What the hell is that?
I am in The Record Exchange in Bennington, Vermont, in the fall of 1991, and the squall of an electric guitar has hit me in the head. It sounds like someone has taken a power drill to the guitar strings and begun literally beating the instrument to death. And yet the squall is beautiful. I see the image of of something bright explode in my head and I feel like I am sinking into molasses. It is instantaneous transport to somewhere else.
It only lasts for five seconds before I realize I am surrounded by other shoppers dressed warmly in wool coats and scarves on this dreary, late fall day. We are crammed into a tiny space that is the only retail establishment in this Recession-slammed town that reminds you there are actually two colleges here. It's also the only connection I have at the moment to the music I used to find so easily back home.
I have moved here sight unseen. I only knew three things before I left Portland:
1. Vermont is bucolic.
2. Bennington College has given me a lot of financial aid.
3. I would be far, far away from Oregon.
That meant there were oh so many things I did not know, such as who the hell this band is I am hearing right now.
I amble up to the front counter and ask the guy behind the counter, "What is this?" He gives me a slight nod and hands me a jewel case with a shimmering image of a guitar bathed in what looks like a mixture of blood and strawberry Jell-O.
There is no break between power-drill-on-guitar and the subsequent muted jam of fuzziness mixed intricately with female vocals that seem unable to enunciate consonants. It is, I imagine, what it would be like if I had developed some rare disease in which musical ability combines with a slow deterioration of motor skills.
In other words, it is not Bennington, Vermont.
--
It isn't that I mind this place so much. In fact, I feel like I am back in Oregon--only now I am surrounded by people who are much more knowledgeable about obscure, literate, and artistic tangents than I thought was possible. I feel a bit like an idiot.
"Yeah, My Bloody Valentine. They're OK. I don't really care for a lot of the album," says Owen dismissively. He owns all the CDs I want. He's much more opinionated about music than I am. I only know what moves me. I feel it in my gut. I don't really care to know more. He can dissect the subtlest chord change and then look at you like you, too, should be able to hear it clearly.
I don't, most of the time.
Sometimes I try to argue with him, but it's like yelling at the wind. Mostly I try to change the subject. Stupidly, this time, I say, "I've never heard anything else like it."
He flashes a smile, but it's not an indulgent one. "Yeah, you seem like you'd like all that shoegazer stuff."
--
I try to choreograph a dance to "To Here Knows When." Alone in a dance studio at midnight with a borrowed CD player, I feel as disoriented as the song. This could work to my advantage, I think. Like every academic overachiever, I believe I can simply apply hard work to the task at hand and get the job done. But this is like getting hands on an eel. There's a shimmering rhythm here. It drones and undualtes, guitars washing over each other in a way that feels like the music is playing backwards. But it remains just out of my grasp.
About two hours in, I realize that my enthusiasm, the euphoria the music instills in me, even my gymnastics background--none of it can help me. I am floundering on the hard wood floors like a fish out of water, gasping, not a graceful conduit for the music. I don't fully understand the choreography I am trying to jot down on the notepad in the middle of this empty room. All I know is that it's the middle of the night, it's snowing outside, and in here I am getting nowhere.
--
The apotheosis of "Loveless" is its final song: "Soon." It gives me chills every time I hear it. Its misleading drum beat morphs it into a dance song that is broken every 30 seconds by a towering wave of noise: Guitars. Swooping, echoing voices that run in and out of one's ears. It is primal, celebratory, compulsive. I make my roommate crazy playing it. I make myself crazier by never being able to hear it loud enough.
There's a party tonight and I want the entire crowd to hear it. I want to see all of them dance, happy that it's near the end of the term. I want that revelatory catharsis that you can often only find when you're moving to the music.
It's long for a dance song, but the final 90 seconds of are a loop of drums and guitar riffs--the perfect ending for a drug- and alcohol-fueled evening. I've sheepishly made the mix tape, unsure if I will even be allowed to play it. But that's how it works. You make it, you bring it, maybe someone will be willing to put it on.
I've spent the entire Saturday perfecting the running order of songs so that it ends with "Soon." The rest of it is mostly shameless pop songs--nothing challenging, nothing that will alienate. In fact, it's probably the most upbeat thing I've ever created. And that night, after drinking more than I need to, I approach the guy with the tape, telling him, "Hey! If you can, would you play this?!" He looks at me like he'll consider it. To which I add, still yelling over the noise, "At least play the last song on Side B! It's about 7 minutes!"
I go back to the dance floor. There's the usual ("Sex Machine" by James Brown), the unexpected-even-to-me ("Join in the Chant" by Nitzer Ebb), the predictable but reliable (various Madonna), and then I hear the drum machine beginning of "Soon," squeaking out a surprised gasp to make my way back to the dance floor.
Forty-five seconds in, the beat is buried with the guitar lines and vocals and there's still a group of people on the floor bouncing, the wood springing under their feet.
And then the exodus starts.
Soon enough, only a handful of us remain. And despite the slight feeling of mortification, I am still swept up in the sound, sweaty, drink in hand in the air, spilling vodka on myself, cigarette in the other hand. I still have no idea what I'm doing here. But the bigger picture fades into five minutes of being blissed out. As I'll tell Owen later, this is hardly shoe gazing.
"Self-Discography" is a series of essays on seminal albums and songs re-reviewed, recalled, and reimagined via the lens of my memory. It is said that smell is the sense most closely linked with memory. For me, it is sound.
