Eventually, it would come to this, and I would be forced to whittle down
a very large Morrissey inventory into a select and biographical few.
This assignment has taken me the better part of too-many hours and
proved to be both complicated and melancholy -- which is to say, both clear and uplifting -- to those of us who follow the precise exposition of our Saint Steven.
For those unaware, Morrissey, El Mozza, The Mozfather, turned a gracious
and stately 53 this past week, which pretty much puts him in his
cantankerous prime, which should be a handsome treat upon his next, full
musical release. The future looks as bleak and wonderful as ever,
fans!
But its Morrissey's vast resume that inspired a whole fleet of Mexican
teenagers to adopt English culture, philosophical introspection,
theatre, and sexual instinct; all while rekindling the romance of
heritage identity, pride in civil persecution, boredom, and poverty.
Its a complex proposition to be introduced to such an array of emotional
hues at a tender age, but those who I've known to adopt the challenge
have all turned out to be interesting, complex human beings as we enter
the corridor of our fourth earthly decade.
Enzo does happen to be a half-blooded Morrissey enthusiast, a
birth-right with fortunate access through his ethnic lineage. He may
never see the value in this artist, or, by geographical dissipation, he
may never feel the impact of his music -- but he will know that the
frame in which his father sculpted was heavily influenced by the
provocation of Morrissey.
------
CHAPTER XI
While not literally impossible to reduce the catalog of Morrissey's
genius to one solitary track, it is figuratively hopeless to attempt to
deduce the brilliance and imagination of his music to just one.
Therefore, on Morrissey's birthday week, Enzo gets a mix that spans the
23 years of bedroom moping and discotheque cord-whipping. This is the
historical account of unrecorded events.
On Friday, March 4th, 2011 at Stubb's BBQ in Austin, Texas, you attended your first-ever gig.
As you can clearly see, daddy was drinking solo that night because
there's this fable that women shouldn't get blasted while carrying their
very small progeny to term -- even though, like, those tickets were
totally purchased long before you came hurtling into our third dimension
and we weren't expecting you to show up like an early house guest. I
mean, we had certainly invited you to our party, but c'mon, we were
still in our robes and funny underwear -- and we had tickets to The
Walkmen!
But that's okay -- more for me on that night, half-pint. It appears you've been looking out for daddy since day one!
Anyway, the circumstance that The Walkmen were your first real show was
purely coincidental, and because your mommy is like Tommy from
Trainspotting in exactly one way, WE PAID FOR THE TICKETS! Plus,
she was an absolute commando when it came to resuming our normal
day-to-day lives even though she was minding the most precious hop that
would ever be sprouted. As the kids today would say, she's the shit. (Hopefully kids stop saying that by the time you're old enough to be too cool).
I have to tell you, son, the show was an absolute rager. I guess I
really didn't know what to expect from a band that sounds so
un-technically technical on compressed data, but sound absolutely,
fucking pristine live. In the moments of the show, when the blue glint
of the stage lights would radiate your mother's face like an immaculate
spirit, I was already a proud father. I was excited to meet you. I
couldn't wait to tell you about your incredible run of luck in your
extremely young life.
_________________________________________________________________________________
Well, at least that's the setlist as best as I could cobble together
from the intergoogles (Hopefully kids stop using that by the time you're
old enough to be too cool). Pretty lofty standard by which to live the
rest of your life, I know, but I have faith that you will be a billion
times cooler than us, that's for sure.
Son, your mommy marches to the beat of her own drum .... one that is playing on the other side of town.
She's a quirky and complex woman, which makes loving her so gratifying,
like solving a thousand-piece puzzle without the box for reference. She
is unique in very many ways, but also not so odd that she isn't one of
the most well-balanced and grounded human beings I've ever had the
pleasure of befriending.
Usually, that tends to get under her skin when I tell her how much I appreciate how normal she
is -- something I find to be one of the highest compliments you can pay
a person, especially one whom you will assimilate with the rest of your
life. But anyone who has ever met a woman would know that this would
eventually lead to an bout of haughty exasperation.
What I am really saying to her is that I find her aims in life as a
strong woman, wife, and mother, to be traditional and charming -- normal,
in the ancestral sense of the word -- which I think that is something
many, if not all, females in such a role would like to pull off with as
much class as she does.
Sure, she aspires for the vivacity of a life filled with clever
anecdotes and interesting coffees with bearded intellectuals -- and she
has that biography scripted in her catalog as well -- but its her
fundamental notion to do the right thing, that makes her an anchored spirit. You know, normal.
But, you know, maybe she is right -- that inclination to do right
by family and friends isn't such a natural or inspired inclination
anymore -- and this practice actually makes her beyond comparison. She
is a sweet and caring woman, a wonderful friend and companion, and an
immensely fantastic mother. I am very proud of her, and especially that
she only presents with about a 3 on a scale of 10 in the amount of cray
in her eyes. She's the best. But son, you already knew that.
Here are six songs that you should know represent and celebrate your
mommy's character -- and, sure, tracks that daddy finds agreeable as
well. After all, he compiled this master list, and sometimes your
mother likes some weird-assed shit. That was the thing I was saying
about the drummer and the other side of town.
A funny story about the beginnings of my pursuit of your mother -- and
this was before I had really even had a legitimate conversation with her
that didn't involve some work context -- but I initially thought she
was the gonna be the indiest chick who ever indie'd, one who was gonna
school me on the insights of Belle & Sebastian, opine on Wes
Anderson's Rushmore, and say things like "adjectives are so mainstream, I only use interesting verbs to communicate."
I wasn't at all disappointed to know that she was more MoTown than
MoMouse, because this would give us a huge opportunity to share volumes
and volumes of ideas about our backgrounds. We would sit on our balcony
in downtown Phoenix and go over our histories, drink wine for hours,
and listen to music -- which was awesome for me because I had a captive
audience five floors up and a shitload of wine to keep her occupied. I
was totally gonna educate her on all of my musical bullshit. And after
all the filtering of the Morrisseys, Animal Collectives, and of
Montreals, it was Bright Eyes' First Day of My Life that I
attribute as her gateway drug into her part-time indiehood which she
reflects at certain intervals in her life. I think she would tell you
the same.
When we finally found a common ground between her love of Soul and
R&B and my fixation on Electroclash and Shoegaze, it was presented
in the form of a great uniter: Hip-Hop & Rap.
De La Soul -- and specifically Rollerskate Jam named "Saturdays"
-- was the musical bridge that spanned our aural territories. This
allowed for a peaceful invasion of each others musical government, a
collaboration of forces in which we still enjoy today.
As I was poking around in this newly discovered sovereign state of
Melissabaijan, I encountered a startling quandary that threatened to
dissolve peaceful negotiations: Reggae.
Oh snap. Who the fuck likes reggae this much? This was a
difficult treaty to render, but one that I timidly accepted at first,
then later enjoyed to the maximum extent possible for someone unswayed
by Jamaica or Michigan. Though Bob Marley was a college-era (and
tragically trendy during our days at University) staple, I was fine to
never look back on it afterward, really. I thought of him like Elvis:
satisfied of his existence, but outside of a theme party, I was never
gonna revisit his influence.
Marley appears to be your mother's favorite artist, so I was eager to
welcome him back into the fold as long as we didn't start buying a
shitload of Papasans and candles. What I learned, though, was that
reggae was so much more than Bob Marley, and the really good stuff
tended to be very melodic and agreeable. Stir It Up, though well-distributed amongst college stoners and faux-rastas, was also highly regarded by actual
people, like, music experts and admirers alike. I found appreciation
in that. We even played it at our wedding as an entrance song -- just
don't ask me why an entrance song is even necessary.
Turns out, that same wedding also bore the origin of this track, which
was the song that your grandfather and mother danced to in a small
Italian cafe in Greenwich Village called Gradisca. Maybe your
mom can speak more to its relevance between she and Grandpa, but I do
know that I was fascinated with the idea of naming you Otis for a long
time afterward. I think a late-hour interjection by mommy got your name
naturalized to its current form of Enzo, a change I fully endorsed and
totally love, but sometimes wonder if your life would have been
different as a result of a simple thing like that. Its something we'll
talk about later, because I'd be interested in your opinion.
When you were in mom's tummy, we wanted to saturate your environment in
music, music, and more music, so we took you to a slew of live shows
throughout your hibernation. You really seemed to enjoy this based on
the amount of choreography you were maintaining inside your tiny man
cave. But I'll write about those at a later time.
After you made your grand entrance into the post-natal side of
residency, the opportunity presented itself to make Jimmy Cliff not only
your first gig of all time, but your first SXSW appearance. I was
impressed with the calm disposition you displayed in the presence of a
legend. Mommy would play this on vinyl ALL THE TIME during your time in
the clink, and I attributed this to her sheer laziness in refusing to
change the 5-stack of records, but as it turns out, she just really
wanted you to know this. Good foresight, I'm thinking.
And finally, we come to the encore of mommy's set. I won't speak to the
ambiguity of that sentence, but know fully that it is an important song
that we won't share together, you and I, for one hundred years.
So, bud, love your mommy and tell her those words often, for leaving her
is not the great escape you will envision it to be. Her love for you
is a perfect calamity of hope and devotion -- ferocious and brilliant in
the preservation of our little family, but vulnerable in the prospect
of surrendering your dreams to the cosmos. But above all, just go see
the doctor for fuckssakes. Your mother is worried about you and I'm
having to hear it.
(but, do not worry, you will never have to become a vegetarian.)
This wasn't intended to be the weekly [SMSSK] entry, but upon learning
the gloomy news of Adam Yauch's passing -- and thus the mandatory
dismantling of the band itself -- I thought it appropriate to write
about a group of artists that infiltrated the culture and influenced the
upbringing of every single person my age. I don't mean that
allegorically; I mean that very literally.
I will even say that I am certainly not the most loyal fan. There was a
definite threshold for me regarding the Beastie Boys, and maybe that
went for a lot of other people as well. But there is one undeniable
constant, and that was their ability to pock every 1990s in-car discman
(with the hardwire hanging out of your tape deck like a feeble rap
I.V.), post-football kegger, and Juarez drink-and-drown with their
unmistakable musical pragmatism. Its a gray afternoon when a legendary
act dissolves suddenly, and even darker the idea of explaining the
history of the band to Enzo the way Elvis or The Doors were explained to
us.
There is a song that I'd like Enzo to know them by -- although their
catalog is a mixed bag of genres and there is no singular cork that
seals their vessel -- but there is a song that I'd like Enzo to know
them by that gave me volumes of memories in high school.
There was no time of social notability in 1994 where this song was not
blared from somebody's brother's set of Pioneers. But beyond the tune
itself, the video ushered in what we know today as hipster irony. It
simply blew our fucking minds: the sake of being retro for irony's
sake. Beastie had ushered in a movement, and one that is so pervasive
today, its almost the cultural norm. Think about your wardrobe, and
there is AT LEAST one display of Sabotage haberdashery within. And its
18 years later. Think about that.
So, goodbye to a prodigious band -- one that grew along the same
maturational arcs as we did -- from anthemic party bros to opinionated
political stumpers. They will be remembered.
