A Good Song Part 2: The Test of Time

In an attempt to keep it short and sweet and posting only a song that I love, not the history of music and my fascinating parallel autobiography yesterday, I failed. So, this is part 2.

The song that spurred this epic blog post is My Bloody Valentine's When You Sleep.

I was a sophmore in highschool when I first heard this. Up until that day, my collection of cds, vinyl, and mixed tapes consisted of 80's bubblegum pop (think Tiffany, Debbie Gibson, and the Go Gos), NKOTB (a category unto itself when I was 8-10), classic rock (from Lynard Skynard to Steve Miller- it was like a middle aged bikini clad boozehound lived inside my 12 year old body), and everything Beatles (still deserving it's own category, in my opinion). And that was it. I was too proud of myself for not dying on the Pearl Jam cross with every other kid in highschool to realize that there actually was amazing music being made elsewhere.

I befriended a girl who was 2 years younger than me when I was in 10th grade. She went to the mega-private school near me that bred many ivy league cocaine addicts. (Joking. Sort of.) She knew everything I didn't. She knew about boys and, ahem, what they liked. She knew about drugs, and which ones were ok to take when simultaneously getting drunk. She knew which restaurants in the city served the most authentic french food (seriously- in 8th grade!). She knew how to tell her parents the most convincing lies. She knew how to transform her boring school uniform into a parent's worst nightmare (in the school bathroom with the help of safety pins and rolling waistbands). And she knew about music. She schooled me in everything I wanted to know and everything I didn't know I wanted to know.

She played this track on her cd player in the basement of her house (also known as the love den at certain parties she threw), while showing me the vampire-teeth-marked-tattoo she had done on her upper inner thigh. (Did I mention that she was only in 8th grade?) I was preparing myself to listen to some Industrial Goth music or something, judging by the name of the band. But I was pleased to hear this instead. Very pleased. I'm embarrassed to admit that she was also responsible for introducing me to the Smiths, Elvis Costello, and the Cure. (She swore that she would name her child Bob Smith insert-married-name-here, regardless of the baby's gender. She would also force me to stare at the poster of Robert over her bed, saying, "Gawd, don't you just want to die, he's so sexy!?" I would agree and then silently pray that God would wash his filthy face from my nightmares.)

We were different, but I kinda needed her. I was the Molly Ringwald to her Ally Sheedy. M.B.V.'s Loveless would always resonant as the soundtrack to discovery and teenage thrills. (Even if my mentor was still considered a "tween".)

***

Fast forward 3 or 4 years, and I meet Terry. I'll spare you the details of that journey of love (I'm learning that it's not as terribly interesting to those who were not doing the loving). But needless to say, some songs will sound sweeter because of some memories, while others spark less sweet memories. I remember listening to When You Sleep in my dorm room on my lunch break, hoping and praying that I'd run into him on the way to my Art History class. At 18, it was the sound excitement, adrenaline, and starry-eyed happiness.

***

Fast forward to yesterday, and I'm childless. The kids are in summer camp for the week, and I'm driving through the city with the windows rolled down and clutching an especially delicious iced coffee. I realize how ridiculous it is that I'm as giddy as I am, but I don't care. I go searching for the perfect musical accompaniment to my mood, and BEEDOW- Loveless. As sure as the kids are gluing fruity cereal O's to paper crowns, I find myself excited as track 3 is ending and I know track 4 (When You Sleep) is about to begin. At 28 (almost 29), it's the sound of freedom, entitlement, and solitude.

This is one of the few bands in my repertoire that has stood the test of time. I wonder if when I'm 80, sitting in my rocker, knitting Terry a terry-cloth diaper, I'll dust off my trusty My Bloody Valentine's Loveless cd for some throwback.