Misery Soundtrack
It’s probably pretty obvious to you, dear readers, that this has been both the best and worst year of my life. Sure, my former husband cheated on me with a clueless SUV-driving drama queen ferret, but then there is also the whole thing where I’m figuring out who I am, and who I am doesn’t want a damn husband. So there’s a semi-balance, which is really all I’m after anyway.
Last night I ran into ex-fling and he asked me how I’m doing. “Bad,” I said. There just really wasn’t any other appropriate response at that moment. He looked stricken as his narcissism struggled for a way to make the response about him. “Well, I hope you feel better soon,” he said lamely after I asked him how he was and he gave me the usual tepid response in order to prove how together (read: lifeless) he is. “I don’t (hope I feel better),” I said, and walked away. Feel better? I don’t have strep, I’m having a breakdown. I don’t want to feel better; I want to feel how I feel. Actually, the latest breakdown seems to be over. I think I’ve once again gained back the 3 pounds I’ve lost and gained repeatedly over the last nine months, and slept more than 3 hours last night without drugs. And I can usually refrain from crying at work. I thought I was done with all of this kind of stuff last fall, but I was wrong. It’s different now, though. Occasionally there is also some joy.
As with all of my major life events (though none has been as major as this, to date), there has been a soundtrack. Sometimes the soundtrack is only in my mind (like the repetition of the phrase “asshole” or “breathe”) but quite often it emanating very loudly from my car speakers or from my 10-year-old boombox as I wash the dishes. Just as Morrissey’s Your Arsenal immediately transports me to the dorm room where my first boyfriend and I made out on cloudy afternoons, or early 90’s emo takes me back to my friends’ crusty sofa upon which I spun drunkenly after too many cans of Olympia beer, so too (I predict) will the following musical selections conjure up this year of sadness and weirdness and aloneness. Someday in like 10 years I’ll be trying to get my kid to stop screaming, or, you know, on my book tour and I’ll hear Gram Parson’s “Blue Eyes,” and I’ll have to stop and put my head in my hands and remember this and how important and lonely and lovely it was.
This is a weird list. My unconscious probably understands it better than my ego. In no particular order:
X: Beyond and Back: The X Anthology. If you like X at all, I highly recommend this album. It has all of the good songs, as well as live songs and then a whole disc of newer stuff I had never heard. A lot of the newer songs are a response to the 80’s. The best part is that when you listen to the first disc, you can picture Exene and John Doe and all of their punk friends partying in some beach apartment, and when you listen to the second disc, you can hear how sad they are about everything. And really there’s nothing better than John Doe singing “Blue shock!” in the song “Blue Spark.” I might consider marrying again, should he suddenly appear and want to marry me. Even though he’s like 50. Because he’s like 50. Songs listened to over and over: “Blue Spark,” “Motel Room In My Bed,” “The World’s a Mess It’s In My Kiss.”
Gram Parsons: Sacred Hearts and Fallen Angels: The Gram Parsons Anthology. Oh Gram. I think if you’ve read any of this thing, particularly my first post, you understand more or less about how I feel about him. I don’t know if I even understand why I’m so obsessed with him, but I think it has a great deal to do with the song “Return of the Grievous Angel.”
The Smiths: Meat is Murder. Though this may not stick out as applicable to this time period, because I’ve always listened to this in the car.
The Buzzcocks: Singles Going Steady. To be played at high volume in one’s hatchback after a particularly shitty day in January. Or May. In May, it can counter the stupid happiness and beauty that one can see from outside one’s bird-shit covered car windows.
Weezer: Blue Album. “Say It Ain’t So” is one of the best songs ever for your mean red days.
The Killers: Hot Fuss. Along with all of the Gucci-pencil-bag-bearing-14-year-olds in my sister’s 8th grade homeroom, I also find that this album totally rocks. And I am so embarrassed about it. But I’m going to give my little defense spiel and then pretend we never had this conversation. So here’s how I see the Killers: first of all they took their name from a New Order video and how can that be wrong? And like New Order, the synthesized element to their songs rocks. Like New Order, they write really good pop songs with really lame lyrics. (I’m sorry, but you did not have “a fight in the promenade in the rain,” because you’re not from Manchester, you’re from like Pella Iowa. But I think it’s so cute that they want to be English. And actually the singer is not from Iowa but one of the bandmates is—I actually know a lot more about their biographies than I’m letting on because I’m embarrassed about how much time I spend learning these things when I can’t remember whether or not I fed my dog this morning.) I’m fine with lame lyrics. The vocals are kind of Robert Smith-like. Though I do recognize that the band is at best a New Wave tribute band and at worst a crappy knock-off by kids who were in diapers during the first Smiths tour, it’s like I said…cute.
Emmylou Harris: Elite Hotel. Oh my god, I listened to this so much in November. Especially the song “One of These Days.”
The Fall: A Sides. An old standby for anger and sadness. Especially “Mr. Pharmacist.”
This mix tape my friend from college made me about five years ago. It’s all garage music.
Pulp: We Love Life. This is probably the best Pulp album (and if I had to choose a favorite band, which god hope I never do, I might choose them). There are beautiful songs and trademark hilarious lyrics (and not just pervert jokes). For example: comparing a new not-as-good relationship to “a later Tom and Jerry when the two of them could talk.” This was the first import I bought since about 1993 (when they’d come out with a new Morrissey import single about every two weeks).
This 70s country mix my brother-in-law made me: David Allen Coe, Dolly, Tammy, George, Waylon, and Willie. Sad (in a good way).
The Runaways: The Best of Runaways. I think you all understand, or should understand, what Joan Jett means to me.
Green Day: Dookie. I really don’t know why. I don’t have anything to say about this except I’m sorry.
Joy Divison: Heart and Soul. You can’t get divorced without it.
Last night I ran into ex-fling and he asked me how I’m doing. “Bad,” I said. There just really wasn’t any other appropriate response at that moment. He looked stricken as his narcissism struggled for a way to make the response about him. “Well, I hope you feel better soon,” he said lamely after I asked him how he was and he gave me the usual tepid response in order to prove how together (read: lifeless) he is. “I don’t (hope I feel better),” I said, and walked away. Feel better? I don’t have strep, I’m having a breakdown. I don’t want to feel better; I want to feel how I feel. Actually, the latest breakdown seems to be over. I think I’ve once again gained back the 3 pounds I’ve lost and gained repeatedly over the last nine months, and slept more than 3 hours last night without drugs. And I can usually refrain from crying at work. I thought I was done with all of this kind of stuff last fall, but I was wrong. It’s different now, though. Occasionally there is also some joy.
As with all of my major life events (though none has been as major as this, to date), there has been a soundtrack. Sometimes the soundtrack is only in my mind (like the repetition of the phrase “asshole” or “breathe”) but quite often it emanating very loudly from my car speakers or from my 10-year-old boombox as I wash the dishes. Just as Morrissey’s Your Arsenal immediately transports me to the dorm room where my first boyfriend and I made out on cloudy afternoons, or early 90’s emo takes me back to my friends’ crusty sofa upon which I spun drunkenly after too many cans of Olympia beer, so too (I predict) will the following musical selections conjure up this year of sadness and weirdness and aloneness. Someday in like 10 years I’ll be trying to get my kid to stop screaming, or, you know, on my book tour and I’ll hear Gram Parson’s “Blue Eyes,” and I’ll have to stop and put my head in my hands and remember this and how important and lonely and lovely it was.
This is a weird list. My unconscious probably understands it better than my ego. In no particular order:
X: Beyond and Back: The X Anthology. If you like X at all, I highly recommend this album. It has all of the good songs, as well as live songs and then a whole disc of newer stuff I had never heard. A lot of the newer songs are a response to the 80’s. The best part is that when you listen to the first disc, you can picture Exene and John Doe and all of their punk friends partying in some beach apartment, and when you listen to the second disc, you can hear how sad they are about everything. And really there’s nothing better than John Doe singing “Blue shock!” in the song “Blue Spark.” I might consider marrying again, should he suddenly appear and want to marry me. Even though he’s like 50. Because he’s like 50. Songs listened to over and over: “Blue Spark,” “Motel Room In My Bed,” “The World’s a Mess It’s In My Kiss.”
Gram Parsons: Sacred Hearts and Fallen Angels: The Gram Parsons Anthology. Oh Gram. I think if you’ve read any of this thing, particularly my first post, you understand more or less about how I feel about him. I don’t know if I even understand why I’m so obsessed with him, but I think it has a great deal to do with the song “Return of the Grievous Angel.”
The Smiths: Meat is Murder. Though this may not stick out as applicable to this time period, because I’ve always listened to this in the car.
The Buzzcocks: Singles Going Steady. To be played at high volume in one’s hatchback after a particularly shitty day in January. Or May. In May, it can counter the stupid happiness and beauty that one can see from outside one’s bird-shit covered car windows.
Weezer: Blue Album. “Say It Ain’t So” is one of the best songs ever for your mean red days.
The Killers: Hot Fuss. Along with all of the Gucci-pencil-bag-bearing-14-year-olds in my sister’s 8th grade homeroom, I also find that this album totally rocks. And I am so embarrassed about it. But I’m going to give my little defense spiel and then pretend we never had this conversation. So here’s how I see the Killers: first of all they took their name from a New Order video and how can that be wrong? And like New Order, the synthesized element to their songs rocks. Like New Order, they write really good pop songs with really lame lyrics. (I’m sorry, but you did not have “a fight in the promenade in the rain,” because you’re not from Manchester, you’re from like Pella Iowa. But I think it’s so cute that they want to be English. And actually the singer is not from Iowa but one of the bandmates is—I actually know a lot more about their biographies than I’m letting on because I’m embarrassed about how much time I spend learning these things when I can’t remember whether or not I fed my dog this morning.) I’m fine with lame lyrics. The vocals are kind of Robert Smith-like. Though I do recognize that the band is at best a New Wave tribute band and at worst a crappy knock-off by kids who were in diapers during the first Smiths tour, it’s like I said…cute.
Emmylou Harris: Elite Hotel. Oh my god, I listened to this so much in November. Especially the song “One of These Days.”
The Fall: A Sides. An old standby for anger and sadness. Especially “Mr. Pharmacist.”
This mix tape my friend from college made me about five years ago. It’s all garage music.
Pulp: We Love Life. This is probably the best Pulp album (and if I had to choose a favorite band, which god hope I never do, I might choose them). There are beautiful songs and trademark hilarious lyrics (and not just pervert jokes). For example: comparing a new not-as-good relationship to “a later Tom and Jerry when the two of them could talk.” This was the first import I bought since about 1993 (when they’d come out with a new Morrissey import single about every two weeks).
This 70s country mix my brother-in-law made me: David Allen Coe, Dolly, Tammy, George, Waylon, and Willie. Sad (in a good way).
The Runaways: The Best of Runaways. I think you all understand, or should understand, what Joan Jett means to me.
Green Day: Dookie. I really don’t know why. I don’t have anything to say about this except I’m sorry.
Joy Divison: Heart and Soul. You can’t get divorced without it.
posted by Julia Story at 6:52 AM
2 Comments:
Oh, lady. You're such a brilliant, charming, gorgeous person. Even when you're experiencing the worst/best of emotional whuppings and personal revisionings. In the eternal words of the great Blondie, whose stark blunt wisdom is what I draw from in verbose moments like these, please: Call me.
I will.
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