And You Wanted To Dance So I Asked You To Dance
I'm going to put a slightly different spin on the usual Soundtrack "call out". No details about the theme (for February's show) or what it will be called. No, instead I hope you'll just read this:
I can count the number of times in my life where I felt truly, truly confident -- 100 percent, can't-miss, akin to Freddy Mercury on stage kind of confident -- on my fingers and toes. Such moments in my history, and probably anybody's history, are to our memory what a glowing report card was to the refrigerator door. We pin them up, we beam for a moment, our heads are high, we let ourselves be cocky just long enough to where we don't become too obnoxious, and within that framework we shine and recognize that living is everything and if we're not doing that we're wasting our time.
And so it was: I was 16, my stone washed jeans were pegged, I really couldn't dance, the music was blaring, I was dancing anyway, and there was not even the narrowest edge of a shadow of a doubt anywhere in my head. I knew she liked me. I had figured it out all of 10 seconds before that and once I knew -- just so totally fucking knew! -- I began to realize that it was a night where virtually anything could happen. The B-Crowd Kid who had walked through that gym door just 30 minutes earlier could leave as part of a "them". She and I could be a Monday morning story; the same kind I'd hear from two lockers down, then move two locker rows over, and spread to the next blabbermouth. I could be the "Him" in one of those tales.
There I danced, with my feet straddling what would normally be the spot at the top of the key -- a place my 5 foot, ten inch, average self would never sink one. Even still, as I looked at her and saw the way she looked at me I knew that if God or even the Devil put a ball in my hands I could have caught nothing but net, be it from the key or the half court. For once I had it and when somebody has that knowledge it makes the impossible possible or, at the very least, it makes one totally non self-conscious about singing along to the "I've got me a Chrysler as big as a whale and it's about to set sail!" line from that B-52's song. There was not a drug being sold out in the parking lot that could have taken me higher.
A laugh. A smile. A look. An unspoken agreement that our dance cards were full now and my name was checked into every box and vice versa. It felt extremely close to perfect. Maybe it even was. Maybe it was even complete. But something felt utterly incomplete, like the script of my own version of a John Hughes movie was missing a page or, more accurately, a scene. There wasn't a memorable line of dialog lost in the shuffle because, after all, the music was way too loud and the conversation probably wasn't going to take us anywhere we didn't already want to go. No... what was missing was the scene described in parentheses as [Slow Song TBD plays, the boy and the girl embrace; they kiss just as the guitar solo begins. Fade Out.]
I didn't need a director to remedy the situation, just a quick bee line to the DJ table and one simple request that was more of a demand then a question: "Play a slow song."
"Which slow song do you want?"
And there, in that moment, comes what might appear to be our imperfection within this realm of teenage confidence but is really just a quirk under the cray paper decorations. I wanted a slow song and had not thought at all about which one I wanted. There I stood, with a DJ's wide eyes waiting on me, and my feeble mind telegraphed the answer to my mouth, demonstrating within seconds that my synapses were wired by 1-800-Dial-MTV.
"Play 'Don't Close Your Eyes' by Kix," I said.
"You got it, ace," he said.
Ace! Even the DJ knew I had it!
One song faded out, the next song faded up, and I was reunited with the girl before the piano intro was over and Steve White -- the erstwhile singer of these Baltimore rockers -- could belt out the opening lines of this power ballad about love and longing and... wait...
'Did he just make a reference to suicide?!'
There then was the imperfection...er... the quirk in all of this. Me, in the temporary role of 'Our Hero', the owner of countless hair metal and hard rock albums and a word-for-word, Bic lighter saluting appreciator of all things power ballad, could have chosen any song of that ilk from the era and, in the heat of the moment, went with one that had nothing to do with love or even the ever-present genre theme of missing one's lover while on the road, but instead was all about trying to convince someone not to close their eyes, sing their last lullaby or, in short, remove their self from this realm.
Great...
This is the usual moment in the story, or maybe just every story of my life on night's when I wasn't confident, that the girl realizes the boy she is dancing with is Ratt, not Bon Jovi, and goes looking for the proverbial next guy who will have better hair, a better song chorus, or cooler holes in his stone wash.
And so when the power ballad ended -- the wrong power ballad -- I'm fully aware that my window into the young life I want is closing and that if I have in fact fallen down I'd just as soon get it over with, return to my prior role as a wallflower, leave the dance early with my friends, recover during the car ride with some Bang Tango, and go to bed thinking about what a dumb ass I am.
I reached down to hold her hand, mentally trying to pump every last bit of my earlier bravado into my finger tips, and anticipating that she wasn't go to take it -- all too aware that such a display can, in the short term, send other suitors away and, in the long term, make her the "She" in the new week's morning report.
But she grabbed my hand, grabbed it tight, and as we walked to the bleachers -- away from the amps where burgeoning couples could actually talk -- she said, "I like that song. Who sings it?"
The temptation to tell her how awesome Kix and their new album is is strong but I ward it off. The confidence in me returns and it kills the boy inside who, if left to his own devices, would quote direct passages from Metal Edge magazine. It turns out he's easy to silence because even with the swagger wrapped in a night that he now knows for certain will include kissing he has no idea who he really is.
In other words, he's like every other boy in the gym, waiting for the slow song and hoping he asked for the right one.
Okay... if I've done my job right that story should spark something. An album. A song. A memory. A dance you attended. A bunch of songs. A story you can tell me (via comment or even your own entry?). Don't overthink it. Just start throwing me any song or thought that pops in your head. As many as you'd like.
I'll give you the rest of the details another time.
Gracias and good night.
J
****************
If you haven't checked out the January edition of Soundtrack and especially if you're new to the party (aka my journal) you can download it here: http://www.sendspace.com/file/4cdilv
Thanks.
I can count the number of times in my life where I felt truly, truly confident -- 100 percent, can't-miss, akin to Freddy Mercury on stage kind of confident -- on my fingers and toes. Such moments in my history, and probably anybody's history, are to our memory what a glowing report card was to the refrigerator door. We pin them up, we beam for a moment, our heads are high, we let ourselves be cocky just long enough to where we don't become too obnoxious, and within that framework we shine and recognize that living is everything and if we're not doing that we're wasting our time.
And so it was: I was 16, my stone washed jeans were pegged, I really couldn't dance, the music was blaring, I was dancing anyway, and there was not even the narrowest edge of a shadow of a doubt anywhere in my head. I knew she liked me. I had figured it out all of 10 seconds before that and once I knew -- just so totally fucking knew! -- I began to realize that it was a night where virtually anything could happen. The B-Crowd Kid who had walked through that gym door just 30 minutes earlier could leave as part of a "them". She and I could be a Monday morning story; the same kind I'd hear from two lockers down, then move two locker rows over, and spread to the next blabbermouth. I could be the "Him" in one of those tales.
There I danced, with my feet straddling what would normally be the spot at the top of the key -- a place my 5 foot, ten inch, average self would never sink one. Even still, as I looked at her and saw the way she looked at me I knew that if God or even the Devil put a ball in my hands I could have caught nothing but net, be it from the key or the half court. For once I had it and when somebody has that knowledge it makes the impossible possible or, at the very least, it makes one totally non self-conscious about singing along to the "I've got me a Chrysler as big as a whale and it's about to set sail!" line from that B-52's song. There was not a drug being sold out in the parking lot that could have taken me higher.
A laugh. A smile. A look. An unspoken agreement that our dance cards were full now and my name was checked into every box and vice versa. It felt extremely close to perfect. Maybe it even was. Maybe it was even complete. But something felt utterly incomplete, like the script of my own version of a John Hughes movie was missing a page or, more accurately, a scene. There wasn't a memorable line of dialog lost in the shuffle because, after all, the music was way too loud and the conversation probably wasn't going to take us anywhere we didn't already want to go. No... what was missing was the scene described in parentheses as [Slow Song TBD plays, the boy and the girl embrace; they kiss just as the guitar solo begins. Fade Out.]
I didn't need a director to remedy the situation, just a quick bee line to the DJ table and one simple request that was more of a demand then a question: "Play a slow song."
"Which slow song do you want?"
And there, in that moment, comes what might appear to be our imperfection within this realm of teenage confidence but is really just a quirk under the cray paper decorations. I wanted a slow song and had not thought at all about which one I wanted. There I stood, with a DJ's wide eyes waiting on me, and my feeble mind telegraphed the answer to my mouth, demonstrating within seconds that my synapses were wired by 1-800-Dial-MTV.
"Play 'Don't Close Your Eyes' by Kix," I said.
"You got it, ace," he said.
Ace! Even the DJ knew I had it!
One song faded out, the next song faded up, and I was reunited with the girl before the piano intro was over and Steve White -- the erstwhile singer of these Baltimore rockers -- could belt out the opening lines of this power ballad about love and longing and... wait...
'Did he just make a reference to suicide?!'
There then was the imperfection...er... the quirk in all of this. Me, in the temporary role of 'Our Hero', the owner of countless hair metal and hard rock albums and a word-for-word, Bic lighter saluting appreciator of all things power ballad, could have chosen any song of that ilk from the era and, in the heat of the moment, went with one that had nothing to do with love or even the ever-present genre theme of missing one's lover while on the road, but instead was all about trying to convince someone not to close their eyes, sing their last lullaby or, in short, remove their self from this realm.
Great...
This is the usual moment in the story, or maybe just every story of my life on night's when I wasn't confident, that the girl realizes the boy she is dancing with is Ratt, not Bon Jovi, and goes looking for the proverbial next guy who will have better hair, a better song chorus, or cooler holes in his stone wash.
And so when the power ballad ended -- the wrong power ballad -- I'm fully aware that my window into the young life I want is closing and that if I have in fact fallen down I'd just as soon get it over with, return to my prior role as a wallflower, leave the dance early with my friends, recover during the car ride with some Bang Tango, and go to bed thinking about what a dumb ass I am.
I reached down to hold her hand, mentally trying to pump every last bit of my earlier bravado into my finger tips, and anticipating that she wasn't go to take it -- all too aware that such a display can, in the short term, send other suitors away and, in the long term, make her the "She" in the new week's morning report.
But she grabbed my hand, grabbed it tight, and as we walked to the bleachers -- away from the amps where burgeoning couples could actually talk -- she said, "I like that song. Who sings it?"
The temptation to tell her how awesome Kix and their new album is is strong but I ward it off. The confidence in me returns and it kills the boy inside who, if left to his own devices, would quote direct passages from Metal Edge magazine. It turns out he's easy to silence because even with the swagger wrapped in a night that he now knows for certain will include kissing he has no idea who he really is.
In other words, he's like every other boy in the gym, waiting for the slow song and hoping he asked for the right one.
Okay... if I've done my job right that story should spark something. An album. A song. A memory. A dance you attended. A bunch of songs. A story you can tell me (via comment or even your own entry?). Don't overthink it. Just start throwing me any song or thought that pops in your head. As many as you'd like.
I'll give you the rest of the details another time.
Gracias and good night.
J
****************
If you haven't checked out the January edition of Soundtrack and especially if you're new to the party (aka my journal) you can download it here: http://www.sendspace.com/file/4cdilv
Thanks.