Leaving theoretical physics aside, time is experienced as a straight line, which means our present cannot have existed without our past. Everything we know, feel, or have in the present is a direct result of the experiences and decisions of the past. That much is obvious, but what is harder is to see and feel the inflection points as they come along. These are what we call 'watershed moments', and often they look like any other grain of sand falling through the hourglass. It's only years later, when we are panning our memories for gold, that we find the bits of precious ore hidden in the pile of detritus.
In sifting through my memories, and the songs that trigger my fits of existential thinking, I was reminded of a confluence of coincidence; four of the albums that have left a lasting impression on my psyche were released in 1996. If it's true that our teenage experiences are key to shaping the people we become, it is all too appropriate that those albums came into my life the year I turned thirteen.
Tonic's "Lemon Parade", The Wallflowers' "Bringing Down The Horse", Matchbox 20's "Yourself Or Someone Like You", and Weezer's "Pinkerton".
As those albums have celebrated previous anniversaries, I have told the stories about their impact on me and the way my mind works, which I may or may not do again as each particular day approaches, depending on how my opinion of honesty shifts. What I find fascinating about looking back at albums from my past is discovering context that allows me to answer the questions I have in mind in the current day. I am prone to bouts of existential questioning that touches on everything from self-loathing to the futility of free will, and it is music that helps me align my thoughts. Each time I find a new reason to doubt, there is a memory of a song that points me in the direction of understanding.
Identity is a difficult thing to explain. When we meet someone new, the first question we are usually asked is, "What do you do?" We know better than to assume a function is the same as a personality, but how often have you been asked, "Who are you as a person?" I'm guessing that doesn't come up very often, as instead we have to wade through idle small talk to try to discern form our own inferences the kind of person we are talking with. The very fact we are seldom asked to think about ourselves in terms of the people we are, rather than how we make ourselves useful to others, might be one of the reasons so many of us struggle with our mental health.
As I have written in many pieces over the last couple of years, I have been struggling with that very question. For a long time, I knew who I was. On the occasions I was beginning to converse with someone new, I would introduce myself as a creator of things, a bit of an artistic gadfly. That was how I viewed myself, how I thought about myself. The most important element of my life, at least to me, was the artistic expression that came out through my words. They told someone everything they needed to know about me.
That part of myself was shattered, or the cracks slowly grew to the point of friction no longer holding the pieces together, as I had a moment of clarity about how delusional my self-assessment of my talents was, and how it had been obvious for some time that almost no one could muster the energy to humor me anymore. In an instant, I became rudderless, with no force inside myself oriented toward contentment. The compass spun, and I got dizzy watching it tell me I had no core it could find.
That is where my relationships with those albums comes into focus.
"Lemon Parade" was the first of these albums to etch its mark on me. The dynamics of the blend of acoustic and electric guitars on "If You Could Only See" caught my ear in the way the soft-loud dynamic of Nirvana defined the years just before I started paying attention to music. It was, in a way, the "Smells Like Teen Spirit" of my life. That was the song that opened my eyes to music being an obsession, as I wore out the spot on my tape of songs captured from the radio, and I began to figure out the rhythm of air guitar. As I dove deeper, and I uncovered the dirty groove of "Casual Affair", the grungy swirl of "Thick", and the blistering (pun intended) "Bigot Sunshine", music shifted from being something I listened to casually to something I felt deeper inside myself.
That was the catalyst for me to pick up my first guitar, which led not just to one of the defining bits of the next twenty years of my life, but an experience that now haunts me for my inability to recreate it. Being a musician was the keystone to my identity as an artist. I was also writing prose, but I knew I was not a storyteller at heart. One would occasionally come to me, and I love some of the stories I wrote dearly, but musical poetry felt like a natural extension of me. Getting to that point was difficult, as I stared at the diagrams in the instructional book I had, flipping them in my mind so my left-handedness was not another obvious illustration of how backwards I was. It didn't take long before that was too cumbersome, and I re-strung the guitar to flip it over. Being somewhat ambidextrous came in handy, with the physical aspect making little difference. What fascinated me was the way my imagination changed, with every daydream flipping the guitar over as if it had never been pointed in the other direction. I was able to re-wire myself, which is a skill I wish every day I still had. That album gave me a dream and a purpose, and then it gave me a unique form of grief.
"Bringing Down The Horse" was the next album to make its mark on me. While it would not settle in until the following album fully awakened something in me, "One Headlight" was the first song I remember hearing that captured my attention simply through the words. The obscure imagery and opaque meaning was a revelation to a kid who wanted to have an honest conversation, but didn't know how. Metaphors became refuge, and poetry became therapy. Jakob Dylan's words, sung with a voice that was anything but a polished talent, was a beacon for me. He was an avatar of what I thought I could one day hope to be. I would never get there, but that isn't a source of blame.
The song gives us the line, "I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same". That is a truism which now echoes in my mind. I understand that contradiction of feeling like the same person, yet a completely different person, at the same time, and questioning how the world can manage to see me as two distinct versions. Or not see either one, to be more honest. If I am prone to existential crises, this would be a simple mantra to explain the foundation of that process.
"Yourself Or Someone Like You" was next on the list. I have a vivid memory of the moment when I decided Matchbox 20 (as they wrote it at the time) was going to be one of 'my bands'. I didn't fully understand what the music meant, but it was something I felt. While others questioned how lame they were, Rob Thomas' voice, and even raised questions about other aspects I won't get into, I was internalized enough none of that mattered much to me.
Only many years later did the undercurrent of anger on that album begin to speak to me. I was not an 'angry young man', and I never had that phase, but a sense of bitterness did begin to bubble up over the last few years. That was when listening to the album shifted in my mind from something I always enjoyed, to something that was giving me a voice I lacked in myself. My own voice is not one of anger, and I blew it out and damaged it when I did have to yell at the idiots of life, so music needed to be my form of scream therapy. Little did I realize Rob Thomas had been providing that for me the whole time, with his strained and horse shouting being the perfect blend of awkward and angry to speak for me. I often find myself thinking, "Oh, God, I shouldn't feel this way", and agreeing that the "silence, it's a god-awful sound". I hear it all too often.
"Pinkerton" was the last of the albums to leave its mark, which is more of a scar than the rest. Weezer was not just an important part of my life for a time, but a source of friends who would let me feel normal as one chapter of life turned to the next, at least until they drifted away as everyone seems to. Back then, I wrote off "Pinkerton" as being the least important of the Weezer albums (at the time - the terrible stuff hadn't come out yet), and I didn't give it much thought. I was awkward in the way of "Buddy Holly", and not in the way of the dirty guitars that permeated it's follow-up.
Years later, I wrote an essay here when I finally paid enough attention to notice how disturbingly misogynistic the album is. While I took credit for not allowing any of that to unconsciously seep into my thinking, I knew it was not the end of the story. In the time since writing that piece, I have not stopped listening to "Pinkerton" as my moral compass would perhaps say I should have. I do have a hard time letting go of things, of people, of albums too, apparently. As I listened, fully aware of the context this time, it dawned on me why I initially rejected "Pinkerton", and why it is the only Weezer album I reach for these days.
I am awkward like "Buddy Holly", but "Pinkerton" is more true to the struggle that exists within me. No, not the ugly parts Rivers should have always been ashamed to put to tape. I can still say I do not have that strain of vitriol running through my veins. "Pinkerton" has always been a painful album because it embodies the struggle I am dealing with most acutely right now; the desire for connection with people who barely notice I exist. Rivers was writing his songs about wanting to have sex with anyone or anything that moves, but we can pull back on the x-rated nature for the purposes of this discussion. As I uncovered more about myself and the way my mind works, I saw more and more of myself in the character of the album who simply wants someone to notice him, who feels betrayed by fate.
Rivers' songs explore his attempts at finding a partner that led to his rejection, both explicit and implicit. I use those songs as a form of my own memories, since my struggle makes those attempts something beyond my reach. As I often paraphrase a quote from my favorite sitcom; "My [love] life couldn't fill of a haiku, much less a book." Unlike Rivers' songs, and the subset who have rightfully gotten a bad reputation for their anger, I am merely sad. Morrissey once wrote a song wherein he forgave Jesus for making him incompatible with the world, filled with desires that he could do nothing with. That is a sentiment I understand all too well, except for the forgiveness part. I look at "Pinkerton", and Rivers' failures, not with pity at how sorry his life was at the time, but with envy that he at least thought he had a chance. I can't make that claim for myself.
Thirty years after these albums came out, their importance is more clear than ever. In their melodies and lyrics is not just the story of who I was and how I got here, but why it sometimes feels like there isn't another chapter left to be written. I often live in the music of the past, because even the moments I'd rather forget from then are more comforting than thinking another reason for depression is waiting just beyond the horizon.
These albums are memories, they are scars, and they show me that I had all the pieces to the puzzle thirty years ago. 1996 was perhaps the most important musical year in my life, and it's my fault it took this long to realize that fact. Everything is always my fault.
So maybe now is the right time to stop putting myself through the self-flagellation of being honest.
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