you can't let any more skin show
I love you, Pandora. I only have one easily accessible Throwing Muses record, and I want to bathe in these songs after finishing Rat Girl, Kristin Hersh's gorgeous memoir of the year her band got signed and she got pregnant.
Sophomore year of college had such a specific soundtrack. Pavement's Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain. Hole's Live Through This. Green Day - mostly Dookie, but the older records, too. Elastica. I fell in love with Jawbreaker that year. I still loved Juliana Hatfield, to my roommate's disgust.
And I loved Throwing Muses' University. Which never sounded weird to me. I've never heard weirdness in Hersh's unusual voice, or strangeness in her songs, except when they sound, to me, like they're meant to be strange. We listened to Red Heaven on tape for what felt like an entire summer. I'd crank the Fiat stereo and sing along, and it didn't matter if we were all wrong. It was the sound.
I know I already said this. It's kind of cyclical, finishing a book and needing to write about; I have to live in that space for my head for a little while, repeating, polishing, trimming away the fat.
The Throwing Muses Pandora station calls up a lot of PJ Harvey. I'm in a mood where "You Said Something" might lead me to tears. Not the bad kind. The same kind that threaten when I'm finally coming up out of the subway when I haven't been in New York in too long. The trains rattle the sidewalk and I watch the heels of the person in front of me and I shed that skin.
Sophomore year of college had such a specific soundtrack. Pavement's Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain. Hole's Live Through This. Green Day - mostly Dookie, but the older records, too. Elastica. I fell in love with Jawbreaker that year. I still loved Juliana Hatfield, to my roommate's disgust.
And I loved Throwing Muses' University. Which never sounded weird to me. I've never heard weirdness in Hersh's unusual voice, or strangeness in her songs, except when they sound, to me, like they're meant to be strange. We listened to Red Heaven on tape for what felt like an entire summer. I'd crank the Fiat stereo and sing along, and it didn't matter if we were all wrong. It was the sound.
I know I already said this. It's kind of cyclical, finishing a book and needing to write about; I have to live in that space for my head for a little while, repeating, polishing, trimming away the fat.
The Throwing Muses Pandora station calls up a lot of PJ Harvey. I'm in a mood where "You Said Something" might lead me to tears. Not the bad kind. The same kind that threaten when I'm finally coming up out of the subway when I haven't been in New York in too long. The trains rattle the sidewalk and I watch the heels of the person in front of me and I shed that skin.