"Lust For Life" by Iggy Pop

By Chris

I remember the movie Trainspotting, because that's where I first heard "Lust for Life." I was 15 years old sitting in my suburban mall's movie theater. I was a socially awkward teen, full of angst and raging hormones. I felt alienated from my Abercrombie wearing peers with their love of Dave Matthews Band, classic rock, and gangsta rap. As Iggy pounded his way into my head with declarations of over indulgence and raw emotion, I knew this was what I'd been looking for. The funny thing about coming to that conclusion right then and there was that I saw the movie with my mom, younger sister, and younger brother. I had lied to my mom in order to get her to take me to it. I told her that it was an action movie, and starred Sylvester Stallone. Afterward, I felt bad for exposing my then 9 year old sister to graphic depictions of sex, drugs, and violence. But it was worth it.

What I associate with that song is me coming out of my shell. I remember my best friend and I getting into punk. "Lust for Life" got me started going to local shows at VFWs, and churches. Of course, there was hair dye, silk screening, mail order, and drinking. There was getting sent to the office for wearing shirts that were inappropriate for school. However, when I got out of high school, and went onto college in the city, my interest in punk faded. I ran out of what was driving me in that direction, and my dedication to punk was replaced by interest in other types of music.

Listening to "Lust for Life" twelve years later, I like the song, but it doesn't have the same punch. I remember "Lust for life" as my go to song for when things were tough and I was upset. It was a reminder not to take things too seriously. Yet as much as I loved that song and despite all the music critics who talk about how important punk is... I'm still a bit embarrassed by my punk phase. Mainly its because I wish I would've went through it faster. I'm kind of a slow learner in terms of what makes me happy. A bit stubborn, too. My senior year in high school, I remember a supervisor at a fast food restaurant I was working at giving me a backhanded compliment. We were having one of those "philosophical" conversations that's painful to recall. At some point in the conversation I declared that I was a punk. He told me he was surprised, because I seemed to have more going for me than that.

"Down" by 311

by Neal Dusedau

I have a confession to make. In 1995 I told my friends that my greatest wish was for grunge to finally die and let my incredibly novel idea for the next wave of music take over. You guessed it, I prayed for a day when rap and rock would mix together to create the ultimate form of music. To this day, I still blame myself for what my simple request did to the world.

But at the time it made sense-- I was in need of more bands like Rage Against the Machine. If I could do it over, I'd never pray for what happened to the late 90s music scene, but I swear, at the time I couldn't predict what was going to happen. And it all started with 311.

311 was the answer to my prayers. When "Down" first hit the radio in July of '96, I bought the album and then I bought their t-shirt to celebrate my wish come true. Could this just be the beginning of a trend? Were there more bands mixing power cords and rap? I needed to find them. Ah! Sublime! they scratched on their records. Not quiet rapping, but still pretty good, the forces of rap and rock were mixing.

I spent the summer after freshman year working at our town's local day camp. I walked the mile to camp every morning with my yellow Sony discman in my hand playing the 311 album. And while "All Mixed Up" and "Stay Home" were good, they didn't rock (and rap) me like "Down" did. I had never heard such cranked up crunching guitars. I think they gave me the energy to deal with obnoxious eleven-year-old campers refusing to participate in the sport, game, or craft of the day.

"Down" was the kind of song that ballplayers play when they're at bat. It rocks really hard without being divisive. It's poppy while being aggressive and the rap lyrics are offensive to exactly no one. So how do I feel about it now? I want to say it sucks, but that wouldn't be honest since I just listened to it 4 times in a row without smashing my face apart. I guess it's kind of a good song-- but the kind that's only good if you haven't listened to it since 1996.

During the summer of '96 I tired of 311 faster than my campers tired of track & field day (Run! Run! Run all of your energy out before lunch-- nope, they were way too smart to fall for that). Soon after 311 left my life, I realized my prayer had been answered and I was satisfied. The combination didn't exactly work, but it was a worthy experiment. Thanks for the help, God!

The story should end there. Everything was back to normal. Nope, I'm a Jew dealing with an old testament God. How dare I not relish the rap and the rock mixed together? Throw it away after a few months? Not on God's watch. The following summer Three Dollar Bill, Yall$ was released and my perfect dream became the state of music's worst nightmare. Limp Bizkit took over and led the way to a bunch of bands that I don't remember except to say they were much worse than 311 and made you change the radio station twenty seconds into any of their songs.

Makes me think that if I had prayed for world peace, all war would have ended, but then the overpopulation that would ensue would starve us all. Too extreme?

"Fly" by Sugar Ray

by Katie

History will be unkind to Sugar Ray. Their legacy will undoubtedly be of a SoCal punk band (if anyone even bothers to remember that they were once "punk" at all) that cashed in on their one radio-friendly song and continued a Phelps-like winning streak of mom-rock hits. Not to mention the fact that their adorrrrrable frontman parlayed his music career into the totally credible hard-hitting news program Extra and the gripping documentary, The Pussycat Dolls Present: The Search for the Next Pussycat Doll.

You may not remember, but "Fly", before it became a cheesy adult contemporary hit, was played on the much cooler alternative stations. It was one of those songs that transitioned from the alternative-rock radio stations to the Top 40 once it began to gain steam. And as soon as that juggernaut started, WATCHOUTBABY, cuz this shitrollercoaster ain't got no brakes.

I don't remember much about my 10th grade chemistry class other than the time my teacher brought in his acoustic guitar and played a song he had penned himself about the mole (the scientific unit of measure, not the creature or skin condition, as noted in the lyrics). But I do have one very happy memory of being in an especially great mood because all morning I had "Fly" stuck in my head. It was one of those few stuck-in-the-head moments that's the opposite of annoying - it's a song you really truly like, and every time it plays in your head, your brain tingles. The best way I can describe this is that it feels exactly like a second glass of white wine.

Over the summer of 1997, "Fly" became a huge hit and eventually became pretty annoying. By the time school started again in the fall, the captain of my soccer team had added it to the "SIKE-UP" mixtape she made for practices, at which point I knew the song was truly dead to me. This may have been my first taste of having the feeling that I had liked a band FIRST but it was ruined because now these unhip jocks were into them.

I would also just like to mention that this mixtape also included "Tubthumping" by Chumbawumba.

You know what, though? "Fly" is a fucking awesome song. Throw this on at a party, and people will go fucking nuts, I guarantee it. If you sing this at karaoke, you will have gained the admiration of men and women alike.

Addendum to this story: Sugar Ray put out a new album last week. Seriously. Epic wins bookended by epic Fails; hakuna matata, amigos.

"Sullivan Street" by The Counting Crows

by Jodi Hildebrand

Yesterday, while bumming around in our den/office/guest room/music room, my boyfriend picked a song from MY iTunes. As the nice acoustic strums started, I said out loud, “Ooh, I like this, what is it?” Seconds later, the whine of Adam Duritz kicked in, and a surprising shame washed over me.

In efforts to purge our house of unwanted crap, we’ve been getting rid of old CD’s, Books and DVD’s, and before purging, I’ve tossed a few old favorites on the computer, just to have in case. (In case of a 90’s party? Who knows?) One such CD was the Counting Crows live album “LIVE ACROSS A WIRE” including a set from the VH1 show The Ten Spot and one from MTV’s Unplugged ( Do they even DO Unplugged anymore?)

I will admit…I loved the Counting Crows. Folky Guitar Rock, “cool” look, and, what I’ve realized is KEY to any music I love, TOTAL SING-A-LONG-ABILITY. Tell me you can listen to one minute and NOT be screetching “Rouuuuuuunnnnnnnnnd Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaeeeere, we all look the same.” “Mr. Jones” will make you dance. “Long December” will make you cry. “Rain King”? Come on!

Sooo, as my man and I serenaded each other with “Sullivan Street”, amazed that we both knew all the words after all these years, I realized that, today, to me, Adam Duritz’s voice might be one of the most annoying in history. But to my 13-year old self, he was a poet. His voice filled with all the sorrow, angst and all around whininess that 13 year old girls have. He sounds like an insecure girl who was growing out her short hair-cut. He sounds like a busload of chlorinated swim team kids.

I went to a Counting Crows concert after the release of their second album with a couple of the above-mentioned chlorinated kids. (LIVE opened for them. I hope someone writes a post about LIVE someday.) We’d just gotten our licenses (In fact, I don’t think I even had mine yet) and drove OURSELVES to the show. Whoa. Duritz was so drunk (or whatever) he was falling all over the stage. Trying to stand on speakers, but unable to keep his balance. But it didn’t really matter. We didn’t need him anyway. We were annoying enough. An entire ampitheater of teenagers and moms, squealing his lyrics back to him (and now in retrospect, sounding better?). Dancing to Mr. Jones, nodding our heads dramatically to Long December. We didn’t even notice when he forgot the words, because we knew them well enough. This was really good sing-a-long music.

Yesterday, in my grown-up den/office/guest room/music room, it was still good sing-a-long music. It was a much more sarcastic, sing-a-long, but for a few minutes we took the way home that leads to Sullivan Street. (Oh, and then listened to the rest of the album too…)

JUVENILE – "BACK THAT ASS UP"

by Dan Cohen

The year was 1999 and Juvenile was on top of the world. Unfortunately, Dan Cohen was not. Juvenile was fresh out of the gates of fame with his newfound rap stardom, Dan was just another sexually confused cog in the 4,000 that attended Poway High School. Juvenile had ice, bitches, a 37-city tour and a hit single. Dan had an average SAT score that sent his parents into deep concern, no ice, no bitches and was more concerned about the impending Y2K scare than he cared to admit.

Dan spent his days just trying to blend in to some sort of relaxed Southern Californian code he never understood. He had been scared into said conformity by what years later he realized was an immature overreaction to a horrible middle school experience. He spent his nights studying, rowing (so that whole “blending in” thing wasn’t working out all that well), conquering every Nintendo64 game known to man and wondering when he’d actually score the kind of babe the Beach Boys sang about. Dan was raised by parents of the 60s. He had an affinity for classic rock and was allergic to modern music. If you wanted recent, it wouldn’t get any further than the 80’s. He didn’t really understand the current scene. Grunge music sounded way too angry. “ What’s so bad about growing up in Seattle?” Years prior at his bar mitzvah, a mini-mosh-pit was birthed by “Smells Like Teen Spirit” which ended with a friend fracturing his ankle. The rap & hip-hop phenomenon had more expletives than he cared for. And let’s be serious, boasting about groupies and lots of money were problems Dan wish he had. “Stop bragging, you lucky assholes.”

The first time Dan heard what would be Juvenile’s career-defining anthem “Back That Ass Up” was the Homecoming dance in the fall of 1999. He had taken a girl, whom he had a massive crush on, to the dance. Her saying yes was unexpected, even if she was a close friend. Little Deuce Coop, he don’t know what he’s got. And now, the night he had waited for… was lost to wondering if, how, when he should make a move that he was totally unprepared to make. The ten couple limo, the Hungry Hunter steak restaurant and subsequent dance were all going by way too fast. No thanks to Dan’s flagrant insecurities: the constant, internal back and forth. “We’re just friends. Right? RIGHT?!” The obsessive question found itself back into his head time and time again, but never followed by a affirmative answer. It was as if he wasn’t hearing the music, while everyone (hot date included) around him danced their hearts out. He wasn’t able to enjoy his go-to moves like the robot, the shopping cart, and of course, the I-don’t-know-how-to-moonwalk-but-I’m-going-to-try-anyway-and-when-I-fail-I’ll-turn-it-back-into-the-robot. And of course, his request for “Safety Dance” had gone unnoticed by the DJ. Dan simply wasn’t enjoying himself…

And then the synthesized intro for Juvenile came on. Dan, a lifelong fan of Depeche Mode, immediately became interested by such a choice introduction. “Cash Money Records?” And without warning, a wave of white kids with an ethnicity-crisis started shaking in all directions from lessons that could only have come from the TRL video countdown and, if their parents didn’t block the channel out like Dan’s did, BET. There was a sexual awakening in the Poway High School gym. Dan smiled, his date smiled back. And there it was. The robot. The shopping cart. The I-don’t-know-how-to-moonwalk-but-I’m-going-to-try-anyway-and-when-I-fail-I’ll-turn-it-back-into-the-robot. It was as if Juvenile was playing Dan’s N64 and Dan Cohen was the on-screen hero. Juvenile dropped some beats that unlocked a secret code of awesomeness that brought Dan’s character to the next level. For 3 and a half minutes, Dan felt like part of something. Something that couldn’t have been provided by any amount of pretending to blend in, no Billabong shirt or Rusty surfboard, no Etnies shoes or Varsity jacket, no alcohol (well, yes, maybe alcohol), no limo ride or high five could’ve brought the satisfaction that Juvenile preached (fact: he would later become a preacher). At this point in his life Dan had never smoked marijuana, but at that moment, he was high.

As the night grew on, he ultimately wouldn’t make a move (or enough of a movement to be interpreted as a move). Lord knows he thought about it. And after the dance and after party, he came home and played N64 against his little brother who stayed up well past his bedtime up to hear the details about what he thought was sure to be the loss of Dan’s virginity (“Did you at least make out with her?” “No dude. It wasn’t like that.” “Lame.” “You’re lame.” “You pussed out!” “Fuck you, I’m going to bed.” “I take it back. One more game.” “Okay fine.”) The sense of disappointment was there, but gently mixed with a sense of enjoyment. It was this ability to take away the good things of the evening, to back that ass up, that Dan had learned from Juvenile.

One year later, Dan would get one brief glimmer of first base contact with this crush at his little brother’s bar mitzvah. It probably didn’t happen to Juvenile, as metaphorical as that would’ve been. After the Nirvana incident of 1995, Dan’s parents took control of the set-list. And besides, a lot of the kids were only 13 and didn’t understand rap the way that a senior like Dan might. “Posers.” Whatever the case, the DJ did play “Safety Dance.”