Only one video this week, kids, but it’s a bit longer than average, so maybe that will help cushion the blow:
This was the song that made me a Def Leppard fan. Up until this point of their career, I’d dismissed them without even bothering to listen to their stuff. The dippy spelling of their name and the generally ominous look of their album covers had given me the impression that they were another bunch of scary head-bangers along the same lines as Motley Crue or Iron Maiden; as much I liked rock, the really hard stuff was never my cup of tea. But then one afternoon, I was hanging out in that student-union television lounge I’ve written about before, and I happened to glance up from my book in time to catch one of those lovely shots of the classic cars driving through the late-afternoon autumn sunshine. I instantly identified with the imagery — that was how I spent most of my weekends in those days, driving my massive old Ford Galaxie up and down the nearby canyons, in search of inspiration or enlightenment or simply something to do, and this video captured the same quality of light that I loved (and still love) to bathe myself in during those drives — so I kept watching. And I listened, too, and the song itself clicked with my mood that afternoon.
This particular song transports me back to that time of my life more completely than any other memory trigger I can think of. Just reviewing the video for today’s entry has stirred up all kinds of things: the greasy-salty taste and texture of the English chips I liked to snack on during the long gap before my evening philosophy class; the smell of my first leather jacket (pigskin, slightly more pungent than the more common cowhide jackets); the cheap paperback bio of Janis Joplin I borrowed from my aunt Sharon and devoured in a couple hours while lying on the grass under a tree in back of President’s Circle. I remember my general emotional state in those days, too, a heady mixture of curiosity, enthusiasm, hope, lust, and an aimless yearning for something I couldn’t quite define. (The yearning is still there, but the other stuff tends to come and go more than it did then.)
And I especially remember this one particular girl… she was younger than me, some kind of prodigy who’d been moved up a grade or two, whip-smart but more than a little flaky. Being away from home at the big old university eventually proved to be too much of her, and she vanished toward the end of our freshman year. I have no idea what became of her; I imagine she went back home, wherever that was, and attended a community college for a couple years until she felt more confident. If I’d been smarter, or at least more assertive, I might’ve tracked her down. She had gray eyes, you see… they aren’t just an affectation in bad novels, they really do exist. Gray eyes, and long, straight, honey-colored hair. And most days she wore these knee-high moccasin boots. She dared me once to kiss those boots.
Hysteria, when you’re near…
I don’t know about you guys, but that seems like a good image to end the work week on.
Just read your blog. Now I need a cigarette.
Seriously, though, I also started to like Def Leppard when I heard this album, Hysteria. There’s no denying that it belongs to that mid-80s heavy metal hair band genre, but it had a pop feel and an earnestness to the lyrics and delivery that appealed to me. Still does–it’s on my iPod.
In an NPR interview, Mary Doria Russell (novelist, anthropologist, linguist, theologian) admits to liking Def Leppard. Terry Gros gives her quite a ribbing for it.
Heh – that’s funny about Russell. You wouldn’t expect her to be a rocker, based on her interests and the subjects of her work. (I’m also a little surprised you like Leppard, to be honest. But weirdly pleased, too… )
At the same time, hearing that Terry Gross was making fun of her for it makes me grit my teeth a little. I think a lot of music from that era gets unfairly dismissed as silly crap. A lot of ’80s music was silly crap of course — what era can you not say that about? — but songs like “Hysteria” or Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin'” or (you knew this was coming) “Jessie’s Girl” endure, despite all the hipsters who complain about them. And that says something to me about songcraft and those songs managing to tap into something a lot more significant and timeless than acid-washed jeans and big hair.
Or possibly I’m just defensive because I’ve never “gotten” the bands my hipster friends swear are so much better than the “corporate rock” I enjoy. I guess I’m hopelessly low-brow about such things.
I misspoke (mistyped?) about Terry Gros. The “ribbing” was good-natured, and I think Gros was also “weirdly pleased.”
But of course, I agree with your larger point. I think that’s just the way of pop music. When future civilizations dig up our iPods and figure out how headphones work (which will be like deciphering Linear B to them, and they’ll wonder why we didn’t just plug the device into our Cranial USB Ports like they do)…uh, lost my train of thought here. Oh yeah…those folks won’t have any of the associations we have. They’ll be better able to judge the objective merits of our pop culture, but I suspect that will miss the point.
I love the Beatles, as I may have mentioned once or twice, and I do believe that their music is objectively amazing. They will hold up like Beethoven holds up. But part of my attraction comes from the fact that I’ve been listening to them for literally my entire life. I remember being five years old and listening to the greatest hits double album. I can still feel the scratchy brown carpet in the living room and hear the pop and hum of the phonograph when you first turned it on. I knew “Here Comes the Sun” before I knew my ABCs. So of course, my response to this music comes from deep down in my psyche.
But there are some songs I like strictly because of the nostalgia. For example, as a teenager I detested Spandau Ballet and that whole genre of…well, I was taught not to say unkind things. Now that I’m old and cranky, that song “True” moves me almost to tears. I suddenly remember my eight-grade dance and the scent of sweat and perfume on this girl I loved. She was so sweet and beautiful, with long brown hair and this baby tooth than never fell out. Then a week before graduation she chopped off her hair into this spikey crew cut and started wearing this strange makeup like in Egyptian tomb paintings. I was crushed, but I danced with her anyway because I knew it was my last chance before we went off to separate high schools. That damn song brings it all back, and it’s not even a good song.
I need another cigarette now.