LB |
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Chapter 1 |
| I'm Irish. I'm Cherokee. I'm other nationalities as well. Euro-American, American Indian... OK, I'm a mutt. My
ancestors were wealthy, until it came to my parents' grandparents, drunkards who gambled and lost all their money
and their land -- an Alabama plantation on Mom's side, Cape Cod acreage on Dad's. (Thus far, my inheritance consists
of the family vegetable peeler and a large, broken TV set. It's OK -- the vegetable peeler is the best I've ever
used, and I don't watch TV.) On July 28, 1966, a terrible thing happened to my family. I was born, under the sign
of Leo, in the year of the Horse -- the Fire Horse, no less, which only comes around once every 60 years. During
the year preceding my birth, the abortion rate in the Far East rose spectacularly. No woman wanted to give birth
to a Fire Horse child, especially a girl, as it is thought to be catastrophically bad luck for the family. Lucky
for me, my parents had never heard of the Chinese Zodiac. So, with a genetic and astrological blueprint for disaster
(and a temper that would make Caligula look like a fairy princess), I was born. My parents weren't hip. They didn't take their two kids to the Monterey Pop Festival. I would've loved having really cool parents -- I've always envied kids whose parents brought them to gigs. We never got to see any bands, but we always had a radio on. One of my earliest memories is of my sister Theresa and me jumping on our beds and holding our noses (for the nasal effect) singing "Who'll Be The Next In Line" by the Kinks. My sister didn't exactly welcome the addition to the family when I arrived. She hated me and the teasing never ended. (She still does it! But at least now we laugh about it, she's one of the few people who can really get me going over nothing.) She despised me and tortured me every chance she got. Mom always thought Theresa was sweet, sitting there teaching me the alphabet song. What mom didn't know was that Theresa was teaching me the alphabet all right, but she changed the order of the letters each time. On purpose. One time it would be "ABCEZFQ, GPSTIOV..." and the next time "ADFRIOP, QUNBLUE..." And no one could figure out why I was so damn dumb that, after months of my sister lovingly tutoring me, I still didn't know my ABC's. I've always loved music. During the summer of 1974, when I was 8 years old and Theresa was 10, we would walk over to a radio station, KLIV, that was near our home. They always had stickers and a Top 40 list. Every week we'd each get a copy of the list and discuss it in great detail while walking back home. You know, really important stuff like "I like this song. I don't like that one." I remember one particular song, "I Shot the Sheriff," by Eric Clapton. I hated it. (I didn't know it was originally a reggae song. I didn't even know reggae existed. And I sure as heck didn't know that, when I'd hear the same song years later sung by Bob Marley, I'd love it.) On the way home I gave my important speech about how it was "too slow, with a boring guitar thing." When I was finished cheerfully picking the song apart, we were nearly home. Looking at the sidewalk passing under my brown waffle stompers (hi-tops, heavy-duty, and virtually indestructible unless you were me), I lamented, "I'll be glad when the 70's are over -- there's just nothing good happening in music." Nothing on Top 40 AM KLIV anyhow. (Of course, I had no idea the punk scene was just starting to simmer in the UK.) I remember feeling that the new decade would bring wonderful things -- I knew it would. What I didn't know was that I'd get a good peek at my gift in 1979. But until then, I'd just have to wait. And with songs like Paper Lace's "The Night Chicago Died", suffer. In 1979, I heard a song on the radio that amazed me. It was called "Brass In Pocket (I'm Special)" and it was by a band called the Pretenders. Wow. Hey, my 12-year-old brain thought, they sounded pretty decent. I saved my allowance and bought the record. I played that song half a million times before listening to the flip side, "Space Invader". What a gyp! There's no singing here! That chick can sing pretty good, too, whoever she is. Then I heard another song on the radio, "Stop Your Sobbing". It was those same people. Another week's allowance, another trip to the record store. This song was even better than the last one -- how'd they do that? So I played that one a million times before I flipped it to listen to the B side, "The Phone Call". Prepared for another rip-off, I was surprised. Ooooh! What's she saying? It was such a mystery - I had to know! "This is a mercy mission / From a faceless messenger who don't wanna see you hit / Here's the word, listen to it / Someone that you used to know is back in town / You better go..." And what is this "Winged demons are the hardest to outfox"? I'd never heard anything like this (and haven't since). The 45 said "Chrissie Hynde" wrote it. Chrissie Hynde? Was that who was singing? Or were there other girls in this group? I had never been so intrigued. I floated mindlessly into my 13th birthday. I was at the grocery store with my mom one day, looking through the December 27, 1979 issue of Rolling Stone. I spotted a Warner Brothers ad (probably an ad with a bunch of different bands), and there they were -- the three guys and that chick who were always heard pouring out of my speakers. So that's what they looked like! Under the picture, it said "The Pretenders/Produced by Chris Thomas/Available in January". I had to have that picture. I'd have stolen it if necessary. Maybe my mom bought it. Maybe I had some money (doubtful). I don't remember -- but I got it. I looked at that picture all the way home; then, when home, I carefully cut the picture out, taped the date to the back and stuck it on the mirror in my room. |
