I bought a turntable earlier this
year and have been building my record collection as fast as my budget will
allow. It’s been growing bit by bit from
this used record shop and that one. It
will take some time before my vinyl collection matches my CD collection but
everything worthwhile takes time, right?
Well, two weeks ago I ordered some vinyl from Third Man Records. Specifically, I ordered White Blood Cells by
The White Stripes, my favorite band since high school. It was also the first WS
CD I ever bought.
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| Me and the CD - notice how beat up the case is. I have yet to buy a new copy. |
I’d heard “Fell in Love with a Girl”
and meh. It was catchy and had a cool
video but other than that, I was unimpressed.
I mean, I was a Goth Punk. I
listened to Hole, Nirvana, The Distillers and Sex Pistols. You had to be pre-t-ty special to impress me. (I was 15.)
Remember, this was in the “The”
band era of 2002. The Strokes, The
Vines, The Hives and The Kills are only some of the “The” bands that came out
in this time and everyone was declaring one or the other THE New Gods of Rock
or whatever. I was turned off and turned on by everyone (except The Vines –
Craig Nicholls was this tiny Australian waif of insane-crazy that I so badly
wanted to give my virginity).
One day I’d heard Dead Leaves and
the Dirty Ground on Q101, a now-defunct Chicago rock radio station. The DJ had
been talking over the beginning (as those dicks are prone to do) but that
scratchy voice finally came through and those haunting chords then the drums
and crashing cymbals oooohhh goose bumps were poking new holes in my
Goth-inspired panty-hose arm sleeves.
Back then, my dad would take me
once a month to the no-longer-existing Coconuts record store on Kimball and
Belmont where I could get ONE album (two, if they were cheap and they rarely
were). Usually I’d get some obscure-ish
punk album or the latest Eminem cd but this time I went straight to the Ws. I finger danced through the CDs until I found
White Blood Cells, with no White Stripes identifying placard before it.
On our way to the counter, I
examined the cover: these two pale as death, too-cool-
for-school, had-to-be siblings
dressed in red and white backed up against red bricks by these all black invaders. During the two minutes it took for the
cashier to ring it up and my father to make the usual “Eighteen dollars? Jesus
Christ” remark, I realized I was a little giddy to listen to this thing. Goths aren’t supposed to feel giddy about
anything so I told myself to be cool, it’s no big thing, it’s just an album. Then I gave the cashier chick a little snarl
of a smile as we left. She was a part of
the establishment; as a Goth, I had to.
In the car, I took the album out of
the bag and re-examined the cover. This
time I realized they weren’t being backed up against anything, they were just
being bad ass motherfuckers watching these jagaloons try to creep up on them
with these almost-amused looks on their faces. After five minutes of picking at
sticker edges, ripping off plastic and picking at some more sticker edges, I
opened it to see those bad ass motherfuckers mugging for the cameras.
I smiled. Goths don’t smile.
When my father got us home, I went
straight to my room, opened my 5-disc stereo and replaced The Distillers with
The White Stripes.
Three songs later, I knew I wasn’t
a Goth. I was whatever the hell this was. I was something weird: soft and hard; foot-tapping
happy and head-banging angry. I was clapping and dancing and then “Aluminum”
came on and I was enthralled. What the
fuck is this? Is this rock? Is it
country? Folk? Kraut-rock? Folk-rock? What the fuck, rock?
Before I heard that album, I was
angry at everything and needed nothing but the cuts I’d given myself and a
thrashing guitar to make my loose blood hum.
I didn’t want anything but black and dismal because that was all I
thought I could handle. Before that
album, I would’ve been happy to exist in the white noise and dark rooms I’d
resigned myself to. Before that album, I’d
thought ruining my mother’s black panty-hose was cool.
Afterwards though, none of that
would work for me ever again. I branched
out. Learned everything I could about the Whites and tried to steal their
knowledge for myself. Whatever interview
they had, I’d commit it to memory. Whatever Jack said he listened to, I would
beg my father to wait in the car while I bought it. Whenever Meg said anything, I’d read too much
into it and take it as gospel.
I was obsessed.
Most obsessions are worrisome but I
wasn’t ruining her tights anymore so my mother was fine with it. The music was loud but it was soft at points
so my father would stop banging on my door to turn it down. I still had problems but I had somewhere new
to turn, some new sounds to make my blood hum inside my veins.
Ten years later, my scars have
faded, I buy my own albums and my own tights.
Most of all, I finally understand what they meant on that first page:
“Something’s going to let us know that
these are the good days to remember, after children take up our time and take our
place. But pride and happiness are always the same distance from our hands.”
And my hand is pulling up the
needle, ready for side 2… again.
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| If you're thinking "Wow, this chick loves albums in her face" then you're right. I fucking love music in my face parts. |
