Grammy. (The Award, Not the Relative.)

Music makes me breathe.

Good music, bad music, popular music, unpopular music, exterior music, interior music, the soundtrack-to-my-memory music... it's all there, all the time. It's all there, in my head - painting a kind of picture for me. Be it good or bad... certain chords, certain voices, they make me remember the past. They make me not forget the present. They make me believe in a future.

I think in music. It's weird.

Oh, and for the record, I am currently watching The Grammy's, and can I just say... Quentin Tarantino looks like an overly-botoxed sixty-something-year-old woman, and his stylist should have told him not to wear that polka dot shirt. Are you kidding me, QT? Yikes.

Anyway.

Music.

I don't discriminate.

I especially don't discriminate against live music.

(Dear Grammy's, I don't appreciate the one-minute censorship because of one word that probably lasted 3 seconds. Thanks.)

There's something about watching people perform, create, establish, inspire, react, express - all before they've had time to be critiqued, reigned in, contacted. Just watch the faces of the people who watch live music, the faces of the people who perform live music; it's like nothing else. It's like watching an idea spark, slumber, glow and ignite. It's passion, in sight.

The first band I ever saw live: The Wallflowers. Yep. I know. The Wallflowers. "One Headlight" Wallflowers. Ha. It was at Lupo's, and it was amazing. Because it was the first. The first time I saw people play music I had previously associated with radio speakers. The first time. I stood in the center of the floor, with the band in sight. I watched it all happen, and I was hooked.

Second band I ever saw live: The Cardigans. Also at Lupo's. "Kiss Me" was really big at the time. It was a great show. It cost me like, twelve dollars, and I had the time of my life.

Those were the days...

The rest of my live music education is a blur. One band after the other... the closer, the better; the louder, the better; the more, the merrier. Records, tapes, bands, road trips, t-shirts, photographs... Yes. Yes. Yes.

I think part of the reason I became so obsessed with indie/emo/punk rock when I was younger - mere months after the two first shows - was because there were shows I could see without purchasing a ticket in advance, without having a plan, without even considering the possibility of a "sell out." They existed. And the music was fun. And the community felt like family. They were family.

I was inspired by local music because it was accessible, enjoyable, intriguing, and - above all - it gave me that sped-up heartbeat. It gave me that warmth in my palms; that skip in my step. It gave me happy. It gave me community. It gave me a heartbeat. It gave me a story to tell.

And now, more than ever before, I can feel myself longing for that; that community, that life, that inspiration.

But I don't think it's possible anymore. I feel like the girl who's seen it all, but seen nothing; the girl who's been everywhere, but who has been nowhere.

I want my music. I want to embrace it, cradle it, hold it, and think of nothing else.

Except maybe you.

The Reeling

Recently, I found myself at a Passion Pit show in Boston at the House of Blues. My friends and I managed to find a relatively close and uncrowded spot to the left of the stage, where we could see pretty clearly, sing loudly, and dance around like the idiots that we are. It was an awesome show.

What surprised me most was that a large part of the Passion Pit fan base was made up of - let me just put on my white wig, prepare yourself for judgment - jockish, meathead, fist-pumping, Ed Hardy wearing douches. Yeah. I said it.

And, anther large part of their fan base was made up of the kind of chicks one would assume jockish, meathead, fist-pumping, Ed Hardy wearing douches would be into.

Then there was the other third of the crowd that was made up of try-hard hipsters, with skinny jeans that undoubtedly cut off some circulation to someplace relatively vital (boys, I'm talkin' about you here... is that really comfortable?!) and lots and lots of hair and flannel.

This portion of the crowd I had anticipated. I did not anticipate the other two-thirds: The bros and hos.

So, from our location to the upper left-hand side of the stage, and up on a higher level than the floor itself, I could see a lot of the crowd. It was kind of surreal... watching a wave of people moving, singing, chanting... fist pumping.

Part of what I love about seeing a show is screaming every word to a song and feeling the energy of every single person singing that exact same song with the exact same force behind their voice. The force of believing, of near-worship, of adoration.

At one point during the show, during the song "The Reeling," I looked out over the crowd, moving, throbbing like a heart beat, and realized that every single person - Ed Hardy wearing douches, half-clothed hotties trying to make out with the Ed Hardy wearing douches, and skinny jeaned, flannel-clad androgynous hipsters - was singing along to the words with an emphasis that awed me. The sound of the crowd was louder than during any other song. Mouths moved in unison, hands waved, grabbed, pumped - reaching, begging for the stage. Together, we sang:

Look at me oh look at me is this the way I'll always be
Oh no, oh no
Now I pray that somebody will quickly come and kidnap me
Oh no, oh no
Everyday I lie awake and pray to god today's the day
Oh no, oh no Here I am oh here I am oh when will someone understand?
Oh no, oh no

In that moment, it was more than just singing along to a song; it was a lesson. We all feel misunderstood. All of us. Even the people who wear their confidence on their sleeves, literally. I'm not judging them on their attire by accident; they're asking me to.

But, at that moment, at that show, it became a little more clear to me that really it's just the clothes. We're all the same - confused, unsure, and trying to find our identities through whatever form of self-expression we can muster - music, clothes, and general camaraderie with people who understand exactly that.

Mix Me Another One and Say Goodbye

Music is foreplay.

At least, that's what my education as a mix tape maker/receiver tells me. Haven't you ever seen High Fidelity? (If not, do.) It's all about the tape. It's all about how you get someone else to melody, poeticize, lyricize your way into the receiver's listening heart. I mean, don't get me wrong, some mix tapes are purely platonic exemplifications of whatever awesome music you feel like sharing with another person who may also appreciate said music. But other mix tapes... other mix tapes are foreplay.

Those mix tapes are collections of jumbled up musical emotions, a playlist of well-chosen, well-spoken words set to well-timed, well-written music; they are wrought with emotion that the maker feels, has felt, or intends to feel with, for or about the person who is on the receiving end of the tape.

Mix tapes of that variety are foreplay.

I recently excommunicated someone very important from my life. I didn't see it coming, which made the decision simultaneously difficult and necessary. See, I have a general rule about people who I make time for in my life - be that emotional time, physical time, mental time, whatever - and that rule is: Don't hurt me.

This person broke the rule. So. I had to be ruthless. I had to eliminate the chance that this person would hurt me again in the future. And, it's not easy. It wasn't easy. It's not easy to extract someone you love from other things you love and know to be normal, comfortable, hopeful, and enjoyable. It's not easy to pretend like someone does not exist purely for one's own self-preservation. It's especially hard for me, because I tend to put others before myself. And, he needs a friend. I know that. I just can't be that friend to him anymore.

Christmas occurred prior to this friend departure, and he gifted me a very thoughtful, very generous gift: An iTouch. He also most graciously loaded a total of 112 albums onto the iTouch that he thought I would like. Some were familiar, and carried a lot of emotional weight between us. American Football's self-titled album, Jimmy Eat World's "Clarity," and The Promise Ring's "30 Degrees Everywhere," to name a few. Others, however, I hadn't ever heard.

It was an 8GB mix tape.

But, it turns out, it wasn't foreplay. It was an epilogue.

Recently, after a few weeks of listening to the music that I know I love on the now-called "Epilogue Mix," I began to explore the other, unfamiliar artists that he had uploaded.

Des Ark was the first one. (I'm moving in alphabetical order, see.)

Since the first chord, since the first twang of her voice, since the first second, I have been utterly obsessed. One song, in particular, on one album, in particular, has been on repeat so many times that if it were, in fact, a tape, this part would be worn through, sounding especially scratchy and well-loved.

At this moment, with these feelings about this one person, who took up ten years of my loving life, and who loves someone else now, I can honestly say that if there could only be one song on my mix tape, this might be it.

Lord Of The Ring

I never met a chase that I could not catch
Never fallen in love & not been bored with it.
I never asked a lover for their help
You learn better when you're always
Picking lovers who can't help themselves.

& I don't wanna try so hard anymore,
I don't want a fucking lover who makes me feel like a failure.
It ain't about the saints that we shoulda been
What is done is done, I'm heartbroken,
& I'm dealing with it.

Oh it feels good to be used when you're using.
Oh it feels good to be used when you're using.
Oh it feels good to be used when you're using.

It's a given that you love her
But what would you think
If you fucked her & she cried
"Your love is poisoning me"
Which is exactly what i meant when i said it
Say, the only way I know to say I Love You anymore,
Is to let you go.

So. There you have it.

The epilogue. Who knew it'd be sweeter than the decade it's meant to summarize? Not me.

PS I tried to find the track online so you could hear it, but I can't. Take my word for it, eh? It's fucking amazing. Acoustic. Recorded live.

Once In A Lifetime

Approximately fifteen years ago, after my parent's divorce, my dad lived in an apartment in Cambridge; it had a television, but no cable, so my sister and I typically chose to watch videos from the collection that my dad and his girlfriend had accumulated over the years. Amidst the collection was the Talking Heads "Stop Making Sense" video - the one in which David Byrne prances around in an enormous suit.

I loved it. Loved.

And, before the words even meant anything to me, there I was, chanting along with the illustrious, talented Mr. Byrne:

You may ask yourself: well... how did I get here?

Letting the days go by/let the water hold me down
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
Into the blue again/after the money's gone
Once in a lifetime/water flowing underground

You may ask yourself
How do I work this?
You may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
You may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
You may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!

...

Same as it ever was... Same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was... Same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was... Same as it ever was...
Same as it ever was... Same as it ever was...

And, now, I do wonder often, "How did I get here?"

Other times, as I go through the motions of each day with the routine function of a screen door, I hear a little voice in the back of my head say, "Same as it ever was.."

Not much has changed, huh? I was once a twelve year old girl, legs crossed, sitting on the floor in front of a television cart, shoulders bouncing, singing along to "Once In A Lifetime." And, though I couldn't have known then what I know now - that things change when one considers the beauty of aging, progressing, making mistakes and learning from them - I didn't even question what the words meant. Not once. Not even once in the past fifteen years since Talking Heads became part of my listening rotation.

How did I get here?

Tonight, I'm wondering about a certain "here." Tonight, "here" is here: I'm in my bedroom, eating a mini box of Russell Stover's Valentine's Day chocolates, which I purchased for myself while buying carpet cleaner, crackers, and dog food at Target, and I'm watching my favorite quarter-life-crisis movie, Reality Bites.

Right now, it's reached my least favorite part of the movie - the part where Winona Ryder and Ben Stiller share a Big Gulp and sit on the back end of his convertible after their date.

I hate this part of the movie for two reasons.

First, Peter fucking Frampton is playing on the car stereo. "Oh baby I love your way..." (wretch) I hate Peter Frampton.

Secondly, the conversation between the two characters is painful. And it pisses me off because I think that's... forgive the overt parallelism... reality.

I'm sure I've sounded exactly that way before. You know... the way you sound you make when you're laughing way too hard at a joke that's not really that funny, just because it's the one way you can let go of that nervous ball of energy that's been building up in your chest the whole time you've been talking to the person you want to make out with. And when you laugh, you reach your hand out, touching the other person briefly to emphasize just how funny you think they are, and just how badly you want to touch them.

Or is that just me?

Anyway. It's nothing you want to see on screen. But, that could be what this movie is all about, and it might be why I love it. Because in this movie, people lose their jobs, people have jobs they hate and friends they love, people need, hurt, fight and fall in love. And they don't fall in love with the people who are "right," they fall in love with the people who might be wrong, but feel right... the people who might not have the perfect job, money in the bank, or any general success.

And for some reason, that's inspiring to me.

Someday, it won't be the same as it ever was. And, someday, I will be able to articulate how it was that I got somewhere.

And someday, someone else will buy the Valentine's Day chocolates.