I’ve recently taken to listening to internet radio in my kitchen, often late at night with a glass of wine and I am freshly astonished how music that I have literally not heard for years can immediately evoke a feeling I have left alone (or in some cases been strenuously avoiding) almost at once. Yes I know this is not profound but it’s still rattling to be transported to that exact place in time when I first experienced the hornet’s sting of unrequited love, abject, soul twisting misery and of course a ‘70s haircut. (Those last two may have been connected come to think of it …)
Like Scrooge hurtling towards the swirling vortex of the past with his spirit chums, I see my younger self weeping in the corner of the gym, navy mascara streaking my cheeks, long legs ending in shiny black stilettos as I dramatically, shakily, accept a menthol cigarette from a concerned friend. Although I can scoff now, having since experienced a much more advanced and varied strata of despair, I still recall later that night likening the painful feeling in my heart to a scraped out grapefruit which had been topped up with acid; again, you-ain’t-seen-nothin’-yet in retrospect, but I still like the girl I was then, totally immersed in the metaphysical poets and School-Girl Giddy with the realization that John Donne had actually intended a double entendre with “sucked on country pleasures childishly.” And Robert Plant when he shouted Mama let me pump your gas? Yes! He too meant just what I was thinking!
But back to the gym! Why was I crying? Well most certainly because the boy I fancied was dancing with someone else or did not appear to know that I existed despite rabid assurances from (always hooked up and attractive) friends who whispered they had seen him “watching me” all night etc.
Anyway, here’s the (especially dreadful yet somehow still a guilty pleasure) song that brought it all back.
(And seriously, WHAT’S with that keyboard player …)