Subjects in civilization

For the last 10-12 weeks, I have been one lucky writer.

I have been given multiple opportunities and have tried my damnedest to take advantage of all of them. Specifically, I was given an opportunity to blog about music, both in this class and for the Houston Press. Between the two, I have over a quarter of 100 articles written in the last semester.

Coupled with being in a band, music has pretty much become my life. And I’ve got no complaints.

In a lot of ways, music was my life before I joined a band or began writing about it. For many people, like it was (and still is) for me, music serves as an escape; a place where you can beat up that guy who’s been bothering you, really tell that ex-girlfriend how you feel and revolutionize politics, people and the world over.

Growing up, I listened to a lot of punk rock. While I enjoyed the Sex Pistols and the Clash, I was only a pre-teenager at the time, so my problems were much simpler, so the music I gravitated toward was, too.

“I feel so mad, I feel so angry, I feel so callous, so lost and confused” were the lyrics Boxcar Racer sang into my headphones every night, as I fell asleep thinking about girls in my high school who wouldn’t even look at me. I thought about how my parents were always mad at me for not working hard enough and for making poor grades in school. I always had a problem paying attention in class and sitting still, so my parents put me on Ritalin, which caused me to act out even more. I always thought of myself as a normal kid – boys will be boys, right? – but some teacher was always complaining about me to the principal who would, in turn, tell my mother who taught at the school I attended from Kindergarten until high school graduation.

Punk rock – specifically Blink 182 and Boxcar Racer – were my escape, my way of screaming at the top of my lungs what I felt. Sometimes, the songs had a meaning behind them. In “I Feel So,” I connected with the lyrics as well as the energy of the song. I did feel mad and angry. I wanted to start over. I wanted to make cures for the way that people are. I wanted to make a cure for the way I was, the way I constantly bothered everyone and could never keep to myself. I just wanted to start over.

Other times, I connected more with the melody and energy and the picture painted by the song more than I did the meaning behind the lyrics.

I never really understood what this song was about, but taken at face value it seemed to be a song from an under appreciated son to his father, who might have been abusive.

But the symbolism behind the lyrics – “I tripped, I fell down naked. I scratched my knees, they bled. Sow up my eyes, see no more.” – always made me feel angry. Not the kind of angry my parents felt. As I listened to these songs, my parents worried that I would become an irate youth. But what they didn’t understand was that I was already an irate youth and that this music gave me a way to vent my frustrations. I would hop on my bicycle or go for a walk as I blared angry, music full of teen angst in my headphones. As the beat would build, I would walk or pedal faster and faster. It was as if I was envisioning myself in a movie, constantly acting out the final scene in which the protagonist overcomes whatever obstacle was in his path.

But eventually, the songs would end, and I would have to go back to the real world, where I had a real life, in which I had real problems, which weren’t easily fixed.

-

Eventually, I made my way into high school. I grew a few inches, lost a few pounds off my stomach and was eventually getting attention from girls.

My revenge was to ignore them and work out until I was in perfect shape, which, at one point in my high school career, I was.

I got a drivers license, grew out my hair past “regulation length” and made a point to act out against any authority that questioned my actions.

Suddenly, I was partying every night, smoking cigarettes, popping pills and drinking bottles of hard liquor at a time. Being that I’m from Houston, I got into rap music; dirty south rap music, specifically.

I spent my free time (when I wasn’t partying, of course) driving around the city, listening to this kind of music loud and proud, hoping to get pulled over only to show an officer my up-to-date inspection, license, insurance and car note, which was paid in full.

Who the fuck was I? I was me, thank you very much.

My attitude became abrasive, and I focused all my time and energy on becoming popular, chasing girls and wreaking havoc in the Bayou City.

I ran around for a few years with no real direction. I had a full-time job, got by in school and kept my nose clean. I constantly searched for trouble, but I never involved myself enough to actually get into any trouble, legally or otherwise. It made my parents sick, but I was finally happy and carefree.

I was a Holden Caulfield of sorts; young, smart, good looking, driven, but without direction. Holden’s story of a weekend spent in New York City was my life for two years in Houston.

Then I met a girl named Jenn.

-

Jenn and my relationship began casually enough. We met at a coffee shop and recognized one another from grade school. From the moment she laid eyes on me, I knew she was transfixed and had to have me. It was the summer after my senior year of high school, so I decided to have a short fling with the girl, party, screw, party, screw and party, then toss her away, head to Galveston and start my life as a professional college student.

I didn’t know it would be so hard to let go.

Our relationship ended up lasting about a year, and I had never been unhappier. Jenn was a blame-placer, and anytime she had a bad day, I was not allowed to be in a good mood. But if I was having a bad day, I wasn’t allowed to bring her down or unload on her. It was a codependent relationship; her happiness was dependent on my proximity and my near-constant validation of her life.

“I’m not pretty,” she would say.

“You’re beautiful,” I would reply.

“I’m going to lose my scholarship,” she would say.

“You’ll be fine,” I would reply.

“I’m not going to get that job,” she would say.

“You’ll get it, I’m sure,” I would reply.

…and so on, and so forth. Our relationship followed this pattern to a T. Without fail, I would constantly be complimenting her as she acted in a self-deprecating manner. Jenn was also a drug addict, always smoking pot or snorting cocaine to deal with her self-inflicted depression.

My mood, like that of so many others, is oftentimes influenced most by the people around me. We spent a lot of time together, and I found myself crawling into a dark hole, never happy and constantly venting through my music, the only outlet I had.

“There’s something cold and blank behind her smile,” Manson told me. I listened and eventually got up the courage to tell her how I felt, and I left her.

“All the drugs in this world won’t save her from herself.”

Then I spent a year as a single man, and it was one of the happiest times of my life. I began studying more, spending more time with friends and family and focusing on “me-time,” which I had never done before. I began reading for pleasure, not just because I had to for school. I began working out, not to impress girls but for me. I began going for bike rides, not to vent or get away but to enjoy the ride. I spent more time out and about meeting people, not to escape my past but just to enjoy the company of a stranger or two and strike up a conversation.

I began listening to music that made me happy, not focusing too much on the lyrics. Instead, I paid attention to the mood and melody of the songs and let them make me feel the way I wanted to feel.

Happy.

Then I made the mistake of dating a high school student, while I was in college.

I was a sophomore in college and she was a junior in high school. I was 20, she was 17. The age wasn’t too much of a factor, but the amount of life we had experienced was. Once again, I found myself in a relationship with someone who didn’t understand me and had no intent to begin trying to.

Exhausted and confused, I thought I was in love. She told me she loved me, so it must have been true, I thought. She told me that the fights we had were the kind of fights all couples had. And since I’ve never been too familiar with relationships or how they are “supposed to be,” I believed her. But as the months went by, I found myself slowly but surely withdrawing from her emotionally.

It was difficult not to be disappointed.

“Here I am expecting just a little too much from the wounded,” Maynard sang. I felt that this girl, this poor, broken, hurt girl needed me. And if she needed me to be a punching bag, so be it. It was foolish and looking back, I wish I had ended things sooner, but hindsight is 20/20.

-

Now I find myself on top of the world. I still have my bad days – everyone does – but the good far outnumber them, and these days I listen to a bevy of music. A lot of times, I’ll get in my car, put my iPod on shuffle and listen to whatever  comes on. Sometimes it’s music from my past, sometimes it’s current music, and sometimes it’s music I haven’t heard in years but attach no memory (good or bad) to.

Music, for me, has been a savior, an outlet and someone to listen to my problems. It didn’t matter if I was screaming, crying or laughing. Music has always been there for me.

And now, because of our history, I think music and I have a long, healthy future together.

MK