Soundtrack of Our Lives: Smashing Pumpkins, Siamese Dream
The summer of 1993 sucked. Skatie was moving away, my parents were in the middle of a messy divorce, Victor was away at school and probably cheating on me, definitely doing drugs. I'd never felt more like a tumbleweed. I spent a lot of time by myself, that summer. My friends would call and I would make up excuses as to why I wasn't able to hang out. Most of my days were filled up with driving around, listening to music, and smoking cigarettes, mostly all at one time. Oh man, was I a cliche.
School was getting ready to start, my senior year. Even though I was pretty depressed about what was going on in my life, I was excited to go back to school--more excited still to be finished so I could get out of Warren and go to college. High school was the gauntlet; college was the reward.
Zick called me one morning, about a week before classes began.
"Hey, you're still going to paint the barn?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Great. I'll see you there."
I dragged myself out of the house and into the car, played some Smiths or something equally rediculous, and drove to the barn. The barn was behind the school. How the tradition began, I don't know, but the incoming senior class was expected to paint something on the roof to represent its year. The previous class had been an apathetic one; they never finished their painting. It looked pretty bad. We had a lot of work to do.
When I got there, there were a few people on the roof, scraping off old paint, painting over it with a blinding white. Class President was in charge and was trying to give directions, but it was so hot out that more people were resting than working. Everyone moved like they were underwater. CP saw me drive up and came over to my car.
"Hey! I knew you'd come."
"I wouldn't have missed it." And that was the truth. It felt good to be there. She gave me a brush and told me to start working on the back side of the roof, where everyone who worked on the barn painted their initials or their name.
The afternoon passed slowly, groups of painters came and left, wiping sweat and paint off their faces and bodies as they went. And in the late afternoon, CP and I were the only ones still there. We were lying back on the roof, talking, when Zick drove up, smoking, as always. He was wearing a blue bandana in his hair, sunglasses, cutoffs that I knew had once been pants because he had been wearing them the last time I'd seen him, and combat boots. He squinted up at us, blowing smoke to the side, "Where is everyone?"
"We are everyone," CP yelled down.
"Cool." He opened his trunk and pulled out a boombox. "A little music?" The CD flashed silver in my eyes as he put it in.
The first notes of "Cherub Rock" came floating up to the roof. When the guitars kicked in, it sounded like thunder.
"What is this?" I yelled to Zick.
"New Pumpkins. I got it last week." He climed up the ladder and rested his arms on the edge of the roof. "It's fucking awesome, isn't it?"
I nodded and smiled. And I got that excited feeling I always get when I hear music that I know is truly something.
Siamese Dream is a powerful record in many ways. There's a lot of musical muscle, sure, but it's the sound. The sound was new, it was original. The record was Saying Something. Most of what it was saying, I realized in later years, was pretentious--overwrought and more than a little florid. But back then, it was the perfect background music for my burgeoning angst. (I wish I were making this up, but months later, when I was fighting with SB, I actually told him to go listen to "Mayonaise," if he wanted to know how I felt. *Cringe* That memory has runined somewhat my love for the song, but at least now I can listen to it and not roll my eyes.)
We painted the roof and listened to Siamese Dream, front to back, twice. When the sun started to look a little tired, like it does at the end of summer, and started turning the sky purple, we decided to call it a day. CP took off, told us that she'd love it if we'd come by the next day to finish. Zick and I nodded. We leaned up against his car, smoked cigarettes, and listened to crickets, as the street lights started to blink on.
Smashing Pumpkins, Siamese Dream
Purchased in August 1993
Sun TV & Audio, Niles, Ohio
School was getting ready to start, my senior year. Even though I was pretty depressed about what was going on in my life, I was excited to go back to school--more excited still to be finished so I could get out of Warren and go to college. High school was the gauntlet; college was the reward.
Zick called me one morning, about a week before classes began.
"Hey, you're still going to paint the barn?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
"Great. I'll see you there."
I dragged myself out of the house and into the car, played some Smiths or something equally rediculous, and drove to the barn. The barn was behind the school. How the tradition began, I don't know, but the incoming senior class was expected to paint something on the roof to represent its year. The previous class had been an apathetic one; they never finished their painting. It looked pretty bad. We had a lot of work to do.
When I got there, there were a few people on the roof, scraping off old paint, painting over it with a blinding white. Class President was in charge and was trying to give directions, but it was so hot out that more people were resting than working. Everyone moved like they were underwater. CP saw me drive up and came over to my car.
"Hey! I knew you'd come."
"I wouldn't have missed it." And that was the truth. It felt good to be there. She gave me a brush and told me to start working on the back side of the roof, where everyone who worked on the barn painted their initials or their name.
The afternoon passed slowly, groups of painters came and left, wiping sweat and paint off their faces and bodies as they went. And in the late afternoon, CP and I were the only ones still there. We were lying back on the roof, talking, when Zick drove up, smoking, as always. He was wearing a blue bandana in his hair, sunglasses, cutoffs that I knew had once been pants because he had been wearing them the last time I'd seen him, and combat boots. He squinted up at us, blowing smoke to the side, "Where is everyone?"
"We are everyone," CP yelled down.
"Cool." He opened his trunk and pulled out a boombox. "A little music?" The CD flashed silver in my eyes as he put it in.
The first notes of "Cherub Rock" came floating up to the roof. When the guitars kicked in, it sounded like thunder.
"What is this?" I yelled to Zick.
"New Pumpkins. I got it last week." He climed up the ladder and rested his arms on the edge of the roof. "It's fucking awesome, isn't it?"
I nodded and smiled. And I got that excited feeling I always get when I hear music that I know is truly something.
Siamese Dream is a powerful record in many ways. There's a lot of musical muscle, sure, but it's the sound. The sound was new, it was original. The record was Saying Something. Most of what it was saying, I realized in later years, was pretentious--overwrought and more than a little florid. But back then, it was the perfect background music for my burgeoning angst. (I wish I were making this up, but months later, when I was fighting with SB, I actually told him to go listen to "Mayonaise," if he wanted to know how I felt. *Cringe* That memory has runined somewhat my love for the song, but at least now I can listen to it and not roll my eyes.)
We painted the roof and listened to Siamese Dream, front to back, twice. When the sun started to look a little tired, like it does at the end of summer, and started turning the sky purple, we decided to call it a day. CP took off, told us that she'd love it if we'd come by the next day to finish. Zick and I nodded. We leaned up against his car, smoked cigarettes, and listened to crickets, as the street lights started to blink on.
Smashing Pumpkins, Siamese Dream
Purchased in August 1993
Sun TV & Audio, Niles, Ohio
posted by Iseult at 11:33 AM
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