The Radio Raised Me
Katherine Turman
Word Count 1223
Bob Dylan ruined me. Not in any #metoo or relationship-heartbreak way. But he and his ilk—male musicians, especially from the freewheelin’ hard rock 1970s--I’m looking at YOU, Skynyrd!—warped my romantic sensibilities.
“Tangled Up in Blue” came out in 1975. I was 12. I don’t necessarily remember the song from then. I didn’t find Dylan attractive. (Or a “babe” in my pre-teen SoCal parlance) But at some point, the lyrical storyline—about a woeful parting on a dark night, a chance meeting years later, the pair having become an oh-so-glamourous drifter working on a fishing boat and a stripper gyrating under a spotlight—became the height of tragic romance for me. To mix song metaphors, I wanted to lay across a big brass bed and have a version of Dylan, who looked like Shaun Cassidy, read me words “written by an Italian poet from the 13th century.”
Did I make that Dylan-instilled dream of ill-fated lust-love come true? Oh yes--the Los Angeles 1980s hair metal version at least. (Hey, he invoked Abelard and Heloise, shredded on guitar, and wore skimpy leopard print underwear beneath his skin-tight leather pants. Seriously, I saw them when he was changing in the Troubadour dressing room.)
Despite a politically liberal upbringing and well-read, cosmopolitan parents, “Sweet Home Alabama” remains a turn-it-up listen, with Lynyrd Skynyrd and their long-haired Southern rock hard-living, right-leaning lifestyles a perennial--some would say guilty--pleasure.
“What’s Your Name,?” a song about having a one-night-stand with a touring musician, was a favorite. I mean, the band dude doesn’t even remember her name the next morning. But he wants to see her again! “Can I get you a taxi home / It sure was grand / When I come back here next year/ I want to see you again.” Hello, self-esteem calling, are we reaching?
Let’s not even get into “And if you can't be with the one you love honey / Love the one you're with.” Even when I spoke to (more on that later) the song’s writer, Stephen Stills, and found that the song wasn’t necessarily about cheating/free love (ok, sex), it was still a refrain in my mind.
I understand these ideas and lyrics are cringe-worthy AF to many in today’s parlance. I don’t know how or why the themes of these songs became my guideposts for “love.” As the only child living with my divorced mom, the radio raised me. The Los Angeles airwaves had it all; my pre- and teen years tuned into the FM sounds of The Stray Cats, Queen, Aerosmith, Devo, The Pretenders, Jethro Tull. The local bands were Motley Crue, X, Rage Against the Machine, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Jane’s Addiction, and I saw and interviewed them all.
I did a lot of silly things in the name of rock ‘n’ roll and “love” from the age of 16, to, well, now… but one thing I didn’t do was lose self-respect. (Ok, rarely.) As one famous man sang, regrets, I’ve had a few… but too few to mention in 2,000 words. The Sunset Strip in the ‘80s was one of my playgrounds. My fake ID got me into the clubs that were 21 and over and let me drink at the 16+ venues. (Until it got confiscated at the Music Machine, maybe at a Spinal Tap concert? How’s that for ironic—fake band, fake ID.)
As my married-three-times father used to say, it can be difficult to have your vocation be your avocation. My vocation? A J-school graduate who turned her writing talents to music journalism. “How about the Wall Street Journal?” opera fan dad would carefully suggest. But I was too busy interviewing Nirvana, Slayer, Ice-T, and Mavis Staples and editing at a Larry Flynt-published rock mag. (I’m nothing if not diverse.)
It was my goal to understand the minds and souls of the music makers who played such a big part in molding me into who I am. Who put into words what I couldn’t. To find new bands and music that meant something to me and share them with my readers was my raison d’etre. It’s been true since the 1980s and remains true for me today when I am certainly not the youngest person in the room anymore.
But, as Elton John put it: I’m still standing. Why? Partially: Ethics. In any career or life, they’re crucial. Especially in the still-sexist world of rock journalism, where the word groupie has been applied to any woman connected with the music business. I rose in my career by being able to “speak musician,” but not “do” the musicians, though there were opportunities and sometimes desire. In my twenties, I’d laugh off the flirtations or invitations, my professional reputation as great a concern as my thorough research, solid nut grafs and pithy ledes.
I did date musicians… just not ones I was doing any journalistic business with. Which of course resulted in struggling musician boyfriends (and then a bass-playing husband!) who often resented my interviewing, going on tour with, and in some cases, becoming friends with the rock stars that they themselves weren’t. But my dates/bfs didn’t mind being my plus-one at concerts.
In my case, being a woman in music and music journalism sometimes comes with a patina of defensiveness, though respect rather than disdain has been my usual reception. A recent Wall Street Journal book review is one I would have sent to my father, a way of trying to justify my career choice. “All good writing about music springs from obsession,” wrote Larry Blumenfeld. “A melody reminds us of the past. Or sounds fresh. Or summons both feelings at once. We listen again and again. We need to know more.”
Finding that “more” in most occupations doesn’t often involve sex ‘n’ drugs ‘n’ rock ‘n’ roll. Over the decades, some shenanigans seemed almost inevitable and enjoyable, adventures that weren’t career- or life-threatening. So many artists I’ve interviewed -- including Scott Weiland from Stone Temple Pilots, Guns N’ Roses, Kurt Cobain, Layne Staley from Alice in Chains, Taylor Hawkins, Soundgarden’s Chris Cornell—have died, or come awfully close more than once. Whatever self-preservation gene I have, I’m grateful for it. It allows me to love and chronicle the music without becoming subsumed by the appetite for destruction that possesses so many music makers, from Whitney Houston to G.G. Allin. (Don’t look him up.)
In the early 90s, I was in a hotel room in Portland, Oregon with a band I was touring with for a few days to chronicle their life on the road. Pre-gig, the (very handsome) drummer was just out of the shower, his waist-length hair damp. Shirtless, he sat on the bed and asked me to brush it. I sat behind him on the edge of the bed, my legs wrapped around his thighs and brushed. Titillating? Indeed. Did either of us make a move? No. The tension and mystery were a small thrill that became a silly-sweet memory. Even that delightfully hairy moment was further than any “professional” relationship should have gone, a boundary crossed that certainly wouldn’t have happened had I been a male journalist. But the lines are often slightly blurrier in rock 'n' roll, and occasionally one foot might go over that line. It can be a slippery slope, but I wear lug-sole boots, so the traction doesn't let me slide too far.
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Katherine is a Los Angeles native who currently resides in Brooklyn. She’s co-author of the critically acclaimed book Louder Than Hell: The Definitive Oral History of Metal, published by HarperCollins. Her articles have appeared in Entertainment Weekly, the Village Voice, The Los Angeles Times Rolling Stone, SPIN, Billboard, Variety, ‘TEEN, Mother Jones, and many other outlets.