Jack's Mannequin - Bruised

This boy was, no doubt, an embodiment of every gut-wrenching emotion I'd ever had. Everything was an extreme with him--loving, fighting, laughing, crying, yelling, whispering. There was never a balanced feeling, but always a struggle for the upper hand. He refused to meet me in the middle, seeing it as bending to my will. I refused to settle for anything less than I wanted, fully believing he was capable of satisfying me. We met when I was a few weeks shy of eighteen and still in high school, and I was done with him a year and half later.

I've got my things, I'm good to go
You met me at the terminal
Just one more plane ride and it's done

We stood like statues at the gate
Vacation's come and gone too late
There's so much sun where I'm from
I had to give it away, had to give you away

And we spent four days on an
Island at your family's old hotel
Sometimes perfection can be
It can be perfect hell, perfect...

We were three hours away from each other at best, several states away at worst. I traveled by bus for a long time to visit him, until I got my own car. On three seperate occassions do I remember walking away from either a bus station or an airport with a sense of finality, knowing our relationship would not and could not last. The first two times, we seemed to always pick it up again, try to make things work, try to glue everything back together. Our times together would be blissful as long as we could see each other. But as soon as distance wedged itself firmly between us, we would bicker and argue and fight. The last time I left him at an airport was the last time I talked to him.

Hours pass, and she still counts the minutes
That I am not there, I swear I didn't mean
For it to feel like this
Like every inch of me is bruised, bruised
And don't fly fast. Oh, pilot can you help me?
Can you make this last? This plane is all I got
So keep it steady, now
Cause every inch you see is bruised

I can't count the number of times he apologized, to make it seem as if this was the last thing he wanted to do to me. I always would wonder if he ached like I did when we walked away from each other. Did every bump on the bus or every landing hurt him to his core like my drives hurt me? Did he silently wish the plane ride would last longer, if only to give him time before reality would settle in? I knew he didn't. He didn't feel as much as I did. But I still hoped.

I lace my Chucks, I walk the aisle
I take my pills, the babies cry
All I hear is what's playing through
The in-flight radio
Now every word of every song
I ever heard that made me wanna stay
Is what's playing through
The in-flight radio, and I
And I am, finally waking up

Inevitibly, after a break up (all four we had), everything would remind me of him. I would go through the cycle of deleting playlists of "our" songs, toss out pictures, and absolutely refuse to watch Moulin Rouge! I scoffed at happy couples while tossing on low-cut tops to go out and flirt with South Texas boys who didn't matter past our drunken makeout sessions. I would attempt at boys that interested me, even trying a "real" relationship with a guy who lived fantastically close--but fantastically close was too suffocating. He would always reel me back in again. It wasn't until our last break-up did I finally delete his number from my phone and refuse to speak to him. It took several weeks til I stopped biting my lip from wanting to talk to him, even just to tell him some silly joke. I finally gave it up.

So read your books, but stay out late
Some nights, some nights, and don't think
That you can't stop by the bar
You haven't shown your face here since the bad news
Well I'm here till close, with fingers crossed
Each night cause your place isn't far

Did my heart still skip a beat when I saw him online? Admittedly. Did I still hope to catch a glimpse of him at holidays? Of course. Did I want him to break down and be the first to text or call or message or whatever? Yes. But I wasn't about to follow our normal cycle and be the first to offer a tearful apology and beg to be "just friends" again until we eventually wound up kissing. I told him I didn't want to talk to him anymore--and this time, for the first time, I meant it.

I was finally waking up.

Bruised, bruised.

Blondie - Maria

My mother has positively influenced me in only one part of my life: music. 

All through the the time she carried me, she sang and played music for me. I was three years old, wobbling in her high heels on the dresser drawers, pretending I was on a stage, singing a Patsy Cline song. Music was ALWAYS playing in our house, whether it was her New Wave favorites or my father's classic rock LPs. This can clearly show where my obsession with music began. Being home with my mom a lot while my dad worked, I heard New Wave more often than not. The Talking Heads, New Order, Elvis Costello, David Bowie, and Blondie.

Deborah Harrey, Blondie's lead singer, was clearly my mother's idol. Blondie rose to popularity just as my mother was hitting her teenage rebellion phase, when she ran away to work the bustling music scene that Austin, Texas had become. Debbie was blonde, sexy, and a vocal powerhouse--what every girl would die to be. She had an unapologetic style, and stood firmly on her own two feet in a kind of world that was predominantly male. Songs like"Heart Of Glass" and "Shayla" offered up a sweet, breathy mezzo-soprano; whereas "Atomic" and "Victor" gave you an earth-shattering alto/contralto range that made you wonder if this could possibly even be the same girl. 

When I was nine years old, Blondie released No Exit, which was hailed as their triumphant return to the music scene. "Maria" was the first track and the first single. My mother ripped the CD out of the case with eager hands and slipped it into the stereo system for the first time. I remember her jumping with glee as the opening electric guitar rift sounded through our house, and my eyes widened with surprise as she began dancing as soon as the drum kicked in. Somehow, she already knew all the words and sung along at the top of her lungs. I didn't know it, but I joined in when I could, and danced around with her. I was a tangle of arms and legs at nine, and was (and still am) almost a perfect carbon copy of her when she was my age. 

My mother's voice was always a little too flat, a little too out of control. She had the raw power and edge similar to singers like Janis Joplin and Alanis Morisette, and with a few voice lessons (or maybe just a better trained ear) she would've been absolutely fantastic. But there was something absolutely enchanting about the way she would toss her short blonde hair back and sing along to "Maria" with all of her might whenever it came on--the car, the house, wherever. She didn't care who listened, or who didn't, or if it sounded good or not. To this day, I envy that quality. As a musician, I'm always super conscious of how I sound or how it feels or who's listening. Even in the shower, I watch my pitch.

I recently re-discovered this song, like I do every year or so, and once I put it on, I have to fight the urge to jump around and dance like I did the first time. I have to sing along, even though the verses are sung so low it hurts. And only after listening to see if my roommates are home and checking that no one can possibly hear me and confirming with my boyfriend that he has not left his house yet so he can't walk in on me, I'll toss my unruly blonde waves back and sing along to "Maria" with all of my might.

Tracy Chapman - Fast Car

My family life has been jarring at its worst and cautious at its best. My mother had me at twenty-six...not a bad age to have a child. She wasn't the kind who got pregnant at sixteen by some boy she had to marry, as many of my relatives have. Does that mean she was any more ready for me? Not exactly. I was kind of a surprise to both her and my birth father--which cumulated in him leaving her and my grandparents half-raising me until my father came along. They were married when I was two, and I was promptly adopted shortly afterwards.

There was trouble in their marriage. My mother suffered from many personality disorders and mental imbalances, but my father remained patient and cared for her for ten years. She would wind up in the state hospital, and my grandparents would step in and sometimes have me for weeks on end while my father worked and spent hours in a waiting room that I remember smelling funny and being that horribly awkward shade of hospital green. But there still would be family dinners when she was home, chores had to be done, and we would go out and pretend to be fairly normal.

When I was twelve and in the seventh grade, I got it in my head that I would try to coax athleticism into my lanky body. I was already five-four in height, which at the time was pretty tall for a girl, and pretty strong and healthy. That's where it ended--I was all arms and legs at the time, clumsy, uncoordinated, and unmotivated. Still, I pushed myself through a grueling week of volleyball drills and running (something VERY new to me), learning to respond to the coaches that barked commands at me to bump, set, and spike. This was all to no avail--at the end of the week, I found out I'd made the intramural team. Hooray.

Disappointed and exhausted (and probably smelling pretty funny), I walked towards the waiting silver Buick in the parking lot. My dad greeted me with "Well, your mother's in jail." Needless to say, tact has never been his strong point. I blinked a couple times. "Oh, okay," I said matter-of-factly. Needless to say, unflappability has always been my strong point. I patiently listened as he went over the sordid details. "I guess we'll probably be getting a divorce," he said, ending with an uncertain tone. I shrugged it off, and we were quiet for a bit.

"I didn't make the volleyball team," I said, almost as an afterthought.

The fall semester of my seventh grade year was a bit odd. My father had placed a restraining order on my mother, so I was unable to speak to or see her for ninety days. I was handled with kid gloves at my middle school. I spoke to police officers, counselors, teachers, principals, psychiatrists, and social workers with calmness and clarity--no tears or screams that one might expect from a girl going through this and puberty at the same unfortunate time. But I was unfazed. I went to school, I played in the band, I went to volleyball practice, I spent the night at friends' houses, and did all the normal things girls did at that age. I laughed, I smiled like normal. That, I think, shocked everyone the most.

My dad and I spent hours in the car, driving to see lawyers and friends and go to ice cream shops and dinner in restaurants. Anything, I think, to keep him distracted. Driving was therapeutic for him, and cars rides have always been soothing to me. Even today, I'll take long drives to calm my nerves or to get a good cry out. Things were okay in the car .

I remember when we were driving, driving in your car

Speed so fast I felt like I was drunk

City lights lay out before us and your arm felt nice wrapped 'round my shoulder

And I had a feeling that I belonged

I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone

I heard that song countless times on car radios, whether it was with boys or friends or even when I begged my dad not to change the station, offering the same excuse that I give for so many songs. "Wait wait wait! I LOVE this song!" It fit everything, every situation of my life. If all else failed, I got in a car with someone.

My relationship with my dad got worse, ultimately reaching a point where I had to leave the house I had haphazardly grown up in. One night, I found myself riding in yet another fast car--I had made my decision. The last verse of the song now hit me all too hard for comfort, and now I'll sit quietly when the song comes on the radio. No longer do I beg for the station not to be changed. Now I feel like that soft contralto voice is almost too like my own.

I'd always hoped for better

Thought maybe together you and me'd find it

You got no plans, you ain't goin' nowhere

So take your fast car and keep on drivin'

You got a fast car

But is it fast enough you can fly away?

You gotta make a decision

Leave tonight or live and die this way.

Less Than Jake - All My Best Friends Are Metalheads

I was thirteen and a half at best, and starting to really figure out who I might possibly want to be. I had two best friends, and we were rarely apart. I was a bundle of energy and enthusiasm all the time, and still unsure of how to wear girly clothing or makeup or fix my hair. And, most importantly, I was head over heels in love with my first serious boyfriend.

He was sixteen or seventeen. I have no clue why my father didn't throw a fit at me dating a boy who was much, much older than me, but in retrospect, I'm glad he didn't. He was tall, with a flop of dark brown hair, glasses, and very light blue eyes. He had the charm of a puppy dog, and was just as geeky and socially awkward as I was. He lived almost four hours away, but came to visit family and friends often, and we were ALWAYS in contact. Either we were on the phone, or texting, or instant messaging til incredibly late at night. It was a wonderfully blissful time in my life.

He was the first to introduce me to ska music, giving me a mix CD that he had made. To this day, I consider that custom to be the most intimate exchange in a relationship. I had been playing trombone for a couple years now through my school's band program, but didn't really see it as anything special. All of a sudden, I heard my horn in a whole new light. I heard it mashed in with the guitars and drum sets that I was already accustomed to hearing in pop music, and I heard it soaring above them to capture the listener's focus. I was hooked.

Soon, I saved up my allowance and bought my own, brand-new copy of Less Than Jake's album Hello Rockview. As soon as that CD came in contact with my stereo, I played it constantly for weeks on end, until I bought their newest album, Anthem. The raucous music must've driven my father nuts, but I was enthralled with every upbeat and trombone solo.

I think it was the third track on the album, "All My Best Friends Are Metalheads" that caught me the fastest. I didn't care about the lyrics. They didn't make sense to me then, and still only vaguely string together now. The energy was what got me. I couldn't help but be absolutely ecstatic when it came on. At the song's climax came a trombone soli (which upon closer listening appears to also be backed by a bari sax) that drove me wild. It's nothing especially complex or show-boat-y, but it fit the song and the mood perfectly. I spent hours in a practice room over my high school career, trying to figure that solo part out. I still haven't.

Most people have a sappy song behind their very first boyfriend, but I have ska music--now a common love between me and my current boyfriend. Hello Rockview always will sound like the thrills of first love to me, and will always play at times when I don't know how to be anything but happy.

Start!

I need a new project to do, despite the wonderful lack of free time I have. I also need to not forget how to write.

I'm 20 years old, and a music education major at a school that isn't prestigious or large, which makes me like it that much more every time I show up for classes. I've spent the majority of my life with some sort of music in the background, and have always been able to set up a soundtrack to any situation. Some wish life were a musical, I'd prefer it to be a music video.

I listen to anything. Sometimes a song will wind up being significant not because of the musical structure, but more because of the situation it's being played in. So, trashy pop songs can matter in someone's life just as much as say, a symphonic poem. What defines one's iTunes library should not be the artistic merit of the performers or composers in it, but what memories they have with that song. I have a story or a reasoning for every song in my library - rarely are they in there just because I like them. That's not enough for me. They need a mood, a feeling. They need to be able to bring me back to that moment I first heard them.

So, here goes my attempt to relay all those emotions, memories, and stories.