Ask me about the new Lady Gaga song or the latest hit on the Billboard Top 100, and I probably wouldn’t know it without taking a peek at iTunes. Although I agree it’s fun to break out and dance to the Katy Perry’s single of the month and as much as I enjoy the whole-hearted lyrics of Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole, my musical soul can best be defined by the most pure and passionate form of music, rock.
Specifically, rock stemming from the 70’s, 80’s and 90’s era. Of course, the melodic choruses and badass guitar solos are a deciding factor, but even more so it’s the entire culture behind the lyrics.
The first time I watched a VH1 greatest hits countdown, I fell in love. My eyes and ears glued to the T.V. as number 29, Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar On Me played. Blondie and Duran Duran’s music videos were nothing like the rump shaking rap videos of my generation. The clothes were different, yet at the same time fresh and fun. I scrambled trying to type each song on the countdown into the search bar of Limewire. It was as if I had made some grand discovery; my head was spinning with adrenaline, I finally felt a part of something. This music which had once defined an era had now defined me.
That was eighth grade. And not long after that show, my peers started noticing my obscure music tastes. I started dressing like Madonna (virgin tour period that is) with ear buds always in blasting hair metal down the hallways. With the Abercrombie and Hollister drones which circled the middle school hallways, it was to needless to say I received some glares. Being a self-conscious pre-teen, I decided to trade in my leg warmers for skinny jeans and my bright blue eye shadow for a more neutral tone. On my iPod, I downloaded all the latest hits to keep up with my friends.
But in the privacy of my room, I secretly rocked out to Aerosmith and Nirvana. I discovered a newfound love for Tom Petty and Led Zeppelin with a little probing into my dad’s CD collection. Although it was all old music, it was new to me.
In the midst of my high school career, I finally began to Live And Let Die. I deleted all the obnoxious teeny pop songs and made room for my collection of Guns N’ Roses. I broke out my plaid shirts and combat boots (clearly I was progressing into a grunge phase). I was ready to come out of the rock and roll closet.
Along the way, I realized there were others like me who appreciated the mood-catching songs of Pearl Jam and melancholy melodies of The Cure. These were the bands I could empathize with, that I could relate to. Finally, I was proud to admit that It’s Still Rock and Roll to Me.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Out of Touch
Phone rings 3…4…5 times before I hang up. Ravenously, I chewed my leftover pizza straight out of the fridge eyeing the liquor cabinet. “Up next, a young man’s inspiring journey through the slums of India,” interrupted the broadcaster. The dimly lit T.V. was the only source of life in the house besides the quiet buzz of flies flinging themselves against the window pane. I grasped the phone tightly staring down the top left cabinet again. It was the first time I craved alcohol since I quit.
About three months ago, I stopped drinking. No, I wasn’t an alcoholic-just your ordinary 23 year old angry drunk. In fact, I was even happier without it. My friends noticed a difference in my attitude, and my school work improved. She especially never liked it when I drank. I lugged my medical textbook out from my backpack reviewing some of the case studies for a test. However, my mind trailed places which I feared to follow.
To direct my attention elsewhere, I finally raided the cabinet pouring a moderate amount of whiskey and a bit of cola into a glass. A chill breeze stroked the vertebrae in my back as I threw back the drink. I shivered in response pouring another. I sat back in my chair letting myself sink into the folds staring aimlessly at the pixels of the T.V. until my eyelids became heavy.
Then, there it was! Her laugh awoke me. Warmth suddenly flooded my veins as memories of our summer together played in my mind. Swimming in the lake, picnics, long walks, and long days of accomplishing nothing. It was as if we were some sort of twangy rock song that I had hoped would never end, but like all good songs it did. Around September, I drove back to Raleigh and Mandy remained on the shores of the North Carolina coast. For a while, we kept correspondence- a phone call every week, an online instant message. We were good friends. I explained to her my innate mistrust in woman and she would laugh reminding me of how much of a man whore I was. Then, the regular calls became more and more infrequent and her online status remained normally “unavailable”. Although my heart continued to ache for contact with her, I was unsurprised. See, it was about a week after I left Mandy told me her boyfriend had returned from a mission trip.
“Boyfriend?” I asked disheartened.
“Yeah, I told you about him,” she said. “Peter.” It was true; she did tell me all about him. Peter was a future Nobel Prize winner. His interests ranged from can collecting to teaching kids in the 3rd world about hygiene. Maybe I simply refused to believe he existed. “You’d really like him,” Mandy said after a long pause.
“Naturally,” I responded passively. “You seem to really like him.”
I heard her smile into the phone. “More than like.”
A heavy, alcohol soiled breath passed through my mouth as I adjusted my position in the chair. The news story about the man in India was on again. “Peter Rafaela, age 27 from Beaufort county, recently spearheaded an aide group helping the impoverished areas of India,” said the newscaster. Irritably, I turned off the T.V. and the room quickly turned black. Now only the buzz of the bugs could be heard throughout the apartment.
A gentle lub dub beat deep within the cavity of my chest. Even though I knew the physical calibrations and interworking of the organ from my textbook, I couldn’t understand how this anguishing ache was possible. I was a healthy, charismatic and intelligent guy. What more could a psyche ask for? Mandy’s face was fading from my memory. I silenced my thoughts with another sip of the whiskey as darkness of the room turned hazy. “Good night,” I murmured. With one breath, I slipped into an unconscious state.
About three months ago, I stopped drinking. No, I wasn’t an alcoholic-just your ordinary 23 year old angry drunk. In fact, I was even happier without it. My friends noticed a difference in my attitude, and my school work improved. She especially never liked it when I drank. I lugged my medical textbook out from my backpack reviewing some of the case studies for a test. However, my mind trailed places which I feared to follow.
To direct my attention elsewhere, I finally raided the cabinet pouring a moderate amount of whiskey and a bit of cola into a glass. A chill breeze stroked the vertebrae in my back as I threw back the drink. I shivered in response pouring another. I sat back in my chair letting myself sink into the folds staring aimlessly at the pixels of the T.V. until my eyelids became heavy.
Then, there it was! Her laugh awoke me. Warmth suddenly flooded my veins as memories of our summer together played in my mind. Swimming in the lake, picnics, long walks, and long days of accomplishing nothing. It was as if we were some sort of twangy rock song that I had hoped would never end, but like all good songs it did. Around September, I drove back to Raleigh and Mandy remained on the shores of the North Carolina coast. For a while, we kept correspondence- a phone call every week, an online instant message. We were good friends. I explained to her my innate mistrust in woman and she would laugh reminding me of how much of a man whore I was. Then, the regular calls became more and more infrequent and her online status remained normally “unavailable”. Although my heart continued to ache for contact with her, I was unsurprised. See, it was about a week after I left Mandy told me her boyfriend had returned from a mission trip.
“Boyfriend?” I asked disheartened.
“Yeah, I told you about him,” she said. “Peter.” It was true; she did tell me all about him. Peter was a future Nobel Prize winner. His interests ranged from can collecting to teaching kids in the 3rd world about hygiene. Maybe I simply refused to believe he existed. “You’d really like him,” Mandy said after a long pause.
“Naturally,” I responded passively. “You seem to really like him.”
I heard her smile into the phone. “More than like.”
A heavy, alcohol soiled breath passed through my mouth as I adjusted my position in the chair. The news story about the man in India was on again. “Peter Rafaela, age 27 from Beaufort county, recently spearheaded an aide group helping the impoverished areas of India,” said the newscaster. Irritably, I turned off the T.V. and the room quickly turned black. Now only the buzz of the bugs could be heard throughout the apartment.
A gentle lub dub beat deep within the cavity of my chest. Even though I knew the physical calibrations and interworking of the organ from my textbook, I couldn’t understand how this anguishing ache was possible. I was a healthy, charismatic and intelligent guy. What more could a psyche ask for? Mandy’s face was fading from my memory. I silenced my thoughts with another sip of the whiskey as darkness of the room turned hazy. “Good night,” I murmured. With one breath, I slipped into an unconscious state.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)