Being an 80s baby, I have a deeply profound nostalgia for the 1990s. The mantra bumper stickers that said “Whatever” or “As If” that were plastered to my bedroom walls. The oxymoronic baby-doll grunge dresses I paired with floppy Blosom hats. The episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer I taped onto VHS cassettes straight from TV on Wednesday nights to watch after school on Thursdays. Or maybe they were taped on Tuesdays, and watched on Wednesdays; it doesn’t matter.
Perhaps these nostalgic yearnings are far from profound, but they are definitely deep. In this love I know I’m not alone because I”ve recently seen fashion remnants hitting the streets of San Francisco on proto-hipsters. Every fashion moment has another, just give it time. But these nascent fashionistas may be onto something: (a) the shapeless duds and sturdy Doc Martens of 1990s lore are sensibly efficient and comfortable, and (b) Blues Traveler is playing at The Independent with the elusively billed “very special guests” tonight (13 May 2013). ‘Tis a benefit show so you’re money will go towards charitable endeavors as opposed to booze, broads, semi-legal / legitimately-illegal ingestibles, or any of your other preferred poisons for a change.
If we’re lucky, Hootie and the Blowfish or the Friends Theme Song band will open. Please let it be Hootie. Let it be Hootie.
In honor of Father Misty’s show tonight at The Fillmore, I present his parody of the 1974 Suntory Whiskey ad featuring none other than the inimitable Sammy Davis Jr. Well, inimitable unless you’re FJM.
Update: The original video that was included in this post was removed, and (unfortunately) the only version currently available has substandard audio that cuts out about halfway through. My apologies; the hunt for an adequate video persists, but until that is found this will give you a sample.
We are consumed by a treasure hunt of unparalleled proportions on an island that has no name. This is the search for meaning, the journey towards a definition. This is life. The little things, the tragic things.
The sticker on the corner of a medicine cabinet mirror, left there by the daughter of a previous occupant and now a part of your morning narrative. The glasses worn by a woman of Italian heritage, removed from the bridge of her nose by death and sold for a pittance from her garage, now worn proudly by a young man more than half her age to that indie show headlined by that band (you know, the one with the lithe bearded gent at the helm) in a small basement around the corner from a former firehouse. The piano, a wedding present to that bride who secretly despised her groom, now spreading the gospel of tolerance and devotion to hundreds of bodies placed piously in their pews.
These are lives overlapping. The past marking the present as it gets passed by for the future. Nothing without meaning, even if the words have not been said and understood. Every anomaly not really out of place, but merely misunderstood. Layers are interwoven atop foundations poured by people framed in frozen photographs hidden in a drawer. Or maybe, if they’re lucky, gathering dust near the edge of a nightstand. Still remembered, still present.
This is history. Not an archaic subject caked in dust and mummified by dates to be memorized, unanalyzed. History is the story of people chasing dreams, or of dreams chasing people; of stickers, glasses, and pianos; of ephemera, sights and sounds.
History is meaningful. History is you and me, and all the other things I see. History Is.
I speak, but say nothing. Noted for a skill I do not have but just appear to possess. A prize of false perception; a quill taken and held high. As high as those walls there in the distance, the ones just beyond the glenn. The one in which the zephyr sits so solemn in its ghostly dock, fully covered by the Spanish moss dripping, dropping in its gravity down into its death.
The fault? Oh Yes, that was mine. Wrought with good intentions, I just didn’t keep the time. I stalked the ground for seven big, brown years and found the circle comforting. No fear of losing compass, no dread from the unknown. Just the constant left-bound motion of a path so tried and true. A ticking, a tocking, an ever-present hum of deadlock finding favor in the absence of a choice.
I will go where I will go. Nonsense pulling triggers where safeties were left unlatched. A cascade of destinations just beyond those walls. A cacophony of options too numerous to understand. Easy enough to find, harder to enjoy. With that whisper of decision upon the tongue tip, trapped in execution.
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.
Nostos Algos 