The story really begins here. Prior to this, I was sort of a non-musical child. Despite growing up in a household omnipresent with music, I didn't really identify with music personally until 1983. I think the first song I ever blared out of my father's stereo was "Shout", and I don't really feel at all embarrassed about it. But, I went to school one day (5th Grade) and met new student, Tony Boupha. A very tall for his age, Asian American, who murdered everyone on the dodgeball court. He was the first person I ever exchanged music with, and in our first encounter, he lay in front of me this album. I wasn't unfamiliar with metal or hard rock, but I certainly had no adolescent preparation for how much my world would be consumed by Motley Crue. My room was adorned with posters of "ugly women" (my dad's description), and I still have that collection today. Hearing Motley Crue didn't simply open a door of exploration, it kicked it in. In my early years of music collecting, it was hair metal heaven. Ratt, Quiet Riot, Loudness... the fondness for metal music has never waned. Granted, my tastes have changed quite a bit since 5th Grade, but I will never forget the mark the music of 5th Grade left with me, and if my passion for music had a prophet, it came in the form of Vince Neil's leather-bound crotch.
Wasn't my first Christian Death album, but it was the one that consumed my heart and soul. Rozz Williams' lyrics burned through me and ignited all of my passion and creativity. Large chucks of my life have in one capacity or another been linked to the artistry of Rozz Williams, and that tree is firmly rooted in and around my mind and heart. The difference between the impact of this album as opposed to the others in this list - is that it became much more to me than just music. It opened more doors into art and literary extremes than it ever did on a musical level. That's the brilliance of Rozz Williams - influenced by Dadaism, Surrealism, and stark reflections of hypocrisy, it was perhaps the most educational journey of my life. I was 15 and everything had just been changed. A piece of vinyl became more than anti-social, teen-angst, self-loathing rebellion. Love or hate me - this album became much of who I was and continue to be to this day.
JANE'S ADDICTION: NOTHING'S SHOCKINGJon and I decided 3rd period constituted a long enough school day. We drove in his 1983 baby blue Celica towards Tampa, and found ourselves at Fashion Square Mall. On that journey, my music mental checklist was the usual, but included a new entry. I had been struck by a promotional photo I'd seen some months ago of Jane's Addiction (a poster of which adorns my hallway), and an article mentioning their release on Warner Bros. After hitting all of our normal haunts, we arrived at Tracks, a music chain that provided me more rarities and gems than I've ever encountered in a chain store. I found my two choices for the afternoon, and waited in line to check out. Jon asked, "Did you find that one band you mentioned?" I almost let it go, but an especially slow register clerk prompted me to go find "that one band". My reaction to seeing the cover for the first time must have been a Kodak moment. I dropped what I was holding and proceeded back to the counter with "Nothing's Shocking". I really had zero idea what to expect, I'd heard nothing by this band - I just knew that they looked the way my head wanted to hear. We climbed into the baby blue Celica, which I feel compelled to mention was adorned with an Alpine deck and a back seat that basically consisted of a box containing to 18-inch Cerwin Vega woofers. In went the tape - lulling us into a false sense of bliss. We arrived at the main entrance to the mall just as the emotionally-soaked "HOME" tore across the asphalt: terrifying children, scattering pigeons, and sending the elderly into cardiac arrest. The sincerity of Perry's vocals, and the ferocity of the music gave me chills. It was my first social commentary; "Nothing's Shocking" was my folk music. It was okay to not be A or B or C, and it's okay to present that awkwardness on a loud, spastic level. The other realization I had on that ride back home was that my emotional impact was my own... Jon was less than overwhelmed by Jane's Addiction - but I applaud him on allowing my weirdness to flow and have an outlet. "Hello, English Class taught by a former Catholic Nun - this is my new Jane's Addiction shirt, and yes that is Mary holding a plate with eyeballs on it, and that's okay." "By the way - I'm addicted to heroin now..."
Hello, life-crushing, emotional, hell of my own creation starring Julia Lewis. If your world revolved around someone unattainable or happened to value your heart on a sliding scale - then this was your soundtrack to that pain. Dripping with hurt, anger, lust - if an autopsy had been performed on my heart at the time - inside would have been this cassette. Not since very recently, has an album tied me so emotionally to a very finite period of my life, and so quickly transports me right back to it with even a passing listen. Trent made everything I was feeling so visceral, that I could only believe, that he too was dating Julia Lewis. It's not Nine Inch Nails' darkest, or purest, or most personal album, arguably, not their best album either - but it was at a perfect time in my life to give voice to feelings I felt consumed and suffocated by.
I sat in my living room late one night, going through a box of treasures that my closest friend, Shawn had sent me. I was, honestly, feeling a little jaded - nothing had profoundly impacted me musically on an emotional level in quite some time at this point. Certainly, I had found bands I liked, and others had shared amazing artists with me - but nothing that stuck me in the chest repeatedly like an inmate targeted by the Aryan Brotherhood. In this box lay a series of videos, the last of which I played, were two live performances of Shannon Wright. The first, at Coney Island, I believe, was a little underwhelming. The videographer was more interested in asses in the crowd than the show on stage (might I mention - he was there with a woman and a stroller-bound child). The second performance however took place in a small theater (Kentucky-I think) and then that assault on my senses happened. This banshee, beating the life out of her keyboard while drums thrashed violently made my blood run cold. I don't remember if Shawn sent me this album or if I obtained it on my own - but every emotion that was tore out my body watching Shannon Wright live was succinctly preserved on "Dyed In The Wool". Here again, a seemingly tortured, ravaged wreck of a human being, wrapped in this seething, pernicious ferocity was screaming out in an effort to exorcise pain and memory. If ever I could write again, I know it would be because of Shannon Wright. She's a muse for the fragility of weathered hearts. I missed my one (and apparently) only chance to see her live... I won't ever make that mistake again.
So, that's it for Part One. I'm going to try and piece together Part Two this weekend. Thanks for reading.
