The church of alt rock
In sneakers and Soffe shorts, I was born again
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Imagine my heart as a charming but tacky roadside motel. We had a visitor recently. A rusty bell above the door announced an entrance. Depression, my oldest collaborator, was at the front desk and feeling extra feisty.
Before I knew what was coming over me, I was queueing up Nirvana and pulling on cheeky black cut-off shorts, a stylistic nod to a six-year-younger version of myself lacking in aspirations. My finger shoved at the volume-up button on our waterproof bluetooth speaker. The apathetic, cool verses and loud, energetic choruses of “You Know You’re Right” were the sounds I felts like marinating in.
Prickly guitar notes plucked at the headstock pulled me right back to the opening track of Nirvana, a star player in my middle school music collection. “You Know You’re Right” had been unreleased before this compilation, but it’s not like I knew that. I bought this greatest hits CD somewhere — The FYE at the mall? The Best Buy in the town over? — and was learning as I went. “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was of course the most familiar to me, but there were other tracks I recognized too, probably because of my older sister who would occasionally share valuable information. Nirvana was name I knew, one way or another, so when I saw this compelling black CD on some recent release shelf somewhere, I had to invest.
Aside from failed attempts to get into their early stuff at the insistence of an ex, I haven’t had a Nirvana phase since eight or ninth grade. But there is a song for every mood, and as I spiraled unexpectedly I craved Kurt. His voice mutter-moaned at me as I frowned into the mirror. I pushed pieces of my hair behind my ears, and pulled others out in front, trying to make my greasy hair look as mullety as possible in order to indicate my astringent state of mind.
My heavy, booted feet dragged to the chuggy tempo of the song as I tried to walk out my plummeting mood. The walk didn’t work, and neither did the rest of the decisions I made that night. After a challenging 24 hours, I managed to take a constructive look at my actions and make a plan to slowly make my way towards a half-full glass.
In eighth grade, I was on the volleyball team. The hour between school and practice was a dull window of time that I filled with albums by Nirvana, Weezer, The Vines, or mixed CDs from my older, public school friends. One afternoon, I sat in the hallway by the gym, my back against the wall, my Discman in my lap, and my CD book by my side. A figure appeared in my peripheral, and I looked up to find my Bible teacher asking me what I was listening to.
My Bible teacher was young — in his mid- to late-20s maybe, but you never know with an elder from the past. He was young enough to be the “cool” teacher, the one that my classmates — the boys, in particular — wanted to impress. He was also the basketball coach, which made him obnoxiously on par with popular high school boys.
Assuming all of this made him a probable fan of contemporary music, I was pleased with the opportunity to show off. But when I stretched out a hand holding the CD booklet of Nirvana, his face was not impressed. Instead, his fat lips tightened into a disciplinary pucker, and he instructed me to gather my things and follow him to his classroom.
As I shuffled behind him in my sneakers and Soffe shorts, I experienced mixed feelings. I was alarmed, and afraid of being in trouble. Being “bad” at school always made me feel like I was losing something I couldn’t get back. Like every sin on my record was another lost virginity.
On the other hand, I was just coming into my self-identifying misfit phase and was delightedly appalled at the thought that my misunderstood rock music would warrant such charades.
My Bible teacher let off performative, cop-like energy as he stared me down from across his desk. It was as though he had to discipline one more child that week to meet his quota. He had to sell it to himself as much as he did me. Or maybe the principal had recently asked him to be stricter about preventing outside culture from penetrating the freshly built walls of our Christian academy. Or maybe he had recently caught part of the music video for “Heart-Shaped Box” and disliked the skinny old man in a Santa hat climbing onto a crucifix.
Whatever the reason, he was worked up. And he did not like my Nirvana CD.
“Do you know what ‘Nirvana’ means, Katie?” he asked, voice tight and quiet, looking at me as though I had committed treason.
“Not really, I guess,” I said, staring down at the school logo screen printed across my chest.
“Nirvana,” he said, was a blasphemous term from a different and incorrect religion. It was a dangerous thing for me to associate with. It was not appropriate to have at school. He would not be returning my CD.
The incident left me pissed off and suspicious. It struck me as a red flag before I knew what red flags were. My Bible teacher’s response to Nirvana colored my sickeningly good taste in alt-rock and emo music a bold shade of defiance. He confirmed my suspicion that, yes, I was a loner in the margins of our school’s tiny society.
In ninth grade, I transferred to a public school to get away from the oppressively small class I’d grown up with. Nirvana was still in my rotation, but I had expanded my taste. Bands like Fall Out Boy and Saves The Day came first, followed by screamers like Senses Fail and Emery. These boys seemed to be articulating some thing that I could not. They made loud statement about their nonstandard identities, and I wanted to clarify mine.
One of my favorite contemporary artists was Hawthorne Heights. Each morning, in the 15 minutes I allotted to prepare for school, I would place my burnt copy of Ohio is for Lovers in my blue boom box and crank the volume.
I kept the bedroom door closed, but the arpeggiated guitar and throaty screams seeped through. While dad packed his lunch, Casey screamed “Cut my wrists and black my eyes!” My brother picked his socks from the drawer while a drum fill led into the breakdown. In the dining room, my mom gathered up our things to the same intrusive soundtrack from the day before.
There are many parental gestures of patience and love that are touching in hindsight. The total, agreeable acceptance of my morning emo routine is one of them. No one ever made a fuss about the way I forced a particular tone onto the house before 7:30 a.m. If they had, it might have amplified my need for defiance. Instead, I came to feel like my statement had been made, and eventually learned to use earbuds.
There is a reason I would not still be attending FCC if I still lived in Springfield.