Tuesday, June 24, 2008
I can’t pinpoint when it was in the early 70s when I fell in love with The Kinks, but I can tell you it happened with hearing the song “Lola” on the radio. I thought it was the most intelligent, funny, creative and wild song I’d ever heard, on top of rocking. Most “rocking” songs had no meaning. They were just Robert Plant yowling “baby, baby, baby” over and over. With “Lola,” I could hear the story of a young guy going to a nightclub in London, meeting what he thinks is the love of his life, then realizing Lola was either a drag queen or a deeply masculine woman. The immortal couplet: “I’m not dumb but I can’t understand/Why she walk like a woman and talk like man.”
The Kinks were all over AOR radio back then, along with their early hits like “You Really Got Me” getting regular play on AM radio. Again, I can’t recall when I bought the monumental two-record set The Kinks Kronikles, but that day changed my life, as I heard all the great album tracks they weren’t playing on the radio: “Shangri-La,” “Autumn Almanac,” “Get Back in Line,” etc. Nearly every song killed me. I had been a huge Elton John fan, but he was blowing wind by the time of his Blue Moves album. The other key bands for me from that time, ELO and Queen, were good at what they did, but not quite what The Kinks were all about.
This all must have occurred around 1977, because I can recall the radio playing the shit out of their current album cuts, “Jukebox Music” and “Sleepwalker” … which weren’t bad, but nowhere near as good as the stuff on Kronikles. Every time I’d go to the record store, I’d see that bin full of weird Kinks “concept” albums, some on the ubiquitous Pickwick record label (for the uninitiated, Pickwick picked up albums that had bombed and reissued them with their no-frills vinyl and packaging … if you had an album on Pickwick, you knew hard times). I wasn’t buying (yet).
A year passes, and in the spring of 1978, I heard a song on the radio, that I immediately knew was by The Kinks, but had never heard before. Back then, I wasn’t so quick to assume this was new material. I recall that a few years earlier, I had heard The Beatles song “We Can Work It Out” on the radio and assumed it was a Paul McCartney and Wings song I didn’t know. Understand I was 11 or so, a Wings fan, and at that point only had The Beatles “Blue” greatest hits album … so much of their back catalog was new to me. One of the greater listening experiences of my teen years in the late 70s was going back and buying all those Beatles, Stones, Who and Kinks albums (at least the ones still in print), hearing landmark songs for the first time and having just enough listening experience to know it.
This song had a beautiful opening riff on acoustic guitar that repeated itself before Ray Davies came in with those first few lines: “You’ve been sleeping in a field/But you look real rested/You set out to outrage/Now you can’t get arrested.”
It was one of those songs that made me stop what I was doing and listen. That happened all the times with Kinks songs, because you wanted to hear the words, as you’d know they’d be worth your time. I was in my bedroom, doing school work at night while listening to WMMR on the radio, and whatever I was doing just stopped.
As with all great songs, I got it on the first listen. There are good songs that grow on you, but it’s been my experience that great ones hit you like a baseball bat upside the head, and there’s no mistaking it.
Let’s go back to 1978. I’m 14 at the time. This picture is a pretty accurate representation. Notice the goofy headphone hair – hair literally shaped by wearing those Radio Shack Nova 40 headphones – the ONLY good product the Radio Shack has ever produced. (Their in-house brand name for small electronic products was Realistic. The shit was realistic; it broke down all the time.) I went through two pairs in my listening years through the 70s and 80s, used them religiously. (Those were the days of dropping a needle on the start of the album, playing it all the way through Side 1, flipping it, and then Side 2, about a 40-minute endeavor I repeated thousands of times.) Notice the slight dose of acne – I never got it bad, just enough to be annoying. Notice the flannel shirt – my choice of clothes when not wearing goofy band, movie or comedian t-shirts. Throw in jeans and sneakers, and that’s my daily wardrobe.
I was a smart kid, but not too smart. My problem in school wasn’t so much lack of discipline as not caring enough about grades. I got Bs and As with ease. When it got to be crunch time in Math and Science classes, my least favorite, I’d even get Cs on occasion. I was good at sports, but not inclined to join the high-school teams. I tried basketball and golf, but gave up both by my junior year. (Golf I could have easily stayed with, but was getting bored with the game after hitting a plain of mediocrity I couldn’t surpass, and basketball, I didn’t like the stiffness of the plays and structure, a world away from the schoolyard ball I was great at.) I didn’t do drugs, but knew plenty of kids who did, and would go on knowing them, simply because we were kids and still in that groove of knowing each other by proximity and habit.
My friends were a like-minded group of stranded kids who weren’t “cool” by any standards, nor were the objects of derision. Most of us didn’t get laid. The ones who did, man, it was like they were already in a bad marriage. We were a pretty good bunch of guys: loyal, smart, not prone to head games, great senses of humor, which we should have exploited a lot more under the circumstances. The popular kids didn’t think we were popular enough, the jocks not athletic enough, the stoners not stoned enough. “Low profile” would be an apt description. You could be part of our gang, if you could find it, and didn’t mind our befuddlement with all things important to your average teenager.
So, it’s odd to me now that when I heard “Misfits” for the first time, it struck me with a thunderbolt of recognition that I was some type of misfit. I had always felt out of place in some sense – still do now. At the time, I didn’t know it was a condition many people feel in the same way, too. And I can look back now and see that I really wasn’t the huge misfit I made myself out to be: I was a pretty normal kid, all things considered. Very bizarre and developed sense of humor for my age, smarter and more well-read than your average kid, but aside from that, about as normal as a teenage kid could be. "Misfits" is a romantic sounding soung, and I gather there were kids and even older listeners who took it upon themselves to romanticize their sense of displacement just as I was doing.
I could point out the kids who were misfits. The handful of teenage guys in my class who were obviously gay and catching shit from all sorts of demented goons on a daily basis. The kid who smelled like shit and wore KISS t-shirts every day. Those wayward kids who seemed like they’d be a lot happier jumping boxcars headed west than sitting in “the rubber room” (where the bad kids went for being bad). The large kids who “overheard” fat jokes and comments all day, every day. The homely girls no one would pay attention to, much less ask out. These weren’t people who were waving their freak flags high. These were kids who seemed on the verge of being invisible, or willing themselves to be so. A lot of them were always angry and no fun to be around. There was nothing romantic about it; self pity is a quality that comes too easily to most teenagers. (And why I despised grunge and wasn't so hot on groups like Nirvana when they rolled around ... kids didn't need any extra encouragement to feel that way.)
What got to me about “Misfits,” as with so many other Ray Davies song, was it made the unusual universal – he let you know he understood that we’re all strange in some sense, and it’s all right. The song’s bridge said it all: “Look at all the losers and the mad-eyed gazers/Look at all the loonies and the sad-eyed failures/They’ve given up living because they just don’t care/So take a good look around/The misfits are everywhere.”
The song stops, then kicks in with a great country-sounding guitar riff. The whole song has that sense of building, like any good ballad, and “Misfits” has a few of the moments, when the song fades to nothing, then fades back in on an organ note, or that signature riff repeated on the acoustic guitar. This song wasn’t a hit – I’m not even sure if it was released a single. The big songs from the Misfits album was “A Rock ‘N’ Roll Fantasy,” a similar song in sound and theme, Ray singing about his uncertainty about the band, and his decision to keep on going because there were people out there who loved his music more than he did, and it touched him. The song seemed a bit cheesy and dishonest to me – of course, he wasn’t going to stop making music, what else was he going to do – but “Misfits” seemed real to me, like Ray was walking with me through those nutty high-school halls, where everything seemed to be some desperate competition I wanted no part of, and kids either chased that brass ring or turned too easily towards bitterness and rejection.
A cool thing about The Kinks in general that I discovered in my senior year. I was in one of those awful science classes again – Nuclear Science – with the legendary Mr. Welker, who actually made me learn my shit in Chemistry and get good grades via ass-busting and rote repetition. Nuclear Science was another story. Last semester, so I was feeling pretty lax to begin with, but on top of this, that shit may as well have been Chinese to me. I just didn’t grasp Nuclear Science. And I didn’t care – I was graduating in a few weeks, already accepted at Penn State, and I was just looking to get out of there.
Being a smart kid, I was in these smart-kid classes with that mix of eggheads and go-getters. Some kids were just smart. Some were smart and popular (i.e., into sports and school-related activities). Some were popular and faking the smartness to the best of their abilities. That class was no different. We all got along in that weird sort of “smart kid” camaraderie.
One day, we went on a field trip to the Berwick power plant – I don’t think that’s a nuclear reactor, but it’s a power plant, and Mr. Welker knew people there so we could get a detailed tour of how the place worked. (Mr. Welker also worked at Three Miles Island, and would go off on tirades about the movie The China Syndrome being a load of shit, not his exact words, but, boy, he hated when Hollywood turned what he recognized to be the future of electrical power into a horror story.)
The tour went as planned – we all wore hardhats and had a ball, being out of school, middle of May, 17 years old, about to graduate – just a great time. On the way back, we all had the van to ourselves. Since Mr. Welker knew we were the “good kids,” he trusted that we wouldn’t go apeshit and tear the thing up. We didn’t. But as we were pulling out of Berwick, I’ll never forget this, Mike and Dave, who were two best friends from the football team, pulled out a portable tape recorder and popped in a tape. I’d figure, “Jocks … nice guys, but probably assholes when it comes to music … here comes Journey, or Styx, or Def Leppard, etc.”
The fuckers popped in The Kinks Kronikles and were blasting “Waterloo Sunset”! I freaked out, as I was one of about five kids, the others soulful musically-inclined stoners, who seemed to know or care who The Kinks were. I asked them how they got into The Kinks, and just like me, hearing stuff on the radio, a stray King Biscuit Flower Hour here and there, etc. They said they played the album all the time after practice. I tried to imagine a busful of jocks grooving to “David Watts” and couldn’t. But that was Dave and Mike, two cool kids who shocked the hell out of me that day, but I should have seen it coming as they were obviously bright, insightful kids before this.
And I guess that was the point of “Misfits.” I took a good look around, and there were two kids on that bus just like me in some sense that I’d never considered before. This is a strange song for me, because it no longer has that direct emotional impact it once did. I still love the song and can listen to it repeatedly. But not in that same way I did when I was 14, and the song was like a veil being lifted on some important truth I’d yet to grasp, the recognition that no matter how fucked up I felt at any given time, I more than likely wasn’t alone, and might even be surprised by who was feeling the same way. It was a good song to listen to at the time.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
a. curled up in a fetal ball on my darkened apartment floor listening to Eric Carmen’s “All by Myself”
b. shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die
c. badgering everyone I know to show up at a bar so I can act like my life is like this all the time
d. like a pedestrian stepping over a homeless person on the sidewalk, pretending this shit just isn’t happening.
The correct answer, of course, is E, all of the above. Actually, I’ll go to work and catch a bus late afternoon to go back to PA for a few days on a long summer weekend. Why? Because there’s only one person my birthday matters to, and it aint me. It’s my mom, who’s getting on in years, and I know she’d love to see me on that day. I’m due for a few days off anyway, so what the hell, it’s always good to get back to the country in the summer.
I already gave myself a present of sorts, which I’ll feel a lot better about once I get my “economic stimulus” check which should have arrived last week: a new laptop, which I’m typing on now, a great present, as the old Compaq I bought in 2002 was getting long in the tooth, and it felt like “goodbye old paint” putting that thing down, a great computer that served me well. I now have the quandary of trying to find an American flag decal to put on the new one – the one I got for the Compaq came in the mail from the bank on 9/11/02 (in memory), and it just doesn’t feel right to work on a laptop without an American flag decal on it. Where do you buy these things?
This thing has a webcam. You will never see a picture of me posted from this webcam. Why? Because I gave the thing a test run, and based on this and other webcam photos I’ve seen, it’s virtually impossible not to look like a web-surfing pedophile and/or serial killer in a webcam picture. I looked like a fucking maniac. It’s something about the positioning of the head, the downcast eyes, the lighting – none of it works. I looked like I was obviously masturbating as you couldn’t see my hands, and the look on my face I can only describe as disturbing.
No joke, every birthday since 20, I’m convinced, is designed to make people feel like assholes. Think about it. 21, you’re already being cast in that “getting older” light as compared to a fixed point in your teenage past. You can legally drink now, ergo, the thrill is gone. Mid 20s, you’re freaked out over having a real job for a few years and realizing your life has radically changed form the carefree teen days of yore. Late 20s, you’re fretting over turning 30, that big, foreboding bridge with a number you no longer associate with wild youth. Early 30s, if you’re a woman, you’re thinking about slinging a pup, if you’re a man, thinking that you should be on schedule to get hitched and grow up and have kids, etc, the whole package. Mid-30s, that first experience of being considered irrelevant and invisible by society (which is actually liberating …). Late 30s, staring down 40, even though you did the same stupid dance 10 years earlier. 40, you’re “middle aged” now and on a whole new level of responsibility and maturity (my ass). Early 40s, you start realizing guys who run companies and states or countries are roughly your age, so what the fuck have you done, etc.
I should point out that in my 20s, the great barometer I used to judge age and passing time was Playboy centerfolds: how old I was in comparison to them. At first, you're either the same age or slightly younger, and feel great about this. By your late 20s, you're seeing girls with musical and cultural tastes glaringly a few years behind yours, and you think, as you hold the magazine with one hand, "Man, what would I talk about with this young girl?" In your 30s, you cast yourself as the slightly older man who would guide Bambi through the rapids of her late 20s, as she realizes Mondays and cigar smoke really are a turn-off. In your 40s, dude, give it up, you're spanking it to girls who could be your daughter. At some point, you recognize the insanity of it all, how these women don't even look like that normally, and even if they did, their minds are so geared to being eye candy, you recognize that unless you're speeding through life on a jet ski with hundred dollar bills fluttering in your wake, you may as well let go and read the highly informative articles.
Man, it goes on. The point being, you’re always supposed to feel like you’re not doing something right, or if you are, why are you doing it, for whom, for what reasons, do they matter, etc. I don’t think I have to tell you I delight in jettisoning every possible mind-fuck thrown my way. Age is no different. All this psychological bullshit we attach to it is purely artificial, like so many of the worthless judgments we attach to our lives to give them false (generally more important than they really are) meaning and weight.
I’m all for growing up – what I’ve learned is it just happens. You age, and if you’re smart, you simply mature as you go along. I look at it as there being two types of people in the world: people who like to break beer bottles on a sidewalk, and people who will clean up that glass so other people don’t have to deal with the bullshit of broken glass. I’ve never been the bottle-breaker type, which would have pained me to acknowledge well into my 30s, but you know what, when I’m out there, say, cleaning up a smashed wine bottle on my landlord’s sidewalk, like I did Saturday, I feel a lot better doing something like that than I ever possibly could doing something as assholic as smashing a bottle like that in the first place.
What I’m trying to say is there’s nothing romantic about being an asshole. Being an asshole is just being an asshole. And you’re either busy being an asshole, or you’re busy caring about other people in some sense.
These are the things I’ve learned living next to schoolyards. Watching the unfettered 15-year-old male mind go through the motions, and knowing that it’s not an age thing, you’re either geared to be an asshole or you’re not. “Maybe he’ll grow out of it!” No, he won’t. It will just shift shapes and come out in other more acceptable ways. I’ve learned the same thing working in offices. And living in New York. Watching people base their entire lives on a value system that makes no sense and is nothing but a grind.
I sometimes feel stunted living around here, surrounded by so many people who are “on fire with ambition” or some such crap. Ambitious for what? That’s a question I find myself asking a lot these days, because I honestly don’t understand what people are ambitious for. The answer always seems to be the same to me when you strip away the layers: power. In whatever form it’s perceived. Usually in very base, easy-to-digest, visible ways: money, sex, social standing, etc. Strip away all the layers, and it’s self respect. Which you either have, or you don’t, no matter how much shit you pile on your life in hopes of impressing other people.
One of the message boards I read got into a discussion the other day about women “settling on schlubs.” Usually fat schlubs – apparently no such thing as thin schlubs. Or young schlubs. Guys who smoke dope and play video games past their adolescence. Or middle-management types who will never be rich. Etcetera. You know the drill. My advice to women is don’t "settle" on anything. Actually, my best advice is masturbate the rest of your days. But the whole discussion was another of those mind fucks. Like there’s some ideal: a thin man, always handsome and well-dressed at any age, think David Bowie, wealthy, at the top of his profession, etc.
If there’s one thing women should learn about “ambitious” men, it’s that their ambitions are more important to them than women are. Women are secondary, at best, to that above-noted glamorous image. And chances are, that image aint all it’s cracked up to be. We’re all just people, and you’re more than likely to find more insufferable, arrogant pricks supporting that image, with women being just another accessory to the lifestyle – not the loves of their life, and they sure as hell aren’t Prince Charming. You don’t “complete” them – and fuck that lantern-jawed pussy Cameron Crowe for putting forth such a misleading Lifetime Network-friendly concept.
None of this shit accounts for working-class people, guys working in factories, or on farms, just going about their lives, never getting rich, that’s out of the question, just guys working, maybe with a wife and kids, not overly concerned with appearances, just getting on in life. There are millions of people like this out there – hell, I’m one of them and willing to bet you the reader might be, too – as opposed to people who see themselves as shining stars around which the world revolves. Jesus Christ, where I’m working now, the guys running the place look like The Three Stooges and act like four year olds. These are guys making over half a mil a year, living in mansions and supposedly tapped into “that life” we’re all geared to be yearning for. The one thing they have in common: if not miserable, they always seem under extreme pressure and not very happy. I don’t envy or look up to them. (Don’t pity them either. I don’t pity anyone.)
I’m supposed to want that? I guess if I could trick my mind into believing all that shit mattered, it would work, but I just can’t. Wish I could! It’s always made more sense to me to go through life asking questions, mainly why you do the things you do, with little regard to how this appears to anyone else. Granted, you can get caught in a vacuum with that kind of mindset, but you also need to look around, see how other people are living, learn from them, see good things worth working towards, bad things to avoid. Move forward, with time, which doesn’t give a shit what age you are. Age is meaningless to time. It’s a social construct we’ve created to clarify passing time. You just go to move. That’s all. I took a boxing class today that would put your average person down like a dog. It would make a professional boxer laugh. On a scale of 1 to 10 of physical fitness, it would require about 6.5, 1 being someone who does nothing, 10 being a professional athlete. 6.5 is nothing to scoff at!
And I note that, because when my parents were in their 40s, back in the 1970s, I don’t recall them ever working out. You get in a time machine, grab my Dad from 1974, put him that boxing class with me, his only response, from the hospital gurney, would be: “Bill, what the hell are you doing? Training for the olympics?”
Because in his world, in your 40s, you worked all day at the factory, came home to the wife and kids, did work around the house, kept the cars in running order, and basically relaxed when you weren’t punching a clock. I’ve just placed a different value on exercise, which I think is a damn good thing to do at any age. Shit, there’s a lady in our class who told me she’s 72, and looks every minute of it. I asked her why she was there, not insultingly, and she said, this stuff makes me feel alive. Granted, she doesn’t do the full work out, she basically moves as fast as she can, skips the heavy calisthenics, and goes light on the bag. But there she is. At first, I couldn’t stand the sight of her. Jesus Christ, what’s that old bitch doing here again? But after awhile, I realized, that’s an amazing thing this woman is doing, not only to be there, but to have the mindset that this still matters to her, and she wants to do it to the best of her abilities.
And that old bitch simply reinforces how I see the world, how I want to live. I’m not an “age is just a number” person – you get older, you feel it. Christ, two years ago, I got these two little things in my left armpit, I don’t even know what they are – nowhere big as warts, these two minute bits of skin. The next year, I got two more, symmetrically positioned in my right armpit. Seeing these things freaked me out, I still don’t know what they are, but noting the symmetry, all I can figure is it must have something to do with age and the body, things that just happen. After the right armpit, I started checking my neck for gills every morning. I don’t want any more crazy shit growing on my body.
And here’s my birthday present to you. My favorite band, The Gourds, blasting through a strange, disjointed medley of The Beatles songs “Birthday” and “Yer Blues” from a recent show they played. Pull it down and play it in my honor. That’s a good enough present for me.