Mixtape

My friend D.P. was the king of mix tapes. He was born and raised in Seattle and had a much greater exposure to bands than I did in my small Midwestern town. We met in England in the late 80s where we were both stationed in the Air Force, and I fell under his tutelage, proving a much more apt student than I did in school. He poked fun at my mainstream CDs and cassette tapes (Steve Winwood specifically, which was strange as I don't recall ever liking his banal music) then softened the blow by making me mix tapes featuring bands he thought I might like, such as Transvision Vamp, The Church, The Cramps, The Pixies, The Jesus and Mary Chain, Peter Tosh, Bob Mould, The House Martins, Tones on Tail, and many more.

I joined the Air Force specifically to see the world, gain some life experience, get the G.I. Bill, and do something no one else in my family had ever done. My first official assignment was to Ft. Walton Beach, FL, and I was crestfallen. I managed to swap job orders with a guy who had orders to England. His orders could have been to Iceland or Guam, and I would have traded--anything to get out of the U.S. The day the swap went through, I ran to the pay phone in the dorm and called my music-loving friend Jason who was going to college in Iowa, singing out the opening measures of "I Can't Get No Satisfaction." I also decided that calling it U.K. was much cooler than calling it England. For five long months, I dreamed of U.K.

When I got there, I met some malcontents who thought that England sucked. I didn't understand. How could being in Europe possibly suck? (Okay, technically, England does not refer to itself as Europe--"the Continent" they called it.) They all wanted to be back in their small hometowns in rural CA, NC, OH, and PA. They rarely even left the airbase let alone the dorm! I tried to be friends with these people, but they were boring. Some had never even bothered to go to London, which was just an hour-long bus shuttle ride from our base--and free! I used to work midnight shift, so sometimes I would get off work at 7, then run catch the bus to London, then come back home on the the last shuttle home to get a nap before work.

A few months later, I was put on swing shift (4pm-1 am), which effectively ended my sporadic London forays. Then I was moved into a different dorm. That's when my life-as-I-hoped-it-would be really took off. I met D.P. and a few other guys who listened to bands I'd never heard of and invited me to concerts in London, Cambridge, Norwich, Nottingham, Peterborough, and other places. My first concert in England was The Primitives at Town & Country in Kentish Town on Thanksgiving Day, and despite never having heard of the band, I quicklyI forked over my 7 quid for the ticket. 

I barely had any clothes at that time, and remember fretting over what to wear. Back then I was into the oversize look, which was by necessity rather than choice. I was petite, and everything was huge on me. I went through a phase where I shopped in the men's department, going for a sporty look, and on a whim bought a white button-down shirt that said DIZZY BOPPER in block letters tumbling across the front.I paired it with a long black skirt and some red flats. I didn't really know D.P. or John very well, and I don't think they'd ever seen me out of uniform. I remember D.P. complimenting my hair, and slowly my nerves and fears of being awkward ebbed away. We drove instead of taking the shuttle, and they popped in plenty of mix tapes, complete with their own running commentary on the bands, as well as the various British signs, which seemed foreign to us.  "To Let" instead of "For Lease." "Don't let dogs foul sidewalk." One that really cracked them up was an advertisement for "Crusty Bread." The word "crusty" really got them. I remember being giddy just to try to keep up with their witticisms. We parked in Red Bridge then took the tubes into various neighborhoods. We spent the day in various record shops and book stores and pubs and ate some Chinese food. I remember whizzing under the city, thinking, "I'm in London on Thanksgiving with two really cool guys on a subway, and we're going to a concert! " I was 20 years old.

Stepping  into D.P.'s and John's music granted me passage into their world--they were raised in big cities--San Diego and Seattle; they subscribed to magazines I'd never heard of; they were smart, trendy, and yes, they were also handsome; and for some reason, they allowed me into their world. So I learned the language. I loved the Cure ("Charlotte Sometimes") and had most of their CDs.  I spent countless nights and afternoons with the Cure, whose music effortlessly coaxed my twenty-something angst despair. But I did not feel close to Robert Smith the way I would later in life to singer-songwriters. I did feel attracted to him, but it was more a fascination than an actual connection. I loved the music, but I didn't always identify with it.  I think the difference is that the bands were highly stylistic in both attitude and fashion while singer-songwriters of the late 80s through today are substance through and through. They are confessional as opposed to cynical. There are times in my life when I need both, but back then, it was escapism (escaping my upbringing no doubt) all the way.

When I got sent to Saudi Arabia in support of Operation Desert Shield in the summer of 1990, D.P. sent me many mix tapes to keep me updated. I would get off my 13-hour shift around 4 a.m. and catch a shuttle back to Tent City by 5 a.m., and I'd throw on my sweats and tennies and go running and walking as the sun came up over the deserted desert, cool tunes blasting in my headphones. As I walked the desert plains, I would belt out the lyrics with Kim Deal of The Pixies: "A big, big love, a big, big love!" and wish I could cop that kind of 'tude. I always walked alone--early in the morning or late in the evening and never asked for company and ignored warnings about walking alone from the men who felt it their duty to look after me. This was my pretend time. I wish now was that I didn't pretend and hide. I wish I would have let people see that side of me and had flaunted it instead and taken myself less seriously and my enthusiasm more seriously. Maybe such an unabashed expression of adoration and imitation would have eventually led to finding an authentic form of that attitude lurking somewhere inside me.

One of the songs on one of those tapes, however, now comes to mind today, at the heels of the holiday season. Initially I was impassive about it, and often FF'd it to get to faster, edgier songs. The song was What's so Funny 'bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding?" by Elvis Costello, whom we had actually met a few months earlier in a PELICAN crossing (crosswalk for Yankees) in Cambridge. At first I thought he was Woody Allen, but D.P. corrected me, and struck up a conversation with a very congenial and cheerful Elvis!

I started writing this last night as I was reflecting on the gift of a brand new year and a brand new start, and having a wonderfully quiet and sweet New Year's Eve. My partner and I had a George Bailey-themed night. We happened to be in the town square of a quaint small city. We went to an old fashioned soda fountain. We stopped for drinks and steaks at a neighborhood bar and played shuffleboard, not the kind on the floor with the sticks, but the kind on the table with the pucks. We went back to his house and built a cozy fire, poured some wine, then watched "It's a Wonderful Life." After midnight we shared our Top 3 list--where you list the three best things that happened in the previous year. It was impossible to choose only three, and that is the point of the exercise, to remind yourself just how good you had it. 

New Year's Eve is a Big Damn Night that, frankly, I have never liked. Just too much pressure to be cool and connected and having the wildest time of anyone alive. The truth is, I'm not cool and connected to the cool people, and I have a pretty wild time most days of my life, although it rarely involves bars, costumes, and party favors. 

What I had on New Year's Eve was Peace, Love, and Understanding.

But I got to thinking: What is so funny about Peace, Love, and Understanding? Why do people make fun of you if you're happy and settled?

My guess is that the title was perhaps a rebuttal, perhaps to someone who had seen him shift from a place of cynicism to a place of optimism. I know firsthand that such changes can cause some people in our lives to question how such an adjustment will affect them, especially when they are feeling particularly ungrounded.

So I got to thinking about being grounded. 

When I was young, I wanted to embrace a small rebellious streak in myself but was so embarrassed of looking stupid that I acted it out only in private. I am almost certain that this constant fear of embarrassment came from being the youngest of four, the older two of which were merciless in their taunting and random beatings. In my late 30s, I took on a rebellious nature that was far more destructive than it needed to be. The problem was that I never found a healthy way to express it, and that problem stemmed from thinking I did not deserve happiness, success, and freedom.

And perhaps a very small part of me believed that these rebellious types were merely putting on a show, much like cool, connected, casual people.

But lately, I've been feeling rebellious again.

I want to rebel against a popular cultural personality.

Cynicism. Particularly about happiness. Especially when happiness is derived of something simple or traditional.

Cynicism is an affectation.  It's a phony defense mechanism against failing. Cynics don't even bother trying because trying might result in failure. Cynics are afraid of everything, afraid of how they will look to other cynics, so instead they just make fun of things. Cynicism is easy, and it's rarely a lonely undertaking. It is a bottle of whiskey easily shared with friends and strangers whose depth of loyalty is about 3 oz.

I know all of this because I used to be a cynic. For awhile I was in with a crowd who would usher in the new year by threatening it to be better than the previous "suck-fest" of a year. I  noted that many of the reasons they felt the previous year sucked had to do with dating. Even in my darkest times, following my divorce, I could never bring myself to damn the entire year just because a relationship went wrong. But still, while I didn't actively go damning things, I did host some pretty profound doubts about myself. Like my imagination, I kept my cynicism to myself, which makes it a little better for those around me, but not for me. It took its toll.

As I reflect on those days of walking the desert flight line and letting my imagination run wild, I think about the idea of squelching and deserving. I squelched because I thought I did not deserve good things. It turns out, I might have squandered part of my life by taking that course. 

I deserve lots of good things this year, but most things I can't control, and it's time to let go of wanting to control those things and focusing on the things I can.  I want to rebel against my tendencies to keep my dreams a secret. I know full well I did that in case they didn't come true, which I felt would be embarrassing. I want to let go of that little child who worries how she will look, and I want to rock out to my ipod when I walk down the street in the middle of the day. I want to hug my singer-songwriters and keep them close for their willingness to be honest, and I want to mosh with the Cramps, just to make sure that I don't drown in solemnity.

This year I want to play more. That's it. 

I want to play.

If my year were a mixtape, I hope it would look something like this:

      Twenty-Thirteen

 Side A                    Side B

Swim                      Plant
Bike                       Purge
Run                        Strum
Walk                      Sing
Dance                    Audition
Ice Skate                Invite
Rollerblade             Photograph
Sled                       Record
Ski                         Draw
Horseback Ride       Read
Hike                      Write
Camp                     Commemorate

I want to get a new camera and take more pictures. And get a voice recorder so I can record people's stories. And I want to read more. And write more. And read more. And write more. And go to readings. And music events. And keep writing my concert reviews for that other blog. 

I want to listen to more music: old music, new music, classical music, musical soundtracks, country, rock, gospel, and folk on record, CD, cassette and mp3. AND I want to PLAY. I want to actually play music, not just listen to it.

And I want to tend my dreams like I'd tend a garden. 

Dreams are not embarrassed of their efforts, and they don't keep to themselves. 

This year: A Big Big Love! A Big Big Love!

I mean, imagine if Wendy had actually accepted that she can't sing for a damn and kept her dreams to herself.

We would not have this!

D.P.'s mixtapes