Bar Italia

Greetings from Italy, where I’m neck deep in the second draft of my novel; after two weeks I’m finally making decent progress, and still managing to find time to walk the streets, hit the café’s and be all writer-ly.  I bought a nice tailor made suit, and the locals have already given me the nickname “il produttore irritato” which means something I don’t have time to look up.

Okay I’m not “literally in Italy,” which sounds like the title of a bad RomCom (now my title for a bad RomCom – steal it at your peril.  Seriously, my lawyer could use the work).  I’m there in spirit, but believe me if I had the means I’d be there in a heartbeat, walking the streets of Florence, visiting the Uffizi and Santa Croce and Santa Fiore, the Ponte Vecchio – but more likely holed up in some apartment or hotel room, scribbling furiously.  It’s a challenge, writing about a place you’ve never been, but given this place I’ve never been is really the place five hundred years ago, that place no longer exists.  So the result is me, at my desk here in New York, wading through a 600 page manuscript, and chipping my way through that work in the hopes of coming out the other end with something remarkable.  What it’s involved has been a lot of fresh starts and total rewrites, but some cutting and pasting, and for some nice passages, only basic grammatical corrections.  I punch in at 8 and punch out at 5, unless I hit “the wall” before that, when I realize I’ve been sitting and starring at the same page for the past ten minutes, unable to proceed any further.

I’ve been keeping up a decent pace; I’m getting through about 10-15 pages a day, which works out to roughly 3500 words a day – and of that 3500, maybe 1000 represents “new” writing.  I’m still in the first quarter of the novel – i.e. the part that was written over three years before, and I’m cautiously optimistic (meaning I really hope) the most radical rewrites will be with the oldest material.  I managed to push through the final 40,000 words over the first two months of 2010, so hopefully I’ll move faster the further I get into it.  Still, at roughly a thousand words a day, that’s still 5000 a week, which is pretty good if I must say.  Of course, it also reminds me of how difficult getting to those words a day can be, and also makes me curse the fact I don’t get paid by the word.  I’ve given myself to my birthday to get the thing into shape, so we’ll see how I do.

[The process has also proven a weird thing about my business and my work; whenever I’m hitting my stride on a personal project, a work-related one comes barging in.  Case in point: a TV series I’m Exec Producer and writer of just got a shot of adrenaline at AFM, so I’ll be pulling double duty on it and the novel over the next month or so.  This is not a complaint.]

Some days I hit the ground running.  Other days I don’t.  Sometimes the words come easy.  Sometimes they have to be dragged out kicking and screaming.  Occasionally I want to slink back under the covers and get another few hours of sleep, cut out on work and watch movies or play video games, or read, or do anything other than my work.  But, for the most part, I manage to get down to it and be pretty prolific.  On a good day of screenwriting I can knock out a solid six pages.  With prose, I aim for 1000 to 2000 words a day. When writing a comic book, I aim for five pages of the actual book a day to give me a first draft (albeit a rough first) in a week.  All of the above don’t take rewrites into account, as it’s the rewrites that take the most work and time.  Add in the occasional magazine piece, and I’m pretty much at my desk, keeping as normal business hours as any of you (the difference being you’re probably being paid for your time, where I am working towards the possibility of being paid someday).  It’s a grind, to be sure, but something that happened not too long ago really threw into perspective how much things have changed and I have changed over the last two decades.

So there I was, sorting through some old boxes – the type that have travelled with me from place to place but rarely, if ever opened, when what do I unearth but several folders containing pretty much everything I wrote – creative writing, essays, plays, scripts, et al – in High School?  I guess the first thing I’d like to say about them is they’re brilliant; a true time capsule moment where a budding writer found his voice and pointed to the success and acclaim to come.  I could say that but for the fact it would be total and utter bullshit.  It’s not great.  It’s stuff written by a High School student because he had to, not because he wanted to.  It’s quite the experience to sit there as a 30-something and read the words and thoughts of my 15 year old self.  I find I agree with the grades my teachers assigned to many of these assignments, and I will go on record in saying that they were overall good grades – I think the lowest may have been a 75%, though it wouldn’t have been beyond me to throw out ones that got a worse grade, and those moments and words are now forever lost to time.

But what really gave me pause in re-reading these unearthed treasures made me realize that these are the only copies of these works in existence, and made me wonder how many hours, days and even weeks were occupied in the writing of them.  It also makes me realize that I’m a much more sentimental person than I’ll cop to.  I’m notorious for chucking out things that I wish I’d hung onto years down the road and have probably thrown out more things than I can remember.  The fact they’ve been wiped from my memory is something that weighs heavily on my mind.

Some of these essays are typed – written on either a manual typewriter, or by utilizing the awesome processing power of the Apple 2C home computer, and printed out on a dot matrix printer.  The copies I have are the only copies out there, which tells me I should really scan the documents in the off chance the originals get destroyed because when my papers are donated to some university decades from now (ego is a necessary component of writing after all), future generations will want to dissect and digest every word I ever put to paper, real or virtual.

It makes me think about all the things I threw away and can never have back.  I think of old class photos, Valentines and Birthday cards, Christmas pageant programs – all those disposable things we never think we’re going to want to look at again, only to be happily surprised when you discover some stuffed between the pages of an old photo album.

The genesis of my Mixtape project was a direct result of that uncanny bit of foresight.  The combination of unearthing my old collection of music cassettes and boom box, piles of old Rolling Stone and Spin magazines, and old yearbooks, and mementos from 90s era life were a definite inspiration for it.

Re-read the third paragraph again; in the final weeks of drafting my novel, I was drafting 1500-2000 words a day.  The average length of a major High School essay, worth 30-40% of your final mark in some cases, was 1500-2000 words.  Now, that amount of words is a typical morning for me.  Hell, peruse several of the posts on this website and you’ll find they’re well into that essay length range.  And as we reach the end of this installment in the ongoing life of this author, I note with pride that I’ve already crossed the 1500 word mark.  My High School self would be proud of me.

Death and All His Friends

As we grow older, we inevitably reach that point where life stops handing you things and starts taking them from you, and when that happens, you realize you really are an adult.  But the finality of death really seals that deal; and when it’s someone your age, you really begin to feel your own mortality.  Despite being in my late (shudder) 30s, I still feel like I did in my late 20s (which makes me either a youthful thirty-something, or that I was a mature 20-something).  But 2010 will go down as a year of infamy as it marked the passing of three different people I knew at very different stages of my life.

The first was my longtime manager Cathryn Jaymes, who left us in January of this year.  She had represented me since May 2001, which makes it the longest professional relationship of my career.  She managed actors and writers and directors for thirty years, was a model for a time in the late 60s, and her greatest notoriety came with one of the young clients she championed when nobody else would – Quentin Tarantino.  She was one of those people who was almost “too nice” for a rotten business that attracts more than its share of rotten people.  She never stopped believing in me and my work, and told me I’d “get there someday.”  I’m not surprised by that, because she was the one person who refused to give up on me and my work, especially at times when I was ready to do just that.  She once told me that I was the smartest writer she’d ever known and that intelligence translated to my writing (she also said that’s why it and I were a tough sell in Hollywood – a place where intelligence is viewed as a threat, not a boon).  I naturally took that as a compliment and resisted the urge to “dumb down” and compromise my principals and that carried through to the end when, even as she took ill, I refused to jump ship even though she and others urged me to.  How could I not stick by a person who stuck by me?

Then in September, Alwyn Rottschafer succumbed to a disease that took him very suddenly.  Alwyn was a talented musician, who played guitar in a garage band called Spaceman Spiff (who I wrote about here – check out the photo; Al is to the right).  My memories of him are faded, like that old photograph, but I do recall that he appeared as the Grim Reaper in a short film I shot for someone in my senior year of High School – I was cameraman, with the other guy writing and calling the shots.  He and his sister lived near me so there were also (probably) several instances of me giving them a lift home after school, or after the occasional party.  I am also reasonably sure Al was one of many who attended a 91 Pixies concert together. Now he’s a guy I lost touch with pretty quickly – one of those friendships that can be counted in months.  But the amazing thing about Alwyn was despite all the years that have passed, I never forgot him, whereas so many others are not even memories I can hang onto.

Now word has come that Alston Adams has lost his battle with the same wretched disease that took Alwyn and Cathryn.  Alston – Ali as we called him – lived the next street over from my place when I moved in 1986, so naturally we walked to and from school together frequently.  In fact one of the things we would talk about was the ongoing novel he was writing at age 13; a fictionalized account of the town, the school and our classmates, done in a Peyton PlaceDark Shadows vein (one of our classmates was a robot assassin sent by the Russians – hey, the Cold War was still on). He’d been battling the disease I won’t dignify by uttering its name for some time – well before he and I reconnected this past summer (same time as Alwyn).  In both cases I really wish I had gotten back in touch with them much sooner –as a mini-reunion this past summer showed me, it’s astonishingly easy to reconnect with people you haven’t seen in years.

With Al and Ali, the span of years knowing them was brief — 1986 to 1991 — but they might as well be lifetimes apart.  You don’t realize how much your life changes in that brief span from 13 to 18, but it’s a huge gulf, and probably the most radicla change in your life.  I was certainly much different at 18 than I was at 16 even.  But, the passing of these people has really made me think a lot about the places I’ve lived and the people I’ve known.  When people ask me where I’m from I never have an easy answer given we moved around a lot when I was young – eight moves in the first twelve years of my life.  I’m certain if I was to do a full accounting of every place I lived and every person I know, I’d find several of them no longer with us, and I honestly don’t know how to feel about that.  Should I be depressed?  Sad?  What should I feel?

We all feel invincible when we’re younger, but as we age, and as people start dying, we realize that’s not the case.  But I don’t necessarily think that death is something to be feared; why fear the inevitable?  Death could very well be the end, or it could embrace you like an old friend and usher you to the next stage of your journey … and what is life but a journey?  We all move through life at the same speed; some of us reach our destination sooner than others.  Sometimes the paths we take through life intersect with others on their paths.  The moment those paths cross can be brief, and they can be longer.  In a few rare instances our lives can follow parallel lines for years, decades even, before separating as they inevitably will.  I wonder if that’s the point of friendships, whether they last a month, a year or a lifetime; because we all need companions on the voyage.

I’m a deep dreamer; always have been and always will be.  And one thing about my dreams that I wonder if other’s share is this (and bear with me); Ever since I was a child, I have had repeated dreams of a place that’s familiar to me, even though I’ve never been there.  It’s a city that’s a mix of every city I’ve lived in or been to, with neighborhoods that are a composite of every house I’ve lived in or visited or spent any time in.  The surrounding lands are a mix of various places I’ve visited in my life; mountains and valleys, the ocean, the prairies, the desert.  Commensurate with my experience this subconscious land has grown as I have grown, taking on the characteristics of my life experiences.   It continues to this day; since I moved to New York this city has taken on certain New York characteristics and it’s populated by my memories of people I have known, whether briefly or for years.  Now it’s easy to see that this dreamscape is just the part of my subconscious that has catalogued every place I’ve been in my life and blended them together, and when I dream, it’s one of the parts of my subconscious that my mind wanders through. Yet to me it feels like Heaven would be and should be – a place we retire to at the end of our lives and exist on a higher, more abstract plain.  In rare cases you’re aware a dream is a dream, but for the most part you don’t, and this is what Heaven would be like.  So, I don’t think of these people as being gone – they’re just waiting for others to arrive at the big party in the great beyond, where it will not feel like an end, but a homecoming.

R.I.P.

Somewhat surprisingly (but not really), in reviewing the first month’s web stats for this website, it turns out that the “non-film” posts have been the most popular, with 15 Albums, X/Y and the lengthy (some would say epic) story of Bossanova, and how it influenced my MIXTAPE graphic novel/comic book project, being the most read.  I want to thank everyone for their visits and feedback, either here or on my Facebook page.  The coming months will hopefully be an interesting stretch, as I hope to be making some big announcements on a variety of projects (fingers crossed).

But keeping with the music theme, one nice effect from the 15 Albums series is in how many people replied in kind with their own lists.  I found these lists fascinating.  It was amazing to see how many lists were similar to mine, and to each other.  Nevermind and Ten were well-represented, along with Ministry, Jane’s Addiction, Mudhoney, The Pixies (natch) and many more from that great era in music.

And, of course, it got me thinking as all things interesting do.

What were the last five albums you listened to, from start to finish, from beginning to end, from front to back, all the way through?  Can you recall that with ease or do you have to dig a little?  Or, can you not recall the last time you listened to a record all the way through?  I admit something like this is easy for me to recall, given that I listen to music when I write, and I write every damn day. A quick perusal of my “Last 25 Songs” in iTunes easily furnishes the answer to my question and the following are the last five I listened to straight through, from yesterday to this morning;

Inspired by its prominence on many of your 15 Albums lists, I realized I hadn’t listened to Ten (and Pearl Jam for that matter) in years.  It’s one of those special albums – those ones that take you back to the first time you heard it.  In my case (and some of you will recognize the setting), would have to be spring 1992, in my 83 Camry, cruising town having just picked it up from the local record shop.  If I close my eyes I can still see the view out the windshield.  The fact that this album, and Nevermind are 19 years old reminds me how long ago this really was.

The White Stripes are great writing music, at least for me.  Much of my novel (details forthcoming) was written to the Stripes (despite taking place in Renaissance Italy).  This is the live album documenting their 2007 tour of Canada, hitting places from Montreal and Toronto to Whitehorse and Iqaluit.  Their renditions of Black Math and Icky Thump are blistering, and it’s a hoot to hear Jack White bellow “Sing with me Yellowknife!”

The YYY’s are one of those safe choices around the house, as they’re a band my wife and I can listen to equally.  She leans more to dance, I lean more to rock and the YYY’s comfortably straddle that line.  They, along with Coldplay and MGMT are among some of our shared favorite bands, though she tolerates The White Stripes and U2 more than I tolerate some of her choices (I’m trying, honey, I’m trying).  I just picked up Show Your Bones, filling in the gap between their crunching Fever to Tell, and their blockbuster It’s Blitz! (which contains my favorite YYY’s song — go on, ask me which one) which explains its inclusion in this list.  Plus it rocks.

I just picked The Suburbs up, so naturally it’s been in heavy rotation.  I really dig it too, given that it truely captures that suburban life I was raised in.  This album has multiple covers – something like eight different ones, and when I purchased the album at Borders, I had to scour the rack until I found the cover that best spoke to my memories of suburbia, and the above image was my pick.  Turns out the music itself was enough to stir those memories from the ether and, if I was 17 today, not 37 (!) it could very well be my Nevermind, my Bossanova, my Achtung Baby

In talking about albums, it’s appropriate that the album I listened to before penning this entry – Horehound by The Dead Weather is one of the few I’ve purchased in MP3 format exclusively.  I’m one of those dinosaurs who still likes to buy the CD (eBay has been great for scoring old and used discs) but when I lucked into an Amazon.com MP3 store credit I used it to purchase this album.  It’s a hard, bluesy, growly, great stuff that’s definitely worth a listen, and it makes me wonder when Jack White finds time to sleep.  I know how he must feel.

So why is this entry titled R.I.P.?

Call it a eulogy for the Album.

I think it’s sad the Album is a dying art form, and believe me it is dying.  In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to see it go away entirely in the coming years.  Now people want the songs they know and skip over the rest.  The reasons MP3s and iTunes have become so successful are because you can just pick and choose what you want, like at a buffet.  But the question remains; how do you know what you’re going to like if you don’t try it out? How do you know what you want if you haven’t heard it?  I can’t be the only one whose favorite song on a particular album is *not* the one that got me to buy it.  My favorite on Nevermind for example is “On a Plain”; my favorite on Ten is “Black”; my favorite on Achtung Baby is “So Cruel” — songs I never would have heard if I only listened to or bought “Smells Like Teen Spirit” or “Jeremy” or “Mysterious Ways.”  The aforementioned favorite track off It’s Blitz! is not one of its singles and, had I not bought the album, would never have heard the song.

I lament the fact that albums aren’t afforded the respect they deserve, and I miss The Album, and the passions they stirred, just as I miss A Sides and B Sides.  The CD partially killed that, but I always liked the moment when you had to flip the record or cassette, the last song on that particular side lingering in your mind.  Albums were constructed for the break in sides for decades – the “A” side of Nevermind ended with the chilling “Polly”, which lingered in your bones until you flipped the tape and got a supercharged grungy blast from Territorial Pissings.  I think the playlist for those albums benefitted from the break — it’s almost too easy to program a playlist of 50 – 100 songs and just listen to that; at some point it just becomes white noise.  An Album, like the best books and best movies, isn;t meant to be continuous and never-ending.  The ones that lingered — the great stories — are the ones that ended.

So my question to you is this: what were the last 5 Albums you actually listened to the whole way through, from start to finish, as the artists intended you to?   Send me your list, your thoughts and impressions on the albums you listened to most recently, and I’ll post a follow-up with your picks … ‘Because I’m always looking for an album to buy.

All Over The World

[This is Part 3 of my look on my favorite Album of all time, and the effect it’s had on my life and work.  For those just joining us, check out Part 1 and Part 2]

Looking back, the peak years of my love for music, particularly what was labeled Alternative, really spanned 1990-1995, from age 17 to around 23, roughly corresponding with my college years.  The fact the 1992 MTV Music Video Awards boasted performances from Pearl Jam and Nirvana, while the 1991 installment had the then biggest band out of Seattle – Queensryche – is as good an indicator as any of this quantum shift in music culture.  Being unleashed upon a major city with its vibrant live music scene was like giving matches to a pyromaniac; I saw more bands than I can remember – but they included Beat Happening, Mudhoney, Stone Temple Pilots, Alice in Chains, Sonic Youth, Rollins Band, Ministry and who knows what else.  But even as early as 1993, music was finding a tough competitor in film.  I was at Film School after all and with no discernable musical talent, it became apparent I needed to focus.  And so, a slow, steady erosion began.

That wasn’t the only thing that eroded.  When I moved, it was alongside a good half dozen close friends from my old town.  One went to the same school I did and we saw each other regularly, the rest at a school across town, and for the first year or so they remained my closest friends.  It was like High School all over again, only we had the whole city at our doorstep, no curfews, and we were all legal drinking age.

My love for music gradually turned into a love of movies (a love that’s been lifelong I should add), and music suffered as a result.  Part of that had to do with the alternative scene imploding around 94-95, but a lot for me had to do with money (and the lack of it).  I couldn’t download tracks – I wanted an album, I had to buy it.  Concerts became too expensive for someone blowing what little spending cash he had on movie tickets and film for his class projects.  By 1995 I’d pretty much stopped buying music which, not so coincidentally, was the same time I lost touch with the friends I thought I’d be friends with for a lifetime.  That lifetime ended up being 5 years.

The Pixies split in 1993, and I counted myself among the fortunate to see them twice in concert – once when they were touring Trompe Le Monde in November 1991, then again in March 1992 when they opened for U2 on the Zoo TV tour.  They still remained in my playlist over the following years, on regular rotation as they say.  When they reunited for a tour in 2004 I was not going to miss them for any reason, so I found myself on a frigid November evening waiting for the band to hit the stage.  I looked over the large crowd and realized then that:

  1. It had been 13 years almost to the day I first saw them, and that;
  2. It was a strong possibility that many of the people I saw them with back then were probably somewhere in that crowd.  And with that in mind;
  3. There were a lot of people in this audience who were born sometime after Bossanova.

As the Pixies hit the stage for two subsequent hours of musical bliss, I found my mind drifting on the waves of sound and found myself wondering what had happened to those music obsessed teenagers I knew, and I once was.  What had happened to me?  Does “growing up” and “becoming an adult” mean letting go of that thrill music gave you when you were younger?  I thought about how much had changed in the years that had passed since the Pixies last stood on a stage before me.  I thought about how much I had changed, but more than anything else, I wondered why people move in and out of your life with alarming frequency.  I wondered how common that experience was, and realized it was common to everybody.

I thought about that and more a lot in the years that followed that reunion show, and it reached a pitch in summer of 2008 as I sat in my basement, sorting through old boxes in preparation of my move.  One of the things unearthed was my old portable stereo; another was a series of boxes and containers holding my old collection of cassette tapes.  I found Soundgarden and Nirvana, Teenage Fanclub and Pearl Jam … and mixtapes.  Lots and lots of mixtapes.  Ones I made myself.  Ones made by friends.  I hooked up the tape deck and rewound the mixtapes, and pressed play.  I listened to the songs, their selection, the order they were laid down in, and I wondered; who made that tape?  What was on their mind at the time?  What were they trying to say with the playlist?  Were they trying to say anything?  It was like stepping back into time as I listened – I unearthed a box full of old copies of Rolling Stone and Spin and other music mags and found myself spending hours there, listening to music and reading (and not packing).

Hell it was like 1991 all over again really.  And it got me thinking.

Being a writer means you’re constantly asking yourself if there’s a story in everything you see or hear or experience.  Ideas will occur to me in the strangest places at the strangest times.  My wife can attest to that when at home, I’ll often wordlessly go to my desk and scribble something down on a post-it note, and return equally wordlessly.  And when I sat and listened to those old mixtapes, and read through those old magazines (and unearthed old photo albums), I realized there was a story here; about that period in your life when you transition from your teen years to adulthood, and the friends and music who gradually disappear from your life.  About that period we all experience.  In fact, it’s probably the most universal story out there – it’s one we all experience, no matter the music or the people.  But what to do with it?  I could have outlined a TV series … maybe a movie script, maybe a novel?  But none of those possibilities stirred me creatively. Of course the answer was right in front of me, sealed in Mylar bags and packed into long-boxes.

In advance of my move, I had determined to properly archive the hundreds of comic books I’d collected over the last 25 years, which meant trekking to the local comic shop to buy bags, boards and boxes to store them for their move.  Like music, I had stopped buying comic books for the longest while, and when shopping for storage materials, found myself perusing the shelves, and I found a lot of material to catch my eye; DMZ, The Walking Dead, Fables, Y: The Last Man, and indie books like Local and Black Hole, and Box Office Poison.  And thus, I started buying comics again, sticking with trade editions over single issues … and as I got back into music, and back into comic books at the same time, the solution was obvious.

And that is the response to the question I’m always asked; “where do you get your ideas from?”  They come from my heart and my experience, and in this case, the project is called MIXTAPE, a comic book/graphic novel about love and life in the early 1990s, set to a blistering Alt Rock Soundtrack.  It’s a story about a group of small town high school friends who bond over a shared love of the music that becomes the soundtrack of their lives, and how they come to grow apart, from that music and from each other.  Because you never really forget that music and those people.  As I type this, it has been 20 years from that day I decided on Bossanova over Abbey Road at that record store.  Music is now as important to me as it was back then, and those friends … have re-entered my life in many surprising ways.

You’re going to be hearing more about Mixtape in the coming months.  I’ll be giving it a push at the New York Comic Con, and there may even be an opportunity for you to play an active role in it. But for now, you can look at some of the completed artwork below, throw on a favorite album or even a mix tape, and remember a time when music meant everything to you.

Digging For Fire

[NOTE: this is part 2 of a longer piece.  For part 1, click here]

When you’re seventeen, it’s no stretch to say that at that age, music is as important as it will ever be in your life, and that the friendships you have will also be the most important.  Your friends become your life at that age, if not sooner, and they become your family.  I think it’s because at that age every experience is so intense to you; you fall in love and fall out of it with the gusto of a tragic Shakespearean character, and every good or bad thing that hits you is either the best thing or the worst thing ever.  And when some band is singing to you (yes, to you – not anyone else), it’s like God’s finger shooting a lightning bolt right between your eyes.  When you look back at that time in your life, you hear music, and years later when you hear that music, you remember that time in your life; you cannot avoid it.  You remember driving your town’s streets with friends, you remember basements at friends homes.  You remember parties at the homes of people you’ve forgotten. Every memory, and every life, has its own soundtrack.

Yet another truism holds that the friends you have at 17 are probably not the friends you have at 21 or 22.  Yes, we live in an age of social networking so it’s easy to keep “in touch” – lord knows I’ve kept in touch and reconnected with older friends through Facebook.  But back in the olden days before the internet and cell-phones, if you wanted to be friends with someone you had to make effort to do so.  You had to call them on the telephone – a telephone that may have been a rotary one (and if your sister was yapping on that phone – the only phone in your house … well, good luck with that).  Lots of people didn’t even have answering machines so if nobody answered you had to call back.  You saw friends at school and after school and on weekends, but only face-to face; you didn’t Tweet or tag each other in photos and videos, and you didn’t sleep with your cell or iPhone or Blackberry on to be kept in the loop twentyfourseven.

But five years down the road?  Chances are you’ve already lost touch with those people.  You’ve moved on and so have they.  Really, it’s because you’re in a different place than they are.  There’s rarely a “falling out” – you lose touch, you don’t return phone calls or emails and you gradually drift apart; it’s erosion, not an earthquake, and it continues throughout your life.  It happens when you graduate, it happens when you marry, it happens when you start a family.  Life continues and you realize that a great number of these friendships you thought would last forever only last a fraction of your lifetime.

So let’s jump back two decades, to September 1990.  I had 20 bucks burning a hole in my pocket, and I decided to zip down to the local record shop to see what was in the offering.   I cruised the rock section.  Now by “Rock” we’re talking about AC/DC, The Who, The Stones, Bon Jovi – your standard top 40 and certainly nothing “hip” or “new” or “cool.”  I perused the racks – the cassette racks, since I had a walkman, not a portable CD player, and found myself flipping through the Beatles catalog.  I was and remain a fan of the Beatles – as I said in the previous installment, good music is good music – and I found myself with a copy of Abbey Road in hand – surely one of the greatest rock albums of all time, loaded with classic late era Beatles songs.  I kept the copy with me and worked my way down the aisle, past Foghat, past Kiss, past the Pixies –

Wait, the Pixies?  There’s a Pixies album here?  In this store?

I don’t know how my friend Elliott heard about the Pixies – all I know is he swung over to my place earlier that summer with a copy of Doolittle because he, myself and other friend Mark were driving to Kingston to see Robocop 2 (a double irony, given that exactly 10 years later production wrapped on Robocop Prime Directives – my first produced work – the villain of which was a character named Bone Machine, a name lifted from the lead track of the Pixies Surfer Rosa album).  We listened to Doolittle on the way there and, in the words of a Pixies song on a different album, were Blown Away.  It was loud and primal and melodic and for that summer, the Pixies were the soundtrack of my life.  I had no idea who they were or where they were from, but by listening to Doolittle over and over and over again, I pictured some long haired demonic beings unleashed upon my eardrums.  I learned their names – David Lovering on drums, Joey Santiago on lead guitar, the ethereal Kim Deal on bass (who ushered many teenage of fantasies about cool bands with hot female bass players named Kim), and the man with the voice that could go from melodic to a growl within the same verse was the enigmatic Black Francis.

The Pixies began to mark a shift in my listening – like many my age I was into my share of Zeppelin and The Doors and The Beatles, but had begun to move into a larger world.  I still like the old guard – face it, a great song is a great song – but there was something about “discovering” music that few others were into – music that put you in a rarefied category.  Music that marked you as an individual, nor part of a crowd.

I pulled the lone cassette from the slot, assuming it would be Doolittle, but the red tinged cover told me this was something else.

This was something different.

This was something new.

This was

A quick scan of the back cover pegged Bossanova as a 1990 release.  It was brand new, unheard, and in my grasp.  Thoughts crashed through my brain.  What was it doing here?  Had someone ordered it weeks ago and not claimed it, prompting the store owner to put it on the shelves?  I had NEVER seen a Pixies album for sale in this store ever, and believe me I looked – I tried to order copies of Surfer Rosa and Come on Pilgrim and after flipping through his big catalog, the store owner couldn’t find it, meaning I was SOL. But here it was, in my hand, and I had the money for it.

I looked at Abbey Road in one hand.  The Beatles.  A classic.

I looked at Bossanova in the other.  The Pixies.  A new album.

For a moment I did consider making The Safe Choice, but as I moved ever so slightly to put Bossanova back, I felt my grip tighten on it.  I’d made my decision, shoved Abbey Road back where it belonged and took Bossanova to the counter.  It was a decision that changed my life, though I didn’t realize it at the time.  It marked a shift away from the classic rock, the safe rock, and deeper into the world of Alternative Nation.  It was the first big step into a bigger world.  In fact, after that day in September 1990, nothing would ever be the same for me.

“The Pixies” said the clerk as he glanced at the cover and entered the price into the register.  “Sounds kinda faggy” he continued.  “Need a bag?”

I handed over my money and shook my head “no.”  I was going to pop this sucker into the tapedeck of my car the moment I got into it.  I returned to my trusty old Toyota Camry, popped it into the deck and soon enough the melodic sound of guitar filled the air.  I cruised town, not heading home until Bossanova was finished, to the haunting final chords.  Once home, I popped it into my tape deck in my room and listened to it again, this time looking at the liner notes and finally got to see what these guys looked like.  David Lovering looked like a banker; Joey Santiago looked – well, pretty much like I imagined; a gunslinger.  Kim Deal was brunette, not blonde as I imagined, and looked like someone I’d see hanging around my town. And Black Francis, he of the loud quiet loud and howl?  He looked like – Christ he looked like me (and still does to a degree).

Popular consensus is that Bossanova is the Pixies weakest album.  By this point the rift had been growing between Black Francis and Kim Deal – her side-project, The Breeders would, in a few short years, eclipse The Pixies as far as taking the mainstream – who can remember the summer of 1993 and not think of “Cannonball?”   Yet it’s my favourite Pixies album.  It doesn’t rock as hard as Doolittle or Surfer Rosa, it’s not as “out there” as their swan song Trompe Le Monde, but Bossanova doesn’t sound like any other Pixies album, and for that reason it stands above the pack. It’s my Sgt. Pepper, my Nevermind the Bollocks, and my Nevermind.  Even now, listening to it 20 years later (and I never really stopped listening to it in that 20 years), it transports me back to that moment in my car, letting its sonic beauty swirl around me.   The Beatles and The Who and The Doors went to the back of the collection and I was seeking out music found left of the dial.  It blasted nitrous oxide through my being and propelled me to new heights and a new world of music; to a planet of sound.

Life went on, and I lost touch with a lot of people, but not with the music we all loved.  People pass in and out of your life with alarming frequency, but music remains with you long after they’ve gone, and as I would discover fifteen years later, both the music you love and the friends who love it with you have a surprising way of returning to your life.