I have a weird relationship with the Smashing Pumpkins. I can barely stand some of their (qualitatively) best work, but some of their least palatable I find endlessly fascinating. They’re a band that definitely defined a fairly significant chunk of my musical awakening, both for their music in and of itself and, more tragically, for the fact that they were the girl to whom I sang Depeche Mode’s favorite band.
The fact that I use that word, “tragically”, and mean it makes me probably a very pathetic individual. If not pathetic, then at least sad. But that’s not where we are.
“1979”. A song that I don’t think I am capable of listening to unless I’m in a good mood.
I am naturally a very emotional person. I tend to feel things powerfully, take things personally, and react in kind.
This is, for my purposes, a negative personal quality.
When I was about twelve or so, I decided that I wanted to listen to my own music. I immediately eschewed the tastes of my parents; if they liked it, I didn’t. I wanted something of my own.
What can I say, I was on the cusp of being a teenager.
This one is a little different, a little special. There’s no YouTube video for this song, because it’s never been released. Not never been released as a single, either. I mean that it’s never been released for public consumption, beyond being excerpted briefly on a TV show and maybe existing on a streaming site somewhere or other for a short while.
I first found Schatzi back when people used P2P networks to find music. I was looking for music to make a mixtape featuring the names of my friends. I already had my own song; pretty much everyone I’ve ever met has sung it to me at one point or another.
Thanks, Rick Springfield. You fucking jerk.
I resisted the pull for as long as I reasonably could. I’d heard the name, in whispers and shouts, but dismissed her as another pop tartlet whose 15 minutes of fame would be up shortly.
Only she kept getting more famous. Creeping further into my consciousness. Gaining purchase in my mind.
It turns out Lady Gaga might be a genius.
When I was growing up, the Eagles were always on the radio. Their steady stream of hits made this a pretty solid programming decision, I suppose. I heard just as much Aerosmith. Hit singles get airplay, especially on classic radio station formats, where it’s less about how it actually was than about how it’s remembered.
So, a steady diet of “Desperado” and “Hotel California” and “Life in the Fast Lane”. I didn’t mind. I’d even go so far as to say I enjoyed the Eagles.
That changed.
This idea is difficult for me, possibly the most difficult post of this entire project.
Some people just have a je ne sais quoi about them, something that makes it clear they enjoy perfect little Swedish pop rock songs. Apparently, I don’t have that something.
I have to preface this: I don’t believe that anything should really be a guilty pleasure; I don’t believe we should feel guilt over pleasure.
I don’t know. Maybe it would make more sense if I were Catholic?
Anyway.
Once upon a time, there was a boy. This boy had friends, and they were driving around trying to find something to do on some random night.