Dear Cadence, Part Five: Find Your Passion

This is the latest installment in my memoir project, written as a series of letters to my future daughter. Here are the previous entries: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, and Part Four

From the moment I emerged from the womb, I was obsessed with music.

Well, maybe not from that exact moment. I was probably preoccupied with, you know, learning how to breathe air and stuff.

But music was my first love and first language. I remember humming little songs to myself as I spun around, my first dabblings in songwriting. I didn’t know how to write those songs down, as I was a literal toddler, but I loved making up little melodies and singing them to myself. My parents even got me a tiny Walkman with a “record” option and had me singing into it from time to time. I wish I knew whatever happened to those old cassettes. If I ever hit it big, those tapes would be worth millions.

Some of my favorite memories involved singing and dancing around pretending I was Dodger, a cool dog voiced by Billy Joel from an old Disney film called Oliver and Company. (If, by happenstance, you end up with a brother, his name will likely be Oliver. He is not named after this film. Let this be clear. Your brother was not named after a movie with a cool dog voiced by Billy Joel. I just liked the name, okay?) Sometimes my mom would work out and play stuff like Foo Fighters and the Backstreet Boys, which is probably considered oldies by the time you read this. While she would do this, I’d stand in the mirror and lip-synch to the songs, make-believing I was some kind of rock star.

The point being, music and performing have always been an integral part of my identity. Noting this, “Santa” gifted me my first guitar for my eighth Christmas. A year or two later, my parents signed me up for one-on-one guitar lessons with a young punk named Eric, who my mom thought was hot. I’d been kicked out of swimming, gymnastics, dance, and pretty much everything else due to my then-very-undiagnosed ADHD, but I couldn’t get kicked out of guitar lessons. And I didn’t want to be kicked out either! I took to the instrument like a seal to water, and while I didn’t practice as much as I should’ve (read: undiagnosed ADHD), I was a natural. The language and theory of music just made sense to me.

But there was more to my love of music than just the music itself. I loved the idea of sharing it with people. I would watch Behind the Music documentaries for hours on end all about the inner workings of bands I liked. Maybe it’s because I had trouble making friends and was hilariously unpopular as a kid, but I idolized the idea of having a musical found family. I craved the intimacy of working closely with other people who had the same goals and interests as me.

Still, music was very much my personal thing, until one fateful day when I realized I needed to perform, to share my music with people outside my inner circle. It was the first time I ever sang in front of an audience.

In seventh grade, we took an end-of-the-year field trip to the Motown Museum in Detroit. My days at that school were numbered — I’d convinced my parents to let me switch to a semi-private school to escape the constant bullying. Still, I had to get through this stupid trip, which actually was a welcome reprieve from my usual day of sitting in the library like a loser and actively trying to avoid contact with my peers.

The museum, nicknamed Hitsville, USA, was actually more like a small house than whatever you’re picturing, and it’s been said some of the greatest songs of all time had been recorded there. I don’t remember much about the field trip itself, except that in the recording studio, there was a giant hole in the ceiling. This was a reverb chamber, where recordings would be played into and recorded back in order to get a crisp echo effect. The tour guide wanted a student to demonstrate how it worked by singing beneath it. No one’s hands went up. A shiver ran down my spine.

I will never see these people again.

Meekly, I raised my hand and all eyes were on me, the class weirdo who never talked. I took my place underneath the reverb chamber and sang the chorus of my favorite Motown song, “My Girl” by the Temptations.

The silence that followed was deafening as dozens of wide eyes zoned in on me. Suddenly, the room erupted into applause. As I took my place back in the group, I was greeted with a flurry of “Woah, that was incredible!” Even my biggest bully asked me not to forget her when I won American Idol. For my last few days at that school, I was no longer the class pariah, but the class Mariah.

Things changed quickly once I discovered my niche in life. I started playing guitar and singing for literally anything I could weasel my way into. At my new school, I became “the voice” of the student population, singing the national anthem for every event and accompanying the jazz band with its vocal pieces. I even got to play (an obviously much whiter) Beyoncé in a choral performance of “Single Ladies,” leotard and all. I became a significantly more confident person with every performance under my belt.

Cadence, I don’t know what your calling will be. Considering who’s likely going into making you, you’ll probably be musically gifted as well. And incredibly smart. And beautiful. And probably have IBS, but you win some and you lose some. No matter what, I know your passion will find you one way or another. And once you find it, chase it with everything you’ve got.

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“Your Biggest Fan, This is Stan” (A Humble Critique of Obsessive Fandom)

It’s fitting that I write this as one of Taylor Swift’s songs plays on the radio at work. Not like I write this stuff on the clock or anything.

You see, Tay’s the catalyst for the events of this story. Or rather, her loyal army of stans.

My band had a show on Friday, hilariously enough competing with Taylor Swift’s show in Detroit. So I made this infographic as a joke to convince people to see us, a dinky ass local band, instead of her.

I know in humor you’re supposed to punch up, but in this case the punch was more of a playful nose-flick. Everyone in the band is a Swiftie, after all — we just thought it would be a funny way to drum up attention for the band and our show.

At first, we got a pretty hearty positive response, people saying we “won them over” and wishing us a good time at the show.

Then the stans came.

Suddenly, we were inundated with accusations of misogyny (hilarious in hindsight because we’re mostly women), homophobic (also hilarious because we’re mostly queer), and even mocking her mom’s cancer (I sure hope that stan warmed up before making that stretch). One of the “nicer” commenters asserted she’d seen her “three times on this tour” for less than her paycheck and has met her many times. The ones that hurt the most were accusations of us belittling a fellow artist — we would never attack another creator maliciously. Like, we made it clear in the caption that we were actually huge fans and meant no harm to Taylor.

But when you’re a stan, there’s no gray area. Make one perceived slight against their object of adoration, and you become public enemy number one.

Why do people do this?

I think it all comes back to the parasocial relationship people have with musicians. The beauty of music is that it’s a deeply personal medium that brings people together. That’s what drew me to music as a little autistic kid who had trouble socially. Music — and the people behind it — felt like friends to me. There’s a reason I’d make believe I was Bon Jovi and methodically watch anything related to them. In the end, music is what helped me connect to other people and build relationships that have lasted years.

But like nearly everything, there’s a flip side to that phenomenon. Take, for example, the song that gave stans their name — “Stan” by Eminem.

In my personal opinion, “Stan” is easily one of the most unnerving songs ever written. In it, a man describes his obsession with Eminem through a series of letters, culminating in him committing a murder-suicide after being let down by his idol. It’s absolutely chilling and worth listening to. In fact, I’ll link it here:

Another musical episode!

It’s almost funny how watered down the term “stan” has become — or has it? If it came down to it, would Swifties die for their queen? Would the BTS army kill for a bunch of cute guys from the other side of the world?

I’m almost afraid they would, and that’s because it’s happened before.

If you look at my YouTube subscriptions, you’ll find my two biggest interests to be music and true crime. Don’t worry — I’m not one of those weird Jeffrey Dahmer lovers or hybristophiliacs. I like the thrill of being scared, but fictional monsters don’t do it for me because my brain doesn’t register them as a threat. What does scare me is the fact that real life monsters exist, and are absolutely a threat. And every now and then, the stars align and I find something to watch that’s both music and true crime related.

Ever hear of the Bjork stalker? No?

Ricardo López was your average incel before the term even existed. He was a social recluse who retreated into the world of celebrities to dull the pain of not having many friends, let alone a girlfriend. His main fixation was the Icelandic singer Bjork, to whom he wrote many fan letters and considered her his muse. The obsession wasn’t sexual — he couldn’t envision her as anything but this pure, innocent figure.

So when she finally did get a boyfriend, and a black boyfriend at that (yup, he was kind of a racist too), Ricardo was furious. He wanted to send her straight to hell for her perceived slight against him. So, viewing the process as a sort of sick art project, he began filming a series of video diaries chronicling his plan to kill Bjork with bomb hidden within a book. Ultimately, he’d kill himself too, and he and his love interest/victim would be united in the afterlife.

In the conclusion of his series of “art films,” Ricardo shaves his head and paints his face green and red before shooting himself in the face, dedicating his suicide to Bjork as one of her songs drones on in the background. His bloated corpse and the video tapes would later be found by police, who immediately recognized what was happening to be a threat. They managed to intervene just before the package reached Bjork, narrowly sparing her life.

This is what fandom looks like at its worst, and it still happens. Even our girl Taylor has had to deal with it. And this is why I’m scared to death of becoming anything more than a local act, even though my band is slowly making its way toward greater things. Because with more attention comes more obsession, and people are fucking crazy. Maybe Taylor’s stans will come for me, or I’ll say something to piss off the BTS Army. Or worse, Wake Up Jamie will accumulate its own obsessive fans, and there will be that one bad apple who decides to Selena me.

People need to realize musicians and other performers are literally just people. We make art, we make mistakes, and we have dreams and fears like everyone else. Standom tends to raise people to a godlike level, but at the end of the day, we’re all a bunch of stinky, pulsating meat living on a giant rock. Even Taylor.

How Sad, How Lovely (Or, The Tragic Tale of Connie Converse)

It’s not uncommon for me to feel a kinship to a person I’ve never met — and never will meet. From Freddie Mercury to Zelda Fitzgerald to a number of murder victims from the scores of true crime podcasts I binge, I have a tendency to see myself in various figures. I think everyone does this to an extent. Whether it’s a fictional character or a real human who walked this earth, we all want to find someone to relate to in the things we consume.

I was listening to a podcast on unsolved mysteries when I learned her name. Elizabeth “Connie” Converse, a fledgling but pioneering singer-songwriter who gave up and ran away to places unknown, never to be heard from again.

The listening experience was eerie as hell, as the narrators rattled off various facts about her life. She worked as a writer and editor. She was also into visual art in addition to music and writing. She lived in Ann Arbor and likely walked the same streets I do today. And like me, she was plagued with depression, or as she worded it, a “blue funk.”

Connie, born in 1924, would throw herself into the local music scene in the 1950s, playing living room shows and doing home recordings with artist and animator Gene Deitch of Tom & Jerry fame. Her songs are often described as ahead of their time — think a proto-Joni Mitchell. She wrote about subversive themes for the time, things like sexuality and racism. In fact, many consider her the earliest example of the singer-songwriter genre in the US. So why has no one heard of her? Simply put, she never managed to make an impact on wider audiences. Disheartened, she gave up on music and eventually would pack her bags and disappear forever, not even telling her own family her whereabouts. Her fate remains unknown.

But her music survived. In an interview, Gene Deitch shared some of the music he’d recorded in his younger days, including Connie’s music. This sparked a renewed interest in the forgotten artist, and in 2009, an album of her music was released to the public. She finally gained the recognition she’d always wanted. And yet, no one knows if she was even alive to see her half-century-old project see the attention it deserved.

Considering she’d be closing in on 100 years old now, the chances she’s still alive somewhere is incredibly slim. But I wish she was. I wish I could meet with her in some quiet cafe and just talk about music, art, life, anything. I know we’d be kindred spirits. I’d tell her my own frustrations about trying to make it in music, about my struggles with mental illness, how I’ve fantasized about simply disappearing sometimes.

But I can’t have those conversations, so I’ll settle for continuing her legacy. I’ll take her life and learn from it, glean inspiration from it. I’ll be the best songwriter I can be. I’ll be the best writer I can be. I’ll live a life that would make her proud and kick depression’s ass.

Do it for Connie.

Like life, like a smile
Like the fall of a leaf
How sad, how lovely
How brief

Toxic Nostalgia

So today at work, I was scrolling through my playlists when I found THAT playlist. The one I haven’t dusted off in ages, the one I used to consult regularly in preparation for the event of the week — Sunday morning church.

And if Elevation’s “Resurrecting” WASN’T in that playlist, were you really a worship guitarist?

I was a fixture on the main stage of the megachurch I attended at the time. I’d drag my gear to the backstage area, banter with the production guys, and once the lights in the auditorium went down and the spotlights flashed on, I’d throw myself into the music, into worship. The music itself was never especially complex — same few chord progressions, same delay-infused chimey licks that wouldn’t sound out of place in a U2 song. In fact, if you’ve been to a modern church within the last 20 years, you know exactly what I’m talking about. But the emotion, that feeling of being part of something bigger than yourself for just a moment. Like a drug, you spend the rest of your life chasing that high.

Sometimes I wonder why I left it all behind.

I felt like a rock star at my old church, but I knew it would come crashing down. I was bisexual, and I was slowly realizing the person I truly wanted to spend my life with was my best friend, another woman. There was no way I could have both. Leaving the evangelical church allowed me to finally live authentically, but at what cost? Chances are, I’ll never set foot on a stage of that size again. I’ll never hear the ring of my guitar through a room that could easily fit three houses inside. I’ll never have people tell me how much of an inspiration I am to their kid. I’ll never have that euphoria that only comes with leading worship at such a massive level.

It’s easy to get nostalgic for things that are toxic. You look back at a past friendship or relationship with these rose-tinted glasses that erase all of the pain it caused you. Hindsight may be 20/20, but it’s also biased as heck. You don’t want to remember the shitty parts, just the parts that made you happy. And you forget that in order to grow into who you are now, you needed to shed that old shell.

I don’t mean to throw any shade at my old church (which will remain unnamed), as they’ve helped me in times of need, and to be honest, I met a lot of very rad people because of my involvement there, many of whom I still speak to today. But I couldn’t live with the cognitive dissonance any longer. In order to grow as a person in Christ, I needed to not only leave the church, but leave behind the harmful lie that God will send me to Hell for the crime of loving another human who sits down to pee. But leaving the church also meant leaving behind the life I’d grown accustomed to, standing in the spotlight before crammed auditoriums week after week. 1 Corinthians 13:11 talks of putting away childish things. Maybe my need to be admired — my need to leave church guitar case in hand every Sunday feeling like a rock star — was the childish thing I needed to put on the shelf.

I won’t deny myself the chance to mourn the loss of my previous church community. I do miss my time there every now and then, but it was important to leave that season behind in order to grow in my faith journey. In order for a plant to flourish, one must cut off the parts that are diseased or damaged, even if the process hurts. Never make the mistake of romanticizing that which was harming you.

There was a time a few short years ago where I couldn’t imagine worship without the lights and fog machines and crowds with raised arms. Worship looks a lot different to me now. Whether it’s meditating on the living room floor, gazing in wonder at the blessings around me, listening to a dusty old playlist at work, or even just sitting in a quiet dark corner of my apartment with the same Sunday morning songs my hands have, for better or worse, committed to memory. To God — not me — be the glory.

This Is Me Trying

I was fortunate enough to grow up with Taylor Swift’s music, quite literally. She was always walking a step ahead of me, writing music that reflected upon the season of life I was currently in from the perspective of someone who’d just lived it herself. She felt like an older sister figure of sorts, creating the soundtrack to my own dreams and fears and letting me know that whatever interpersonal peril I’d gotten myself into, she’d been there as well.

Cardigan' Easter eggs decoded - CNN

She knows all too well.

This isn’t an article about Taylor though. It’s about me.

If you’ve been following this blog at all, you’d know that I could slap my name on a copy of the DSM-5 and market it as my autobiography. And for the longest time, I was getting shitfaced at my own personal pity party in a paltry attempt to numb my own head. I was a ragged tapestry of depression, anxiety, a budding eating disorder, and what was becoming an addiction to alcohol. My fiancee was heading down the same road, two flaming tanker trucks careening down a highway with no brakes. Two nights ago, we crashed. I was sick. She was scared. I didn’t know how to help her. She had the worst panic attack she’d had in years. I just passed out in my own vomit.

In “this is me trying,” Taylor Swift details her own failures. Once again, I hear myself in the words:

I’ve been having a hard time adjusting
I had the shiniest wheels, now they’re rusting

They told me all of my cages were mental
So I got wasted like all my potential

I was so ahead of the curve, the curve became a sphere
Fell behind all my classmates and I ended up here

I was always the “good girl.” The “pretty girl.” The “smart girl.” I’d had mental health issues my entire life, but I’d always been able to manage them somewhat, at least enough to retain my position as the golden child. The stresses of adulthood and the weight of some poorly dealt-with traumas wore down my defenses until suddenly, I barely recognized myself. Of course I wanted to drink myself to death. I felt like I had little left to live for in the first place.

Then I woke up.

My fiancee drew a line. No more drinking. No more self-medicating. Instead, we stand and fight, and this time, we fight together. The battle against addiction and mental illness is never an easy one, but now, we have something to live for. In just the first few days of sobriety, we’ve rediscovered our creative passions, our love for each other, and our futures. Today in Whole Foods (while shopping for tea to displace our alcohol), we stumbled upon a can of fancy-schmancy cold brew coffee. Nothing special at first glance, but the brand name? Cadence. The exact name she and I had agreed to name our first daughter someday. And it felt like this peculiar sign that maybe everything would be okay.

No, no maybes. We were okay. Even if the road is hard, we’re going to get healthy and happy.

It’s still early in the battle, but I already feel victorious. The first step is admitting there’s a problem. And as I go into my second month of work, I’ll get my insurance back and finally be able to tackle all of the physical and mental health issues that have been holding me back. Then eventually, I’ll be able to finish my music therapy degree without the weight of my own mind pinning me down. We’ll save up money and get into a better living situation. And someday, God willing, I can be the mother Cadence deserves to grow up with.

And I just wanted you to know this is me trying.

Music Reviews No One Asked For: Bon Jovi’s “New Jersey” Bonus Tracks

I’ve been itching to get back into “journalism,” or something resembling it. I enjoy writing about music (obviously), but my taste in music isn’t exactly current. Or good. So, welcome to the new series, Music Reviews No One Asked For, where I write about whatever I’m listening to at the moment, no matter how old or irrelevant or weird. Anyways, what better to start this series with than the object of my lifelong obsession, Bon Jovi.

Bon Jovi is admittedly not a critical darling. In fact, I’ve heard them described as “the Nickelback of the ’80s.” And to be honest, I don’t entirely disagree. Some of their music can err into cliche territory, especially more recent releases. That being said, they were the band that shaped my entire perspective on music and — let’s be real for a minute — have some catchy-ass songs in their extensive catalogue. In other words, I love this band to death, both for the music itself and for sentimental reasons, but I’m not so much of a stan that I can’t acknowledge their glaring weaknesses.

Anyways, back in 2014, Bon Jovi’s fourth studio album, New Jersey, was rereleased in honor of the band’s 30th anniversary, tacking on almost an entire second album’s worth of demos and outtakes. New Jersey is easily one of my favorite albums in Bon Jovi’s discography, so I couldn’t imagine what could possibly be added to improve upon it, but surprisingly, some of the new tracks were so good, I wasn’t sure why they were ever scrapped. Then again, Jon Bon Jovi didn’t want to release “Livin’ on a Prayer.”

The Ballad of Jon Bon Jovi | My Accidental Muse

Maybe he’s not the best judge of those kinds of things.

Here’s a track-by-track breakdown of the bonus tracks. I’m not going to review the main album, as that’s probably been done to death by music critics with much better taste than me. This isn’t the Rolling Stone. This is the blog of a random dumbass with a journalism degree and nothing better to do.

“The Boys Are Back in Town”: This is Thin Lizzy’s “The Boys Are Back in Town,” recorded by Bon Jovi. There’s not much else to say about this track, but it kind of slaps.

“Love is War”: Written by Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora as an obvious attempt to write another “You Give Love a Bad Name.” Scrapped because it sounds too much like “You Give Love a Bad Name.” This is one of the best songs in this list, but that’s to be expected, as it’s basically just “You Give Love a Bad Name.” Still not a bad song in its own right, in all fairness.

“Born to Be My Baby” (acoustic): Apparently, Jon believed this song would have hit number one if this version had been released, and I don’t disagree. This version benefits from a Spanish-influenced solo and more prominent backing vocals from Richie. Then again, there aren’t many Bon Jovi songs that wouldn’t be improved with more backing vocals from Richie.

“Homebound Train” (demo): The official version of this song was one of my favorites as a child, although I don’t know why. It’s a little forgettable next to all the other songs on New Jersey. The demo is okay. Some harmonica, some weak “woo-woos” from Jon that are sort of amusing, but overall nothing special.

“Judgement Day”: The lyrics of the band’s ’90s era utilized quite a bit of religious imagery, so this feels almost like a precursor to that. Like a lot of Bon Jovi songs, nothing especially profound is espoused, but it’s a certifiable earworm.

“Full Moon High”: The opening line “penny for your thoughts now, baby,” was recycled in Jon’s solo release “Miracle,” but I can’t give him too much grief for self-plagiarizing, as I’ve used lyrics from scrapped material in new songs. Also quite glaring is how the prechorus has aged like absolute milk in the same way as “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” “You say stop, I say go, I say yeah, you say no” comes across as a little skeevy in a post-#metoo culture. Otherwise, it’s one of the stronger songs in this list, lyrically.

“Growing Up the Hard Way”: They really wanted those “na na nas” on the album, because I swear I’ve heard it on at least three different songs already.

As a songwriter, JBJ’s strength lies in character building. You want to cheer for Tommy and Gina. You want to chill with Captain Crash and the Beauty Queen from Mars. You want Joey Keys to find a better life and for the protagonists from “Someday I’ll Be Saturday Night” get out of their funk. This song hits a lot of those same notes. The young groupie escaping from an abusive father, the would-be golden child whose drunk driving derailed his otherwise charmed life. Bon Jovi loves to create characters and subsequently break your heart for them.

“Let’s Make It Baby”: Ah yes, the triumphant return of the talkbox, first introduced in “Livin’ on a Prayer.” I have to admit I have a soft spot for this particular guitar effect. Maybe I have a Freudian excuse for this, as Peter Frampton was certainly the catalyst of my sexual awakening.

I'm A) Road Runner by Peter Frampton on Amazon Music - Amazon.com

DO YOU BLAME ME?

Anyways, speaking of things that are sexual, Bon Jovi was, for the most part, not. Sexy, perhaps, but compared to their contemporaries, Jonny and the boys look like nuns, so much so that my mom didn’t even bat an eye when I got interested in them as a youngin’. This song, though? This is the song I’m certain she’s happy I didn’t discover as a child. If, by the end of the song, there’s any doubt as to what it’s about, the ever-cheeky Richie makes it absolutely clear in the last five seconds.

“Love Hurts”: Not a cover of the song made famous by Nazareth but a good song nonetheless. Out of all of these tracks, this one is probably the most likely to get stuck in my head. Not a whole lot more to add, except that it’s a classic Bon Jovi bop.

“Backdoor to Heaven”: A classic mid-tempo ’80s ballad that may or may not be about butt stuff. This might actually be my favorite on here, if I’m honest. The desperation in Jon’s voice, coupled with those soaring harmonies from Richie, it’s just … ugh, chef’s kiss. This one should absolutely have made it to New Jersey. What the heck, guys?

“Now and Forever”: I’m sure if I heard this at any other time in Bon Jovi’s history, I’d write this off as just another vaguely cliche song. Having heard it after Richie’s departure, I just …

Richie Sambora Wanted Bon Jovi to Be Less of a Solo Vehicle

I’m not at all emotional about this.

Anyways, “a heart’s just a heart and songs have to end, dreams will be dreams but friends will be friends now and forever” just hits differently.

Come back Richie. We need you.

“Wild is the Wind” and “Stick to Your Guns” (demos): My two favorites from the album proper, but the demos don’t really add much. They’re literally just the songs we know and love, but less polished and not as inspired. I didn’t even feel the need to cover them separately. If you’re at all curious about these, don’t be. Just listen to the official versions. Take my word on this.

“House of Fire”: If you hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have guessed that this was written by Alice Cooper and Joan Jett. This feels like a Bon Jovi song. That’s really the only thing I have to say about this.

“Does Anybody Really Fall In Love Anymore?”: Repeat after me, Jon: It’s okay to lower the key. If you can’t reach the high notes, it’s okay to drop it down a half-step or so. It’s not a big deal. Richie and David are big boys. They’ll figure out how to play it.

As an aside, this song was also recorded by Cher, because there was a weird time during the late ’80s when Bon Jovi and Cher collaborated. Anyways, Cher is an absolute queen, and even when recorded by her, this song is kind of boring. “Love is War” would have been a better choice for her. In fact, I’d gladly saw off my own toe with a nail file to hear her cover it. Seriously.

Cher - Age, Songs & Movies - Biography

Cher if you agree.

“Diamond Ring” (demo): I almost skipped over this song. The official version was released with These Days years later, and it was the only song I didn’t really like off that album as a child. After all, it was slow and boring, and it was about getting married and boring stuff, unlike “My Guitar Lies Bleeding in My Arms,” which was about more kid-friendly problems like, uh, contemplating suicide.

I’m glad I didn’t pass this one up, though, as the demo is a thousand times more badass than the version that actually saw a proper release. Even without being explicitly about sex, this song manages to feel almost as horny as “Let’s Make It Baby.” Those guitars. That bass. Jon’s rasp. Good Lord.

Wait, was Bon Jovi actually the thirstiest band of the 1980s?

These Days, The Stars Hang Out of Reach

So I fell down a pretty sizable nostalgia hole lately.

Anyone who knew me in my childhood years will tell you I was a pretty eccentric kid who, for whatever reason, latched onto the strangest things to an almost obsessional degree, starting with Shania Twain when I was just a toddler and cycling through everything from parakeets to Pokemon to vintage audio.

8-tracks

Shout-out to the poor librarian who scoured the entire building for a book on 8-tracks.

My biggest obsession, bar none, was Bon Jovi. I lived Bon Jovi. I breathed Bon Jovi. Normal kids played house; I played Bon Jovi. I still remember all the starter Pokemon each band member had in my make-believe game, because my idea of “fun” was acting out bizarre crack fics involving my favorite musicians, video games, professional wrestlers for some reason, and whatever else I liked at the moment. I’m pretty sure I had a Bon Jovi-themed birthday party. While all the other kids wanted to be marine biologists, I wanted to be Bon Jovi. I probably could have told you what color Tico Torres’ toothbrush was. And of course, right above my bed, I had a huge poster of Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora.

jon and richie ;)

This exact one!

These two were absolutely iconic to me back then. It’s not that I found them attractive — I mean, I certainly did, but that wasn’t the main appeal for me. They were more than a rather unconventional teenybopper crush for a girl growing up in the age of boybands. They represented something I related to, something I wanted to be someday. And their friendship with each other was integral to that. The way they wrote together, the way they harmonized, even the way they looked at one another — I wanted that kind of connection with someone. And I knew no matter what happened, no matter where life would take me, I could always count on Jon and Richie to be there, my first “friends” of sorts, by virtue of writing the songs that made me feel something as a lonely kid.

When I picked up the guitar at 10, I learned that music was the telephone wires that could connect a shy, eccentric girl to the outside world. It was my form of communication, and as I got older, music was this sacred thing, something akin to intimacy for me. The break-up of my old band hit me harder than almost any romantic break-up I’ve experienced.

Perhaps that’s why the fact that Richie is no longer with Bon Jovi hits me in such a sharp, visceral way. It feels like I lost a friend.

Sometimes it’s hard to come to terms with the fact that I’ve grown up. I’ve written extensively about my quarter-life crisis on here, mostly my fears of getting old and not accomplishing everything I’ve wanted to accomplish, but there’s another facet I’m just now coming to terms with — change. I’ve never feared change because in the past, I always had so many positive things to look forward to, but you forget that the future is chock full of unpleasant surprises and inevitabilities as well. The places you loved will be torn down someday, and all material things are destined to crumble into dust. As your own body grows weaker, the people you love will age and eventually die. On a less grim but still somber note, your relationships will evolve and change too. New connections are made as old ones fade into the past. I realize my friend group now differs drastically from my group ten years ago, and while I occasionally reconnect with those old friends over coffee or beer, it never goes back to how it was. Life continues rolling along in a straight unwavering line.

I just watched a video of “It’s My Life” being played live through the years. I remember the first time I heard that song and how enamored I was with it, how I’d freak out every time it came on the radio. I remember the first time I saw Bon Jovi play it live on some VHS tape I’m honestly surprised I didn’t wear out. The video started out with that performance, and showed a snippet of performances from each year thereafter. In a weird way, as I watched the band grow and change, I felt like I was watching myself grow alongside them. And of course, after 2013, after Richie’s departure, there was a whole different energy to the music. That connection wasn’t there anymore. Nothing about the music itself changed, but I could feel it. And it broke my heart.

This isn’t the first time I’ve waxed poetic over Bon Jovi on this blog, but no matter what other music I get into, they’ve always been my “comfort band,” the auditory equivalent of a warm blanket. They’ll always have a special place in the depths of my heart, even in the face of change, both in the band and in myself. No matter what, I still have the memories. I still recall screaming along with Jon and Richie at my very first concert. I still remember my old friends singing me to sleep in my childhood bedroom. And the gift they gave me, the music, is something time, age, and change can never take away.

jon and richie 2

“I’ll be there for you, these five words I swear to you.”

Someday I’ll Be Saturday Night

Ever notice how sometimes God just completely airdrops the exact thing you need in the exact moment you need it? If you’re anything like me, a lot of the time, it’s a song. There’s something oddly therapeutic about hearing your own feelings echoed in music. I could go on and write an entire blog post about how music is the universal language and all that sentimental crap (which is absolutely true I should add), but it’s weird how you can rehear a song from years ago and have it take on a completely new meaning.

For me, that song was “Someday I’ll Be Saturday Night.”

“Someday I’ll Be Saturday Night” isn’t one of Bon Jovi’s most iconic songs, but it’s still somewhat of a fan favorite. Despite the fact that I was almost obsessively fascinated with all things Bon Jovi when I was little, the song didn’t really resonate with me. Growing up, it was one of the songs on my beloved Crush tour concert videotape I didn’t mind letting play through while I ran to the bathroom.

That changed on the way home from work today. There were a few songs I desperately wanted to listen to that were stuck in my head, and sifting through the small mountain of CDs in my passenger and back seats didn’t unearth any of the albums they were on. So I chose the first mildly interesting one I found, which was a Bon Jovi greatest hits release I rage-bought when I couldn’t locate any of their albums I had as a kid (and yes, I had every single one).

The song came on and this weird, overwhelming sense of peace came over me. I couldn’t explain it. Something in the lyrics pierced my soul like a needle right in the spot I needed. The verses are from the point of view three characters in the throes of hardship. The first, from what I can comprehend, is an unemployed homeless man, while the second is a teenage girl whose living situation forced her to turn to prostitution. It was the third narrator whose story especially resonated with me:

Now I can’t say my name or tell you where I am

Wanna blow myself away, don’t know if I can

I wish that I could be in some other time and place

With someone else’s soul, someone else’s face

Do you know how strangely comforting it is to know that you’re not alone in your struggles, to know that at one point, a rock star — your childhood hero — felt down enough to write those words? I guess it hit me hard that even Jon Bon Jovi has been there — and made it through. After this thought bounced around in my brain for a second, the bridge hit:

Someday I’ll be Saturday night

I’ll be back on my feet, I’ll be doing alright

It may not be tomorrow, baby, that’s okay

I ain’t going down, I’m gonna find a way

With those lines, what used to be just a feel-good anthemic Bon Jovi song (which is pretty much their schtick, come to think of it) became my own personal battle cry. My depression and anxiety will not take me down without a fight, and if — or rather, when — I make it through, I know God will use me to help others through as well.

Maybe I feel more like a Monday today, but someday I’ll be Saturday night, too.

90s Jon with a dog

Here, have a picture of ’90s-era Jon with a doggo. You’re welcome.