If Gwen Stefani was the role model, then Gavin Rossdale was all that a teenage girl could possibly want in an imaginary boyfriend. He was British, incredibly handsome, and frontman for the quintessential 90s rock band. If you lived in the suburbs, this was a particularly potent combination. We little ladies ended many a long middle school week with a sweet slumber party where pieces of paper were folded and a game was played to decide who we would marry, how many kids we would have, and what kinds of cars and houses we would own; I always included Gavin Rossdale. And when I found out he idolized Allen Ginsberg while watching an episode of MTV’s cribs, well, I was done for.
While my lustful teenage melanchology compelled me to put “Glycerine” on repeat, I listened to “Everything Zen” when I wanted to thrash about my room and feel cool. The albums Sixteen Stone and Razorblade Suitcase were permanently embedded in my walkman, and I recall my sullen puss listening to them while riding in the backseat of my Dad’s car on the way to dinner, my Mom in the passenger seat and his cologne permeating the entire interior–the leather of which would creak as he turned a corner too fast, which he always did because he was a Terrible driver with a capital “T”.
For me, Bush harkens back to Southern California winters in which we wore sloppy sweaters with sleeves that hung past our hands so we could twist them neurotically in emulation of our silver screen idols of the era. Bush helped me build my identity in ways I could not know then, but appreciate now, and Gavin Rossdale has had an indelible influence on the type of men I’ve chosen to date over the last 10 years. While it pains me to see how far the band has fallen in recent years, Bush and its enigmatic frontman will forever hold a place in my heart. Rock on, you 1990s gods.
In 1996, Bush released their second full length album Razorblade Suitcase. I was 12 and, thanks to MTV and his penchant for performing shirtless, in love with Gavin Rossdale. Due to the genius technology of my Sony Walkman, that album went everywhere with me: in the car on the way to dinner; at the dining room table as I did homework; to the airport for a flight to San Francisco. You get the picture.
I had to have more.
That year, my citified uncle gave me a solo trip to San Francisco for my birthday; that’s right: no parentals. My parents nervously drove me to the airport to see me off; I confidently packed my steadfast Walkman and favorite CD. I endured the barrage of questions from my overprotective father as we waited in the terminal for my flight. What do you do if you get lost downtown? Who do you call in case of an emergency? Yadda, yadda, yadda.
Finally, it was my time to board. Being the little tyke that I was and flying alone, Southwest graciously allowed me to pre-board which meant I had to walk the gauntlet of a crowded terminal filled with eyes that all seemed to be upon me. Just as I approach the Southwest agent, I hear my Dad yell from across the room, “!!!Nic!!! If any guy tries to touch you, remember: you hit him in the throat or the balls,” as he added appropriate hand gestures for effect. Mortified, I nodded and boarded without a word. Wouldn’t you know it, not a soul sat next to me.
I arrived in San Francisco safely, and now my uncle had to organize an itinerary for a shy pre-teen tomboy who awkwardly loved nothing else besides baseball, rock n roll, and antiques. Yes, antiques. First stop was Planet Hollywood with some mild success, and from there we hit every kid friendly landmark in town, from the Exploratorium to FAO Schwartz. But even he, an accomplished guide, had trouble truly making an impact on a nervous little twerp unaccustomed to being so far from the familiarity of home. That is until he took me to the Motherland, otherwise known as the Virgin Megastore on Market. I may not have understood San Francisco, with its foreign fog and panoply of diversity, but Music? Ahhhhh, music I knew and my little face instantly began to flush with anticipation.
I looked up at my uncle, who smiled in acknowledgement, and was told he would buy me whatever albums I wanted; the hunt was on. Where to go first?! To find my way, I did what any self-respecting pre-teen would do: I looked to where the older kids (older meaning 16) were congregating. There, in the Rock section, I methodically worked my way through each listening booth. Romeo and Juliet Soundtrack, with Everclear and Radiohead? Check. No Doubt’s Tragic Kingdom? Check. Then I went looking for “archival” Bush albums, or…the only other album they had then–Sixteen Stone. After some digging, it was found. Finally! Glycerine was mine to be listened to whenever I desired and I was no longer bound to the whims of KROQ DJs and MTV VJs; I now possessed the total power of recall.
I didn’t know it then, but those few hours spent in Virgin would be a pivotal moment in my short life. These albums went on to define my junior high existence and, in many ways, my world as an adult. Not just the albums themselves, but the process of selection endured to own them. Wandering the infinite aisles of a music megastore; getting lost amongst people at once intimidating and inspiring; and, most importantly, losing my conscious self in a public, shared music education.
Today, I’m a proud resident of San Francisco having shed my Southern California roots a long decade ago. Not surprisingly, in this age of relentless change, none of the commercial landmarks I visited in 1996 remain; no more planet of Hollywood gobeldigook and BLT sandwiches; no more never-ending frightening floors of stuffed mechanized toys that are three-times your size; and, sadly, no more refuge for the lovers of listening. As I sit here now, the monstrous murals that ran the entire circumference of the Virgin Megastore–murals of Hendrix, Joplin and Dylan installed as a reminder of where we’ve musically been and where we can hope to go–are being torn asunder to make way for another Forever 21; slashed to pieces so tweens may have better access to cheap sequin tops.
This, I suppose, is progress at its finest. MTV is known better for its reality television than its music videos. College radio is an endangered species, and Live Nation controls the box office. Copyright is dead, and any asshole with a computer is a self-professed music expert worthy of doling out judgements from a Lazyboy. The death of music may be near, my friends, and ascension of uninformed noise will officiate its funeral. As sad as this is, I try not to dwell. I will always treasure my days of public music exploration, when every main street had a record shop and every mall a music megastore. I will treasure the discovery and the disappointment, the endless hours of browsing without looking at a computer screen. And as days go by, I become a little older, a little less thin and much more grim. But through it all, I still own that same Walkman as I also own the very same copy of Sixteen Stone after all these years. Both things still so tangible and effervescent with what I was, where I was, and who I was with. Which is why I continue to buy vinyl and compact discs, even an occasional cassette tape at Goodwill.
Because there ain’t no goddamn cloud big enough to hold my memories.