Something to Believe In: What Bon Jovi Taught Me About Deconstruction and Faith

Not so secret confession: Bon Jovi is my favorite band.

Well, I don’t know about absolute favorite. That honor probably goes to Heart at the moment, who I also seldom shut up about. But Bon Jovi my “comfort band” for sure, a nostalgic auditory bowl of chicken noodle soup when I feel most torn up about adult life. They were my childhood obsession, and if there was a “Jessa Don’t Talk About Bon Jovi For One Day” Challenge, I’d lose almost immediately. Richie Sambora is half the reason I play guitar (the other half being the fact that one-on-one guitar lessons were the only activity my then-undiagnosed ADHD ass couldn’t get kicked out of).

Yet despite my immense love of Bon Jovi as a youngin’, there was one single song that was always a “skip” for me. That song? “Something to Believe In,” a track from their wildly underrated 1995 flop, These Days, an album that, to Adult Jessa, has absolutely zero skips because it’s just that good.

Behold, Bon Jovi’s weird moody grunge phase that actually goes *hard.*

It certainly didn’t help the song’s case to be a power ballad, as that was an art form that would take me a few more years to properly appreciate. But the lyrics were what gave me the most pause, as a good little church girl. The opening lines say it all:

I lost all faith in my God

In His religion too

I told the angels they can sing their songs to someone new

Yeah, you can kinda see why this song gave me pause. It makes me think of my first time going to youth group, right in the middle of this huge campaign to gather up “ungodly” albums and other media for a huge bonfire. I was too attached to my beloved Bon Jovi collection to send it to the flames just yet, but it did make me rethink what I was listening to. And I could not, as a good little church girl, listen to something that so blatantly questioned God.

I struggled with this feeling for a long time, every time I put on the full album and heard the opening drum beat begin. I wanted to love the song — something drew me to it, despite everything — but the song seemed so anti-Christian and blasphemous.

I never appreciated it for what it was — a song about deconstruction.

In exvangelical circles, deconstruction is the process in which you begin to question and unpack the beliefs the evangelical church instilled in you. Now, Bon Jovi is not from an evangelical background. In fact, much of the band was raised Catholic to the best of my knowledge, with frontman Jon admitting to being a “recovering Catholic.” But I feel the exvangelical experience and the lapsed Catholic experience are very similar in many ways.

In re-listening to “Something to Believe In” as an adult, I realized one of my lifelong musical heroes had the same wrestlings with God that I was having. It was very similar to the feeling I got when I first re-listened to “Someday I’ll Be Saturday Night” as an adult and realized Jon may have had the same mental health struggles as me, even worse at times. It really humanized this guy I’d viewed as a god growing up. Like, I used to play make-believe that I was Jon Bon Jovi as a little kid, and here I was having this entire revelation that he’s literally just a human being like me.

With his own struggles.

And his own dark, depressive thoughts.

And his own religious trauma.

That’s what “Something to Believe In” started to represent to me, that funnelling of religious trauma into something beautiful. After all, it is not a sin to have religious trauma, nor is it even a sin to have questions at times. In 1 Thessalonians 5:21, we are told to test everything and hold to what is true. That seems like a pretty big green light to, ya know, have questions.

The evangelical church discourages deconstruction as it can lead to the person believing in another faith, atheism, agnosticism, or perhaps scariest of all, a less oppressive, more affirming form of Christianity. That’s where I ended up falling in the end, but it wasn’t an easy road. There were definitely parts of my life where I felt exactly like how Jon describes himself feeling in the song. Sometimes, you have to reach that nadir in your relationship with God before you truly begin to unpack the toxic things the church has taught you in His name.

Listening to the song now is a reminder of where I’ve been in my spiritual journey. It’s a reminder that this feeling is universal and I’m not alone in this struggle. And most importantly, it’s a reminder that deconstruction can be beautiful.

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So Long and Goodnight: How My Middle School BFF Shaped My Entire Life

Strap in, guys, gals, and enby pals. We’re in for an emotional roller coaster with this one.

This is your last warning. You *will* cry.

I think every thirteen-year-old girl has a chosen name. Think back to when you were thirteen and you wanted to be called, I don’t know, Renesmee or something. It was definitely inspired by something cringy like that. Me? I tried to get everyone to call me Sophitia, like the badass Greek sword-wielding action mom from the Soul Calibur series.

Definitely *not* a MILF (mother I’d like to fight)

No one called me Sophitia, of course, save for my dad (until my mom made him stop). Well, him and Chelsea. Or, shall I say, Helena.

Her cringy thirteen-year-old chosen name was Helena, like the My Chemical Romance song. She insisted it was pronounced “huh-lay-nah,” not “hel-en-uh.” True to the girl in the music video of the emo standard, she had pale skin and a tall but slight frame and dark hair and piercing blue eyes, all of which she took pride in. She was gorgeous and she knew, but you couldn’t help but love her nonetheless.

I don’t remember exactly how Chelsea and I met, but I remember her as an absolute spitfire who hurled herself into my life with the intensity of a tigress. She was spirited, witty, and strong-willed, the kind of girl who stood up for me in the face of notoriously cruel grade school bullies. For a solid two years, we were practically inseparable. Those years were filled with memories I’ll never forget. Like Thursday nights at my church’s youth group, getting all giddy over which cute guy talked to us. Or staying up late during sleepovers on my bedroom floor, telling each other stories until we fell asleep. Or editing our MySpaces together on my family’s computer, and the one time I got interrogated because my mom found “emo boys kissing” in my search history. Thanks for that, Chels.

Music was an integral part of our friendship. One of our favorite activities was dressing up like our favorite rock stars and putting on shows for ourselves. Being obsessed with Bon Jovi, I had us dress up like Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora. She was Richie because her hair was darker, even though I always liked him more. She’s the one who introduced me to the emo genre that defined my taste in music as I grew older. She loved this song called “Fer Sure” by The Medic Droid, and in the car she’d always sing “Kick off your stilettos and THROW THEM IN THE BACKSEAT” loud enough to obscure the fact that the actual lyrics were “fuck me in the backseat.” And of course, there was Helena and Sophitia, our cringy chosen names that doubled as our stage names. We would have these big dreams about someday starting a band together, and she wrote a little song with a melody that still gets stuck in my head to this day.

Something changed after a trip up north together, though. I asked if she had the sunscreen we bought while there and she accused me of accusing her of stealing it. What transpired was a platonic breakup worse than any of my romantic breakups have been. It’s such a stupid thing to ruin what was one of the most important friendships of my life. A girl’s BFF-ship at that transitional age of late preteendom is so important, and just like that, I lost her.

What followed was radio silence for years. I watched her grow up from afar. She joined the military, married, and had a son. Me, I went to college and had a couple of rock bands that didn’t work out. But as adults, she reached out to me and extended the olive branch, and we reconnected over our shared spiritual goals and, of course, music.

We were never as close as we were as kids, though, because shortly after we reconnected, a little global health crisis called COVID-19 happened, and all our plans to meet up fell through.

She then had a private health crisis of her own. On the warmest Christmas morning in memory, I got a text from one of our old mutual friends.

“Hey Jess, I’m so sorry to hear about Chelsea.”

I couldn’t even cry. I was numb. All these memories came flooding back like a tidal wave. I ran to my guitar and immediately started strumming the old song she wrote, and suddenly, I knew what I had to do. That day, I turned her melody into a full song she’d be proud of.

My only regret is she’ll never get to hear it.

Life is so short, and we take moments with our loved ones for granted. The next time you hang out with your best friend could be your last, and you wouldn’t even know. So cherish every memory you get, because in the end, that’s all we can carry with us through life, and those memories are what carry us through life.

So long and goodnight, my dearest friend. I’m a better person for having known you.

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.