his band. For a
school assignment. (Sadly or not,
both have now, as they say, been lost to history.)
My point (other than examining
the often insane heights of fandom) is that a single song, half-heard, could
propel me into something that was so much bigger than myself that I could
barely comprehend it. It filled my life
and my heart and my ears and my attention so completely that I’m not sure how I
made it through my days. And it wasn’t
just Elton; music itself became my obsession.
The mid-70s, as maligned as they may be, were a ridiculously fertile
time, with the radio blasting rock, pop, funk, disco, soul, singer-songwriters
and hard rock. James Taylor, Carole
King, Helen Reddy, KC and the Sunshine Band, Gloria Gaynor, Bachman-Turner
Overdrive, Grand Funk Railroad, the Rolling Stones, the O-Jays, the Jackson 5,
Funkadelic: all these and so many more, all of them spilling into my ears out of the same station all day and all
night.
The excitement for the music I
loved made me get up early on Saturdays to tape my favorite songs off the radio
(God knows what happened to those cassettes).
I listened to the Top 40 show every Sunday up until the minute we had to
leave for church, or just as soon as I got home from Mass. I kept lists of the top ten songs for weeks
at a time. I had a small notebook in my
school locker where I’d assign myself a “song of the day”. For example, on a given day, it might have been
“Angie Baby” by Helen Reddy, or “Smokin’ in the Boys’ Room” by Brownsville
Station, that I would choose to keep my brain occupied between classes. Almost a decade before MTV, I watched The Midnight Special on Friday nights with
Wolfman Jack as host, and saw the first music video of my life (not counting
the Monkees TV show): “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen.
And all this before I was
sixteen. I could go on, but in the
interest of brevity I will refrain.
When my older daughter was little,
she pretty much liked everything I played for her. (Needless to say, that did not last.) She had her own Moment when, at twelve, her
new best friend gave her a homemade copy of I
Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love by My Chemical
Romance. Almost overnight, she was
immersed in a band whose songs her bewildered parents could only hope to
comprehend (much like my own poor mother more than thirty years prior). All we could hear coming from her room was
what sounded like inarticulate screaming.
On our basement computer, she scoured for and printed hundreds of
pictures of her favorite band (until our printer ran out of ink, in fact). She constantly watched their DVD documentary Life on the Murder Scene and all the
extra material, at all hours of the day and night. I think we even brought it along on vacation
that year. And of course she listened to
their first two albums pretty much 24/7.
That was just the start of it, along with a whole new family of bands
that she could love.
I have documented in other essays
how we connected over MCR, and how I also became their fan (and I’m so very
glad I did). But I wonder now if maybe a
part of me recognized and was drawn to that obsessive love of a band, and of
music in general. Though I hate to use
the word, it was a journey that led us many miles from our home to seek out the
band we loved so much. Of course, the
internet allowed us to connect with many other fans, some of whom have become
dear friends in the last few years. All
of them, and us, understand that music, and the love of it, fills your heart
and soul in ways nobody can explain, but almost everyone can recognize and
understand. It really is like falling in
love, with the same passion and the same madness. It becomes all-encompassing, a way of life,
almost a vocation. While some might say
this love means I’m immature, I think it keeps me young: most times I maintain a
mental age of no more than 19 in a 50-something package. Yes, I might look and/or feel ridiculous
sometimes, but I feel sorry for those who (in my opinion) seem to live without the
passion that’s kept me alive, and continues to do so.
