Besides the political opposition from an anti-Rush Limbaugh fanatic,1 or the discussion of a favored liquor from a Bourbon aficionado,2 few things stir a passionate, story-driven and heavily debated conversation like the patchworks of music can.
The reason is because music thrives from a bold case of the “first syndrome,” where we remember our first album experience(s) vividly, no matter how awkward, forced or setup the occasion may have felt. The first of anything is memorable not because it’s our first, but because it affects how we experience all future derivatives of the same experience.
The “first syndrome” creates a lasting comparison that ceases to let go, acting like an inescapable cognitive dissonance between us and reality. I still find myself comparing fresh, musical listens to my first nervous conflict with the Gods of Rock.
(Signal dream sequence)
I stumbled into the closet, discovering a vintage pile of records that smelled of perfumed incense and stale, foreign plants. I was young, and noticing the fluorescent colors, I leaned down to pull out the large discs with the welcoming, enticing cover art. I chose the banana, jean zipper, glass triangle, juggling mime, stoned school boys, pissing friends and the man dressed in pink.
I came for the art, but stayed for the loud, gripping sounds. I carefully placed the large black discs on the record player and waited for the scratch and crackle as the needle adjusted to the groove. The music finally kicked in, and I jumped. For such an old piece of machinery, the symphony it produced was robust.
Ah, but when the music finally blared, it was worth the chore of getting the record synced with that ancient looking device. The banana told me it was Sunday Morning, the jean zipper screamed about Brown Sugar, the glass triangle caused Brain Damage, the juggling mime asked When’s The Music Over, the stoned school boys taught me about America, the pissing friends revealed what was Behind Blue Eyes and the guy dressed in pink showed me how to make Spanish Castle Magic.
(End dream sequence)
And just like that, I was sold. Chained, handcuffed and slaved to music for life. The Gods of Rock were my first. Every artistic medium from that day forward would be compared to the imperfections of my first experience with The Music. My favorite hang out growing up became the record store,3 and I preferred the used ones. The selection was more eclectic, and to my taste, so were the people.
When we discover new music, it invokes an emotional response sharper than a switch blade. It’s a sonic sensation of words and harmony that I’d argue is more powerful than other forms of art for the sheer reason that it disposes the chore of visualization on the listener. Music is the rawest form of media, and the counter-culture movement only accentuated that feeling of lust.
I don’t believe in much, but I do live by the Gods of Rock. Choose your icons wisely, because they might just change your life.4
And to that, we salute you.
- I once got in a heated debate because I proclaimed that Limbaugh was a brilliant strategist. My opponent didn’t realize I made the claim in a negative light, and that their response proved my question rhetorical. This article is a good example. [↩]
- See: alcoholic [↩]
- What’s the modern day used record store? Do the collaborative filters on the internet accomplish this already, or is recreating that experience an opportunity in disguise? [↩]
- I referenced this scene in the title of the post. [↩]