Music has always been a huge part of my life. My father’s father was a music leader and worked in a music store, repairing and selling band instruments. My father could play almost any instrument with skill. My family always sang in the car while on road trips (which were plentiful), there was always a record player and a radio/tape player around, always music in the background of my life. Thus, it’s hard to isolate the first impressions, or most meaningful impressions, that music has left on my soul. That said, I shall endeavor to do just that. Listen.
Provo: The first revenge I ever played on my mother involved music. I loved to listen to her Johnny Cash album and play the song Ring of Fire over and over again when I was about 5. I listened to it so much, my mother finally forbade me to play it- it had previously been her favorite song. Sadly, I had to move on to other songs, other gems. My father had a lot of records: 45s and LPs, even a few 78s. He didn’t have the widest variety of types, which was a disappointment, but he did have a good amount of variety within the 50s-70s pop music realm. I still have a love for good pop music, to this day.
Minneapolis: When I was 11, I was sexually molested by my older brother (who was sexually molested by a family friend). I was traumatized by the event, which thankfully only happened once. While my brother received some meager counseling and sympathy for the event, I was largely ignored and felt shunned by my parents who didn’t know how else to respond. I hid out in my room in the basement and tried to work through my trauma alone, with the help of my Barbie dolls. The horrible scenarios I acted out with those dolls still embarrass me a little to this day, but they were necessary parts of my healing. All of that healing took place with the backdrop of the pop radio music of 1983 and 1984. Human League, Genesis, The Police, and their ilk serenaded me through the painful nightmare of my own personal Barbie torture dungeon. It’s kind of funny now, looking back at those tortured dolls, red nail polish painted on their necks, heads shorn of hair, Human League singing “Don’t You Want me Baby?” in the background.
Hurricane: When I was 13, I discovered punk music, thanks to the boyfriend of my older sister. He made her a tape of Dead Kennedys, Minor Threat, Ill Repute, and Black Flag, and I found my solace in music that was as fed up and angry about the bullshit falseness of the world as I was. I’ve never let it go. That music has helped me find ways to express myself, to assert myself, to be strong and solid and brave. It saved my life.
Albuquerque: When I was 15, I discovered live punk rock shows that were happening locally. I also learned to make friends, and we went out dancing at The Big Apple every weekend we could. We’d sneak in fifths of whiskey and vodka, get wasted and dance our asses off to the New Wave music of the 80s. Sometimes there would be a party at someone’s house or at the abandoned airport runway, and bands would play for us while we got drunk and forgot about the pain of being alive. Cracks in The Sidewalk is just one of the bands I remember being around a lot back then. Days I would sit on the floor of my living room with my pair of drumsticks, watching The Cure videos while I tried to play along on my pillow drums, wishing for a drum kit of my own.
Santa Fe: When I was 16, I gave up on my family all together and aligned myself with my friends on the streets, who listened to me and didn’t hurt me so much. We would sing together, go to shows to hear our friends’ bands play, and talk about music constantly. I found a few boyfriends who spoke the language of music, and soaked up their magic like a sponge. I longed to play, to sing, to write music, but I lacked the courage to be in front of others performing, so I kept it to myself and remained on the perimeter.
Boulder: When I was 17, I lived all alone, two states away from my family, in a dark dank basement. It was marvelous and magical, as soon as I acquired a stereo to keep me company. The walls were crumbling rocks, piled atop each other and smelling damp and musty. The light was dim, the air cool. It was perfect for being gloomy and dramatic, writing dark poetry, and drowning in the music of the time: Alien Sex Fiend, Ministry, David Sylvian, Japan, Dead Can Dance, Foetus, and others. I still went to local punk shows whenever I could, mostly at Penny Lane Café, and went dancing at Rock Island and other venues that played LOUD music and provided a lot of eye candy. I gave up the idea of being a musician, and became a writer.
Las Vegas: When I was 19, I lived in a house with about 12 other punk rock kids, sleeping in the closet with my boyfriend, who played drums and was as passionate about music as I was. We slept with our arms wrapped around each other, covered by the safety of Leonard Cohen and David Sylvian, then were roused from sweet slumber by Butthole Surfers, Operation Ivy, Bad Religion and NOFX. We made musical poetic zines that featured our art and lyrics and poetry, and I felt like a goddess at last.
Salt Lake City: I was 20, and in another house full of punk rock kids, but this time I had a baby of my own. Being a parent made living around a bunch of drunks a lot less fun. Especially when they all turned to me to be the adult one, the one who made sure food was made, people ate, and the cops weren’t called. One night, after a brick was thrown through our front window, I chased the thugs down the street, yelling and shaking my fists, only to be dragged away by my “children” who had noticed that one of the thugs was “packing”. All of these memories took place with the ever-present background of music: Poison Idea, Billie Holiday, Leadbelly. Then my husband and his friends set up a band practice space in the basement, and the sounds of angry punk music were everywhere, all the time. Beers flowed, cigarettes were smoked, and stagnation became thick. I couldn’t take it anymore and fled.
Springfield: When I was 24, I became a widow. I had spent several years hiding out trying to be a mother and going to school to learn to be an adult. It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be, but was certainly easier than living on the streets and panhandling for money every day. By the time I was 25, I couldn’t take any more living without live music, so I started taking Raven to shows at the local all-ages venue. He would sometimes nap safely in the back while I slammed to DRI, NoMeansNo, Black Fire, and other punk bands. He danced with me for The Groovie Ghoulies, Jonathan Richman, and others. He grew up immersed in music as I was, and we shared a passion and hunger for music that always provides lively and stimulating conversations.
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