A Fan’s Notes
Lisa Hamilton
Word Count 1236
As a baby, I could scream like Janis, “Cry cry baby!,” and hold my breath longer than Bill Withers held that record-breaking note on Lovely Day. As a pre-schooler, I woke up at five every morning, bouncing off the walls. My mother would put me in the basement, lock the door and go back to bed. I‘d sit on the floor with boxes of 45 records and my record player. I had three much older sisters, and my parents were old enough to be my grandparents, so we had quite a music catalog: pop, rock, soul, country, jazz, blues, opera, show tunes, movie soundtracks, Disney, you name it.
I loved the 45s best and had all the labels memorized. I’d pop Crimson and Clover into my Close And Play record player. When it came to the end part, where things get super psychedelic, and he sings “Crimson and clover, over and over,” I would try to re-create the special vocal effect by rubbing my fingers up and down on the outside of my throat. I thought The Beatles were okay, but a bit too Pop for me. I needed more- more grit, more dirt, more soul. The sweetest spot was garage–The Standells, The Seeds, The Sonics–that was the music that hit me in the hips. I would shake my head, jump up and down, and move my arms frantically like a dancer from one of those cautionary movies about the dangers of marijuana and LSD. The simple pleasure of being bad was a real delight. Eventually, I would smell coffee brewing. And when I heard the sound of my mother’s spoon hitting the sides of her coffee cup as she stirred, my stomach began to twist.
My family watched the television variety shows at night. I desperately wanted to be a Go-Go dancer in a cage, wearing a bikini, with neon flowers and words like “peace” and “love” painted on my body, like Goldie Hawn on Laugh-In. One night, Tom Jones introduced the musical act on his show and I heard a terrifying voice yell, “I AM THE GOD OF HELLFIRE AND I BRING YOU, FIRE!” What followed was the most amazing combo of everything 6-year-old me loved: Hammond b3 organ, psychedelic weirdness, garage filth, and danceability. The scary being with the voice wore face paint, a white sheet like a ghost, and was surrounded by flames. This felt dangerous! As the Crazy World of Arthur Brown sang “Fire,” I was terrified, traumatized, and TURNED ON. I had no idea what was going on in my preschool body. I got a sharp pain in my groin, and I leaned into that sensation. It became my drug. I wanted more music, more gyrating, more fear, more excitement! Rock ‘n Roll music was my first best friend, my companion, my escape, my soulmate, my lover, my savior, my life.
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On Friday afternoons in Mr. Jonasson’s fifth-grade class, we were allowed to put on records and dance. Debbie, Jenny, Denise, and the rest of the girls would put on Sonny & Cher or The Jackson 5 then dance in a circle. After school, they would go to Jenny’s house. Her mom had died, and her dad was at work so it was cool to hang out there. I wanted to be invited, but never was.
One Friday, I decided to show them how cool I was. I would share my music with them, and they would realize they needed me there to teach them a few things about Rock ‘n Roll. I can still feel the confidence and excitement I felt as I put the needle on the record, heard that initial swoosh and crackle, and Jethro Tull’s “Bungle In The Jungle” start to play. “Walking through forests of palm tree apartments/ Scoff at the monkeys who live in their dark tents/ Down by the waterhole, drunk every Friday/ Eating their nuts, saving their raisins for Sunday.”
I was beaming, grooving and waiting for the chorus so we could all dance to it.
But the girls shrieked and yelled “EEEEEW! OH MY GOD! WHAT IS THAT?!” I did not get invited, and I was treated like I had the Ick forever after.
The boys, on the other hand, loved it. Suddenly, I loved boys. Each one came with his own soundtrack. Robby: Zappa & The Doors. Dave: The Rolling Stones “Out Of Our Heads. ” John: Black Sabbath. We went to five nights of Ozzy at the Garden. Todd: The Stones’ “Sticky Fingers.” He would smoke dust and rock out to that crap. Nick was Irish and prone to depression. He loved The Smithereens, The Replacements, and The Pretenders. When he was in love he listened to Bob Marley; when he was sad he played the tin whistle. We saw The Sugarcubes at The Ritz together. He took a hit off a joint someone handed him and passed out cold on the floor. Einer, the male lead singer, called us stupid Americans and said we danced like chickens.
The boys loved rock ‘n roll, but they didn’t LIVE rock ‘n roll like I did. They didn’t hang out with Sylvain Sylvain at The Continental, Richard Hell and Gyda Gash on St Marks, or The Ramones on the Atlantic Beach boardwalk. They wouldn’t dream of not showing up to work because A Front was playing a late show at CBGBs, or wish they had been there for Television and The Patti Smith Group. They wouldn’t hop on a train to another state because a friend had a last-minute extra ticket to see Robert Plant and Stevie Ray Vaughn. They were not spending their paycheck on a flight to Holland to see Patti Smith in Utrecht instead of paying their rent. They were not bartering with a cabby, an ounce of weed for a ride from Memphis to New Orleans so they could see Sonic Youth open for Neil Young & Crazy Horse at the Lakefront Arena. They were not me.
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When my son Johnny turned ten, we took a road trip to Nashville and Memphis. We went to the Grand Ole Opry, and the Johnny Cash Museum (his namesake). We went to Easter Sunday services at Al Green’s church in Memphis, (where I met Smokey Robinson’s cousin in the bathroom) followed by Sun Studios and Graceland. Stax wasn’t open. We played a game in the car where we would keep changing the radio station randomly and would have to sing whatever song came on, whether we knew the lyrics or not. I was really good at this game because I had great pattern recognition and could predict how the lyrics and melody would go. Johnny has the same love for music as I do. So he was second best. On this road trip our bond became even stronger than it already was, and we owe it all to rock ‘n roll.
When it comes down to it, the loves of my life were not the boys I loved. The loves of my life are my babies and Stevie Wonder, Bill Withers, Al Green, Mick Jagger, Patti Smith, Neil Young, Jimi Hendrix, Elvis Costello, David Bowie, The Ramones, The Stooges, Chuck D, Mos Def, The Beasties, Bikini Kill, and all the Riot Grrrls. They got me through all the tough times. And when I was alone and isolated with no one to love or love me, it was their music that kept me hangin’ on.
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Lisa is a New York born and bred Metalsmith, Wordsmith, and Full Spectrum Doula. Both her art and doula work are focused on racial, social, sexual, and reproductive justice and equity. She lives with her family in Brooklyn.