Give It Away

It was upon entering the seventh grade, and thus starting a new school, that I noticed my classmates’ fashion and music sense change. Some of it may have been attributed to naturally evolving tastes, some of it to that age-old desire to fit in and conform to the herd. There were seniors to impress, so all those New Kids on the Block tees were replaced by Metallica, Nirvana and the eight-pronged asterisk logo of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers.

I wasn’t always aware of what was trending or cool as I didn’t have MTV or the MuchMusic tv channel growing up, instead relying solely upon pop-oriented radio and network shows like American Bandstand and Solid Gold to form opinions on what I liked (and yes, I was a New Kids fan). One thing I did know though was that whenever my mom heard a Red Hot Chilli Peppers song come on, she would immediately change the channel. She hated them. Absolutely loathed them. I wasn’t a fan myself but I often wondered what this band—led by a perpetually shirtless, tribal tattooed lead singer who seems contractually obligated to sing about California—could have done to offend my mother?

Scandalous rock-and-roll memoirs were once my favourite literary genre. I attribute this to the fact that I’m an introvert who gets to live vicariously through the tales of wanton lust and debauchery normally lining their pages. So when I saw ‘Scar Tissue’ written by Anthony Kiedis, lead singer of the Red Hot Chilli Peppers, on the bargain shelves of my local McNally Robinson, I decided that $7.99 was a steal of a price to pay for 465 pages of trashy escapism.

I didn’t foresee the added expense of requiring gallons of bleach to bathe in while reading it though.

Maybe it’s because I’m older, wiser and have less tolerance for people like this but Anthony Kiedis’ recollection of life is less that of a rock star and more of a self-indulgent, misogynistic narcissist who got lucky. His story is that of a high school truant who failed to mature because he’s always been rewarded for his deplorable behaviour. There was no insight into his band, his craft or the era of which they dominated, every chapter instead consisted of sharing, in detail, all the women he had sex with along with rating their performance. He even threw in a few pictures of his exes posing topless (for what purpose, I will never know). Really creepy though considering he was 43-years-old when the book was published is how many of his boasts were about his girlfriends and other conquests being underage, praising one sixteen-year-old paramour for looking after him while they “played house” and:

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While bullshit likes this takes up a bulk of the book, the other half—the only part I am mildly sympathetic to—describes the rinse-and-repeat cycle of drug addiction. Anthony goes into great detail in regards to his pursuit of this demon, not just the feeling of taking the substance itself but also admitting how other elements made the experience so thrilling such as how a florescent purple light illuminating the exterior of a seedy L.A. hotel beckoned him in as the perfect place to hole up for a few days to shoot heroin. His many (many) trips to rehab are also documented.

But while that may explain behaviour, it doesn't excuse it. Ultimately, this is long-winded braggadocio.

What I learned from this book is that sometimes mother knows best.

I will concede on this though. Despite my repulsion, he did write one of the definitive songs of the 90s. Shame I can no longer enjoy it.

Favourite line: “[Girlfriend] Jennifer had slept with Chris Fish, the keyboard player for Fishbone, one of our brother L.A. groups, while I was out on tour. But it still didn’t compute with me. I could have seen if she’d slept with Angelo Moore, who was the good-lucking lead singer. But Chris Fish—a guy with bad dreadlocks and worse fashion sense?”

Prince: The Beautiful Ones
Written by Prince and edited posthumously by Dan Piepenbring

Another music memoir that is a little less linear as it was only partially written and still in the production phase before Prince’s untimely death in 2016. The book offers a brief glimpse into the life and mind of a legendary performer who carried his air of mystery into legend. The book is interesting but at times hard to read, as one of Prince’s requests was that visual icons - similar to when he changed his name to an unpronounceable symbol - be used in place of actual words.

Favourite line: “I like dreaming now more than I used to. Some of my friends have passed away, and I see them in my dreams. It’s like they are here, and the dreams are just like waking sometimes.”

Art is how we decorate space. Music is how we decorate time.

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When I was twelve-years-old, I wanted to be like Mariah Carey. I, of course, had her albums (or, rather, cassette tapes) and would try to emulate—poorly—her famous five octave vocal range while dancing in the basement. But like every little girl seeking someone to idolize, I also wanted to look like her. By replicating her appearance, I felt I could also pass as beautiful and talented and thus become respected and beloved rather than skirting the edge of being an outsider in the notoriously fickle arena of junior high (which I was about to enter). The summer before starting at my new school, I begged my mom for a haircut and PERM(!). To my credit, a perm was still “of the time” and I wanted to make a statement. I needed to be a new person for this milestone event in my young life and it was all to start with my hair. She obliged and we went to a small, nondescript salon in the basement of a small office building in our neighbourhood. I shared an image of Mariah from her MTV Unplugged appearance (above) and told the stylist it was what I wanted to look like. She reviewed it briefly and asked me to sit down. Through age and experience, I would realize this response means someone doesn’t really give a fuck what you want but at the time I was still able to naively believe they cared.

I can’t remember how I felt when it was all done. My parents certainly made no comments that weren’t positive but that would be short-lived. During a visit to extended family, I overheard an aunt laugh and comment to another on “the bad perm” I had. Negatively commenting on a kid’s appearance within earshot is never something that adults should do, lest they internalize it and have it lead to a life-long complex, but it did have the benefit of preparing me for the reaction I would receive when I started school. Needless to say, my transformative appearance did turn me into a new person, as I wanted, just not the person I desired to be. I was not Mariah. I was Deborah … with really bad hair.

I relate this story as I am reading Mariah’s memoir The Meaning of Mariah Carey and it brought about a flood of 90s nostalgia for me. I pivoted towards other music as junior high and then high school progressed, with Courtney Love becoming the person I chose to emulate (I’m sure to the dismay of my parents) but childhood icons have a way of being part of our lives even as we move on. When I turned eighteen and started to visit nightclubs nearly every weekend, Mariah’s evolving, more urban sound continued to provide soundtrack in passing. Not to mention the fashion sense of the time which she led with now straightened hair and midriff-revealing tops and thigh-revealing skirts (which I now lack the body and confidence to pull off but am glad I did when I could). When she visited my hometown during the Emancipation of Mimi tour, I bought tickets and was entertained with one of the top three best concerts I’ve ever attended (with The Hives and M.I.A. being the other two, showing how diverse my music tastes evolved).

The book details what I long assumed. That the diva persona Mariah took on is mostly a one-sided act to a multi-dimensional artist. That appearances of having it all can betray the truth. That childhood trauma reverberates through the decades. There’s also candid talk about the notoriously shady music industry; her creative process and favourite part of writing a song; a toxic, stifling marriage; and, relationships that leave one longing, with Mariah admitting that her affair with baseball superstar Derek Jeter (unconsummated until divorce, she stresses) left her heartbroken for years about what could have been. Rarely do you see someone so vulnerable as within these pages and it is completely refreshing. Reading about her life as an adult made me relate on a level beyond the superficial. Rather than coveting her appearance, I now admire her resolve.

The Meaning of Mariah Carey
Written by Mariah Carey with Michaela Angela Davis

Favourite line: “But ours is a story of betrayal and beauty. Of love and abandonment. Of sacrifice and survival. I’ve emancipated myself from bondage several times, but there is a cloud of sadness that I suspect will always hang over me, not simply because of my mother but because of our complicated journey together.”

The Gift of Fear
Written by Gavin deBecker

I’ve always felt that a women’s superpower is her intuition. This book delves into why we should listen to that instinct, breaking down the strategies and tricks people use to let your guard down leaving you vulnerable. The author will teach you how to use fear to your advantage by recognizing potentially dangerous situations and (predictable) behaviours in a number of scenarios.

Favourite line: “Nature’s greatest accomplishment, the human brain, is never more efficient or invested than when its host is at risk.”

On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft
Written by Stephen King

During these times of social distancing, self-isolation and tons of newly-found free time, I’ve been motivating myself to learn more about the art and craft of writing. In addition to taking a workshop with one of my favourite authors, Anne Lamott, I’ve also read through tips from another, very well-known master: Stephen King. This book acts as a brief memoir into the life of the famous horror and supernatural author, his childhood and struggles (including the 1999 accident in which a distracted driver almost left him paralyzed) but the other half of it’s too-short 291 pages is straight-up insight into how to write in a way that connects and illuminates. Highly recommended.

Favourite line: “I distrust plot for two reasons: first, because our lives are largely plotless, even when you add in all our reasonable precautions and careful planning; second, because I believe plotting and the spontaneity of real creation aren’t compatible.”

My favourite Mariah song (written about Derek Jeter while still married to Tommy Mottola):

Book Recommendations

I’ve been binging the work of Chris Ware of late. Maybe because it’s been a depressing summer in a relentlessly depressing year but his craft of masterfully illustrating the minutae of life, frame by frame, through happiness and heartbreak has provided a strange sense of solace as the days of our lives start to feel both repetitive yet unpredictable.

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Jimmy Corrigan: The Smartest Kid On Earth

This is Chris Ware’s first work and is often regarded as revolutionizing the graphic novel medium. The tale centres around a meek, awkward character fearful of change and the unknown who lives a routine life of social isolation (outside of the relationship with his overbearing mother). As the story unfolds, Jimmy receives an invitation to meet his father who we learn abandoned him years earlier. The impacts of intergenerational trauma are explored against a time-travelling backdrop that goes back to the gorgeously illustrated Chicago World’s Fair of 1893. Jimmy Corrigan is probably my least favourite of Ware’s output but presents a good starting point to truly appreciate the later achievements of Rusty Brown and his magnum opus Building Stories.

Favourite line: “One’s memory, however, likes to play tricks after years of cold storage. Some recollections remain as fresh as the moment they were minted. While others seem to crumble into bits, dusting their neighbours with a contaminating not of uncertainty.”

Building Stories

Whenever someone asks me for a book recommendation, this is at the top of my list. It’s not so much a book, as it is an experience – a completely immersive visual, tangible and emotional journey through the lives of several individuals who at one time lived in the same apartment. At one point, the narrative is even told from the perspective of the building itself. I reviewed this back in February 2014 but bought it again after sharing my copy because it is THAT good.

Favourite line: all of it is a masterpiece. It is one of my top three books of all time.

Rusty Brown

Rusty Brown is Chris Ware’s latest and continues his study of regular people living regular lives, the secrets we keep and the unspoken desires we covet. It is a collection of comics about a few different characters who all intersect for a short time at a high school in Omaha, Nebraska, and how their interwoven journeys carry forward in time. There is a palpable ennui emanating from these pages; as with all of his work, the artwork is stunning but the emotional impact of the story itself is what remains with the reader. You don’t read Chris Ware when you want to feel good. You read his work when you simply want to feel.

Favourite line: the tale of “W.K. “Woody” Brown” and the soul-crushing glimpse into settling into a life of longing and regret.