I really like living in a good-sized metro area. We’ve got great restaurants, interesting activities, interesting people, and fantastic music, but there are times, especially around this part of the year, that I long for the small town I grew up in. It’s fishing season.
From about 1995-1996, when I was a senior in high school, until I moved away in 2004, chasing the elusive largemouth bass around our family pond was a favorite pastime. My friend Andy and I would park our trucks on the levee, turn on some good ol’ boy country music and work our way down to the algae-covered waters, carefully eyeing the ground for any hidden water moccasins. We would open our tackle boxes, treasure chests full of fishing paraphernalia that somehow seemed to glow in the spring sun, and carefully choose our lures of choice to begin this session. One might pick out a rooster tail or a topwater lure or a deep-diving plastic worm, but, regardless of chosen implement, there was but one target – the bass.
Largemouth bass are beautiful creatures, their greenish scales with scattered dark blotches glistening with an ethereal sparkle, as though they were touched by the hand of God (or at least Poseidon), himself. Perhaps the greatest thrill of bass fishing is the fight, the pitting of man versus beast in a battle for aquatic supremacy. They pull and yank on your line, sometimes bending your rod to dangerous angles, before leaping high above the water’s surface in their attempts at escape. Though there are many types of fish to hunt for in Central Arkansas, whether bream or crappie or giant catfish, none in my mind offer the satisfaction found in conquering the mighty bass.
And it is this time of year, when the sun is high, the temperature is warm, and the bass are at their most active, that I miss it the most.
Music has always been a huge part of my life, from my Oak Ridge Boys tapes and my parents’ records to the huge and constantly expanding collection of music I horde today. My Ipod is one of my most prized possession and it accompanies everywhere like a dear friend (well, a dear friend with over 5,000 songs) and I spend much of my time at work in a separate universe from my coworkers, one bounded by earbuds and one whose very atmosphere is controlled by the volume wheel.
Though my music tastes have changed over the past 20 years, I have always cherished much of the music from those times past, whether it be the country music of my childhood or the grunge of my teen years or the jam bands of college, but there is one particular genre that I have, at times, tried to repress over the past decade. Oftentimes I would try and shuffle it to the back, to keep it from the judging eyes of others who might see it as “uncool” or maybe because I felt as if I were too old for it. Sure, grunge has always remained on my playlist, I love the bands I associate with college like Widespread and Phish, and I am a huge fan of currently hip indie rock, but this other genre has always remained, lurking in the background and waiting for a moment’s weakness to emerge from its repressed state. I may not look the part, I may not act the part, but this fact is inescapable: I love heavy metal/hard rock music.
There is just something about crunching power chords, over-indulgent soloing, screaming vocals, earsplitting amplification, skulls and blood and fire that hits me deep down, igniting a sleeping primal instinct that just wants to let loose and rock. It’s an invigorating stress relief, a frustration release that involves nothing being broken (except for maybe your eardrums) and nobody getting hurt (again, the eardrums). Part of its attraction probably also came from the sense of rebellion from the societal norm. I remember my good friend Andy, who was a devout Baptist at the time, telling me over and over again that I was on a certain path to eternal damnation because of the music I chose to enjoy. I remember that he had a book that told of the devil’s influence in everyone from the Beatles to extreme death metal. Once I borrowed the book and wrote down the names of the bands listed in it that I didn’t know so that I could be sure and buy some of their music. I’m sure it frustrated him at the time, but just a few years later he went with me to a very heavy show (see two paragraphs ahead), so I guess even he came around.
I came of age in a time when heavy music was going through a sort of evolution away from the theatrical excesses of the 1980’s and to a rawer, angrier and more organic sort of sound. It probably started, at least for me, with Guns N’ Roses’ debut album Appetite for Destruction. Never before had I heard such aggression and anger channeled through the vessel of music in a way that was almost therapeutic for letting go of life’s frustrations. Over the next few years more classic recordings followed – Metallica’s black album, Alice in Chains’ Dirt, Megadeth’s Countdown to Extinction, Rage Against the Machine’s self titled debut, and another band that really epitomized my foray into metal, one that challenged me with their ferocious riffs and violently aggressive sounds – Pantera.
From the time I first saw them on Headbanger’s Ball (another staple, by the way), I was instantly captivated by the combination of Dimebag Darrell’s squealing guitar and Phil Anselmo’s raspy, screaming vocals. 1990’s Cowboys from Hell, 1992’s Vulgar Display of Power, and 1995’s Far Beyond Driven became an important trilogy of my high school years that Andy and I would listen to over and over again. In the spring of ’95 (has it really been 14 years??), we actually got to see the band live in Little Rock and it was a bruising and impossibly loud, yet still somehow gloriously perfect experience that resonates in my head even today.
So, where did today’s entry come from?
Before driving to work today I wheeled through some of the bands on my Ipod and came across Pantera, who I didn’t even realize were on it (that happens when you have a music library this large). So, as I drove north on I-55, I flipped over to Cowboys from Hell, turned the volume up loud, and let the heavily distorted guitars carry me back.
Rock on, everybody…
Here’s the video for Walk. Don’t bother to listen if you can’t turn it up loud.
There are three albums in particular that I equate with my 4.5 years at Harding and strangely they all were released during my first two years of school and each of them evoke distinct memories of that mid-late 90’s time period.
I had really liked Weezer’s debut album that was released when I was in high school, but I had quickly become burnt out on it due to the constant rotation on MTV back when they still showed videos. When Pinkerton came out, I picked it up quickly without having heard anything from it, but with the idea that it would have a similar vibe to their debut. On first listen, I wasn’t quite sold on it, for it was a far cry from their radio friendly songs of a few years prior, but soon it was as though the clouds were opened and a light from heaven suddenly illuminated the barren landscape around me. It was as though Rivers Cuomo and the band were talking directly to me with their noise-filled tales of nerdy angst. My roommate Scott and I listened to this CD over and over again in our little dorm room in Armstrong Hall while no doubt dining on Papa John’s and commiserating about one thing or another.
The second album that brings back memories from those days at the oft-hailed alma mater comes from a band not known for the many albums they have produced over their career, Phish. It was through members of my social club that I first began to really appreciate the jam band genre – of course, there was the Dead and Widespread, but the Phish was the band that really stuck with me then. Their album Billy Breathes was released during my freshman year and hardly a day went by that I didn’t listen to it from beginning to end. Some of my most treasured memories from these days gone by were of my friend Andy and I sitting at the top of Turkey Mountain (well, more like a small hill), smoking swisher sweets and listening to this album. Those were the days.
Third is a collection of recordings that has been recognized over and over again as one of the most amazing ones in recent history, Radiohead’s OK Computer. I remember picking up a copy of the album at the local Hastings in Searcy, not all that sure what to expect after the mellow sounds of The Bends a few years before. Soon, though, any reservations I might have had were put to rest. I recall just sitting in my Dodge Ram with the stereo turned up loud as waves of sonic goodness flowed all around me in some strange, dissonant symphony. It was an amazing personal experience.
The Fall of 2002 was a difficult time in my life. The career choice I had made in college and worked so hard toward had just fallen completely apart, leaving me unemployed for a time and then mired in a really terrible, depressing job. At the same time, Rachel, our first surprise baby, had just been born and I was dealing with the shock of being an unprepared father. I was in a serious downward spiral and seemingly all alone. Then came Beck. Now, I’d long been a fan of our generation’s greatest troubadour, but this release, which eschewed his past style of beats and sampling and phrases that made you reach for the nearest Spanish-American dictionary, really hit home with me at that time. Beck was despairing and alone, his acoustic guitar and downtrodden voice just cutting through the endless gloom and feelings of insignificance. It was perfect. Beck was my partner as we made a path through a dreary existence, looking for some glimmer of hope. Little did I know at the time, things were about to turn around.
It was the beginning of 2004, after slaving away for a year in graduate school while living on a meager income and government assistance, when the call finally came and a beam of light shown through the clouds – after more than a year of rejections, I had been offered a job in Memphis, a city I only knew by past nights on Beale Street. Soon we had made a home in the metro area, a place where we remain to this day. It was later that year that the soundtrack for the great movie Garden State came out and, though it is not necessarily an uplifting collection of songs, it fit the time well. I would often drive through the dilapidated areas of the city with this poignant soundtrack playing, looking at the poverty and desperation all around me, and wondering what, if anything, could be done. It was then that I realized the existence of hope, a glimmer of light in a land of darkness, a ray of goodness in the night of despair. My purpose is to make this a better place, to shine the light on others, to change the world from the ground up.
And so today, five years later, that is what I am striving to do. I came to the realization that it is not about me, that there are 6 billion(+/-) people in the world that should matter more, regardless of their race or religion or economic status or even if they are sworn enemies.
Thoughts? Are their songs or albums or other forms of artistic expression that you associate with times in your life?
Music has a strange power, one that infiltrates our senses and embeds itself deep within the blasting synapses of our mind. It can manipulate emotions, inspire, and empower, carry us to new heights and drop us to the lowest lows. The might of the muse is not to be denied.
We oftentimes define our lives by the events through which we live, for it is those happenings and our reactions to them that make us into the persons we are today. As these occurrences take place, whether tragedies or triumphs, I find it interesting that certain songs become associated with them. Perhaps the musical piece was playing at critical juncture or maybe the content of the lyrics or melodies cause us to reminisce. Whatever the reason, music can often be an important part in the shaping of our memories, the molding of our conceptions of reality.
So, I was listening to my Ipod today on shuffle and as I did my mind was flooded with remembrances of times past at the playing of certain tunes. I thought about this phenomena a while and realized just how much of my life finds its identity through music.
Therefore, today I’m in a mood to look at my past through the lens of music, so I’d like to share with you a few of the songs and albums, along with the times in my life that they have come to represent.
My earliest music memories are of my parents’ George Strait tapes, in particular the great song “Amarillo by Morning.” I have these visions in my head of long driving vacations as a young kid in the back seat with Strait’s warm baritone-voiced tales of rodeos and loves gone wrong our main accompaniment.
As I grew older and into the early years of adolescence, my attention was diverted away from the music of my parents and to the primal sounds of loud guitars and screeching vocals in the late 1980’s. This personal evolution was probably no more pronounced than in my discovery of one of the greatest rock bands of a generation, Guns N’ Roses, and in their era-defining anthem “Paradise City.” They were loud and profane, angry and aggressive, just the type of thing that appeals to pubescent boys. Now, because of the fact that the album carried a “Parental Advisory” sticker (Thanks a lot, Tipper), I was not allowed to buy the tape (If you’ve ever listened to the song “It’s so Easy” you know why), but by employing some old-school file sharing in the pre-internet days, I did have a copy taped by a friend. There is one time, in particular, that comes to mind when we were on a Boy Scout camping trip or something and we were taking turns sitting on a skateboard and riding down a paved hill into a lake, while listening to Appetite for Destruction. Good times.
Next let us climb into the metaphorical time machine a skip ahead a few years to the next stop on this personal music journey. I was a young teenager in the early 90’s and since we lived down a gravel road out in the country, I didn’t have access to things like cable television and MTV, so I had never really listened to Metallica before. Thus, when a friend of mine first turned on Enter Sandman, I was completely blown away. I have some pretty vivid memories of playing basketball and hanging out in the garage at a friend’s house while this album blared loudly over the speakers. I believe this was also the album that first inspired me to pick up a guitar, though I have regrettably never become especially proficient on the instrument.
I was 16 in the spring of 1994 and there was probably no band in the world that I loved more than Nirvana. The tormented wails of Kurt Cobain and angry crunching guitars became a intimate piece of disaffected youth. When the band’s Unplugged performance first aired, I sat in open-mouthed awe at the beautiful raw emotion of Cobain, who had found some way to even thrive outside his punkish comfort zone. I remember being absolutely enthralled with their surprise closing number from this show, Leadbelly’s “Where Did You Sleep Last Night,” but it was only a short time later, following Cobain’s untimely suicide, that the song took on a special poignancy as the world crashed and the realization that things would never be the same again sunk in. It was over.
Like many teens before and after, I had always wanted to play in a rock band. There were few things more appealing than dreams of crowds of people cheering the deafening sounds of a distorted guitar. In the spring of 1996 I was a senior in high school with only a short time left to walk those hallowed halls of Beebe Senior High and, as my friends and I finalized our plans to separate to different schools around the state, it soon became clear that this was our last chance to realize the dream of playing the greatest “talent” exhibition in the Dream Hometown, May Day. So, I joined with three of my good friends and we formed a band with the goal of rocking out in the gymnasium in front of a few hundred of our peers. One of the three songs that we chose to perform at that time was Everclear’s “Santa Monica,” and to this day anytime I hear it, I am transported back to those spring nights in Michael’s garage with our amps turned up loud (well, at least until 9:00). I’ve written before about my short experience as a member of a rock band here, so if you would like to see more of my ruminations on this joyful time in my life, check it out.
…To Be Continued
What about you? What songs/albums do you associate with particular times in your life?
Given the time of year it is, the other day I was doing a bit of reminiscing about May Day at Beebe High School – particularly about a certain band that performed there ten years ago.
Being a lover of all kinds of music, one of the things I most wanted to accomplish in my young life was to play in a band – and possibly even play in front of people. Well, during the spring of ’96 – my senior year – that dream was finally realized. A good month or so before that special day four of us – Michael, Andy, Dustin, and I – decided that we were finally going to do it – we were going to perform in front of the entire high school.
We ran into a few problems at first, namely Dustin was the only one of the four of us with much musical talent at all. Andy, who had played drums in the school band through about 9th grade or so, borrowed a drum set from someone, I did a crash course in bass guitar, and Michael bravely took on the singing duties, despite his obvious lack of ability. The weeks leading up to our big performance was one of the most fun times I had during all of my high school years. We tons of practice hours during that time, rehearsing the few songs we could actually play well enough that we wouldn’t feel to embarassed to do in front of a few hundred of our peers, until we finally felt confident enough to step out on that gym floor…
As people filed into the gym that day, we opened with a little instrumental section of the Smashing Pumpkins’ “Today,” which amounted to Dustin noodling around on his guitar while the rest of us tried to make it look like we knew what we were doing. Once everyone got seated, the grand show began…
We played three songs that day – the only three we really felt comfortable enough to play in public – Everclear’s “Santa Monica”, Nirvana’s “About a Girl”, and ended with Bush’s “Little Things.” At the time everything seemed great, it’s really not until we watched the video later that we realized just how bad we sounded. But that really didn’t matter because we had finally done something that we had talked about for years – we started a little band and got to play in front of people.
To this day, when I’m around Andy we still joke about this and talk about how much fun we had during those weeks leading up to the “concert.” It’s one of those things I won’t forget…