This essay feels like stepping into a time machine, cranked up with the distortion pedal of memory. It’s such a vivid mix of nostalgia, humor, and that bittersweet longing for the explosive magic of youth—the kind of magic that turns KISS makeup and pleather into divine armor.
The description of those boys becoming gods-for-a-night is electric. It captures the raw power of performance, the frenzy of fandom, and how even on a small rez, rock music could ignite something cosmic. The humor is sharp—flipping between strobe lights and imagined smoke machines—but there's also this poignant undercurrent: the fleeting nature of fame, the dangers of youth, and the aching realization that memory is a hall of mirrors.
The essay’s heart, though, is that collision of "real" and "myth." Were the girls after autographs of Stevie, Steve, Steve, and Mike or Gene, Paul, Ace, and Peter? Does it matter? For one night, they transcended both identities, becoming something bigger—a testament to how art, even a lipsync in Sears costumes, can transform the ordinary into the extraordinary.
And the closing is perfect: a celebration of memory’s contradictions, of mythology, of the “unreliable narrators of our lives.” It’s a call to embrace the stories we tell, even when they blur fact and fantasy.
This piece makes you laugh, ache, and remember your own teenage gods. Bravo.
I've been feeling massive guilt that as myq wife, a subscriber, read me your posts that I was freeloading on your talent. It was worse because when I taught Introduction to Literature at my Community College (I was a corporate attorney but loved teaching as a side gig) for five years I was allowed to use my own syllabus so long as it had short stories, long form fiction, a play and poetry. Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenster was the play, Marquez' Cronicle of a Death Foretold was the fiction, the poetry was a variety (think Alexie, Harjo, June Jordan, Gil Scott-Heron and the only allowed Old Dead White Guy Cattulus). And the short stories - The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. And you kept them interested at 7 AM. So that's why I am here. That and I love great writing, so thanks.
I was disdainful of Kiss back in the '70s as a young music snob - but I have come around to some degree over the years, and your piece perfectly captures why they mattered. It was so much more than just the music!
This is beautiful, breath-taking even. “And that’s why rock—true rock drenched in lust and rage—isn’t popular anymore. These days, even the liberals and leftists are afraid of sweaty electric guitars.” Indeed! You’re on to something here. What is it that has happened? Keep writing!
Thank you - My older brother had the Kiss collection of vinyls in 1978 in New Mexico, and a young Christian neighbor-friend lamented the "satanic injury" of those black, grooved records; the neighbor ended up smashing my brother's collection into that warm earth one summer day. Matt and I eventually repurchased most of these by the end of the 80s. Your words on hope around the myth, the story. So true. Matt plays his vinyls still. They have new meaning. Playing is an act of resistance to the forces that silence.
Trepidation is a brilliant word. You had me laughing on that one. And this story is wonderful. Nothing I can say that hasn't been better said by your fans below. I just became a paid member, about time. I have so many of your books from back in the day. Someone even mentioned Smoke Signals! I loved that movie, gotta see it again because I barely remember it - but wasn't there a car that only drove in reverse, and Marilyn Whirlwind drove it? Hope I'm not getting it confused with something from Northern Exposure; LOL! I think I'm going to enjoy reading your works, fresh before the press! Thank you!
Thank you!!! You just stripped away the last 55 years, setting me back to a treasured campfire when I heard Jumping Jack Flash for the first time, performed by the CITs (counselors-in-training) strumming brooms in a way that gave hope, raisin d’etre. Nothing about the song or scene made sense to me because I had no context for it, but it all opened a window to a new world I wanted to occupy. Life has been better ever since. Now and then some things feel universal. You did that for me.
Very Nice, I really enjoyed the story. There's nothing like junior high and high school memories. I seem to remember the stupid things I did best, and occasionally some of the crazy things others did. I loved how people could become stars in everyone's eyes in a school talent show and this description was perfect.
I was quite happy to see your name here, on Substack. I've read many of your works. I remember you once compared a person to a perfect paragraph. Brilliant. I am putting an old collection on Substack, kind of building a history. My current work appears weekly on Facebook. If you would care to read any of it, for whatever reason, I'd be honored. https://www.facebook.com/chris.gartland.73
I was in a rock band in high school (in the 60's). Reading this essay brought back memories of playing at church dances and reveling in the reflected glory of the songs we were playing. Sadly, for me, all the girls who were loving us were way too young (12 or 13). I truly thought that if only some high school girls went to these dances, then I might get "lucky." Looking back, I had no idea what "lucky" was. Being young is such a wonderful thing. I love to see my current high school students acting young, because I know that it is such a fleeting thing. I think I will start playing guitar again!
Gods of thunder and sixth grade. Gave me chills of nostalgia. Four of us played the Fab Four in sixth grade. This may reveal my age. We did not lipsync. We sang their songs acapella. That may have been all the tech we had. The girls loved us. As with your story, they wanted autographs, but not our real names. I misspelled Starr.
This essay feels like stepping into a time machine, cranked up with the distortion pedal of memory. It’s such a vivid mix of nostalgia, humor, and that bittersweet longing for the explosive magic of youth—the kind of magic that turns KISS makeup and pleather into divine armor.
The description of those boys becoming gods-for-a-night is electric. It captures the raw power of performance, the frenzy of fandom, and how even on a small rez, rock music could ignite something cosmic. The humor is sharp—flipping between strobe lights and imagined smoke machines—but there's also this poignant undercurrent: the fleeting nature of fame, the dangers of youth, and the aching realization that memory is a hall of mirrors.
The essay’s heart, though, is that collision of "real" and "myth." Were the girls after autographs of Stevie, Steve, Steve, and Mike or Gene, Paul, Ace, and Peter? Does it matter? For one night, they transcended both identities, becoming something bigger—a testament to how art, even a lipsync in Sears costumes, can transform the ordinary into the extraordinary.
And the closing is perfect: a celebration of memory’s contradictions, of mythology, of the “unreliable narrators of our lives.” It’s a call to embrace the stories we tell, even when they blur fact and fantasy.
This piece makes you laugh, ache, and remember your own teenage gods. Bravo.
I've been feeling massive guilt that as myq wife, a subscriber, read me your posts that I was freeloading on your talent. It was worse because when I taught Introduction to Literature at my Community College (I was a corporate attorney but loved teaching as a side gig) for five years I was allowed to use my own syllabus so long as it had short stories, long form fiction, a play and poetry. Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenster was the play, Marquez' Cronicle of a Death Foretold was the fiction, the poetry was a variety (think Alexie, Harjo, June Jordan, Gil Scott-Heron and the only allowed Old Dead White Guy Cattulus). And the short stories - The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. And you kept them interested at 7 AM. So that's why I am here. That and I love great writing, so thanks.
Beautiful essay. I love all of it. What a fantastic memory you experienced and then relayed to us. Thank you for sharing it!
I was disdainful of Kiss back in the '70s as a young music snob - but I have come around to some degree over the years, and your piece perfectly captures why they mattered. It was so much more than just the music!
This is beautiful, breath-taking even. “And that’s why rock—true rock drenched in lust and rage—isn’t popular anymore. These days, even the liberals and leftists are afraid of sweaty electric guitars.” Indeed! You’re on to something here. What is it that has happened? Keep writing!
Is Tommy Orange a subscriber yet? Im happy to have found you!
Thank you - My older brother had the Kiss collection of vinyls in 1978 in New Mexico, and a young Christian neighbor-friend lamented the "satanic injury" of those black, grooved records; the neighbor ended up smashing my brother's collection into that warm earth one summer day. Matt and I eventually repurchased most of these by the end of the 80s. Your words on hope around the myth, the story. So true. Matt plays his vinyls still. They have new meaning. Playing is an act of resistance to the forces that silence.
Trepidation is a brilliant word. You had me laughing on that one. And this story is wonderful. Nothing I can say that hasn't been better said by your fans below. I just became a paid member, about time. I have so many of your books from back in the day. Someone even mentioned Smoke Signals! I loved that movie, gotta see it again because I barely remember it - but wasn't there a car that only drove in reverse, and Marilyn Whirlwind drove it? Hope I'm not getting it confused with something from Northern Exposure; LOL! I think I'm going to enjoy reading your works, fresh before the press! Thank you!
Thank you!!! You just stripped away the last 55 years, setting me back to a treasured campfire when I heard Jumping Jack Flash for the first time, performed by the CITs (counselors-in-training) strumming brooms in a way that gave hope, raisin d’etre. Nothing about the song or scene made sense to me because I had no context for it, but it all opened a window to a new world I wanted to occupy. Life has been better ever since. Now and then some things feel universal. You did that for me.
Being able to listen to this story narrated in your own voice is a gift. Thank you!
An unreliable narrator for Indian kids on a reservation, yet somehow a completely reliable narrator for childhood everywhere.
Wonderful piece.
Very Nice, I really enjoyed the story. There's nothing like junior high and high school memories. I seem to remember the stupid things I did best, and occasionally some of the crazy things others did. I loved how people could become stars in everyone's eyes in a school talent show and this description was perfect.
I was quite happy to see your name here, on Substack. I've read many of your works. I remember you once compared a person to a perfect paragraph. Brilliant. I am putting an old collection on Substack, kind of building a history. My current work appears weekly on Facebook. If you would care to read any of it, for whatever reason, I'd be honored. https://www.facebook.com/chris.gartland.73
I was in a rock band in high school (in the 60's). Reading this essay brought back memories of playing at church dances and reveling in the reflected glory of the songs we were playing. Sadly, for me, all the girls who were loving us were way too young (12 or 13). I truly thought that if only some high school girls went to these dances, then I might get "lucky." Looking back, I had no idea what "lucky" was. Being young is such a wonderful thing. I love to see my current high school students acting young, because I know that it is such a fleeting thing. I think I will start playing guitar again!
I hope you have started playing that guitar again!! I started playing violin again after 20 years of not. It feeds my soul to be playing again.
Nope. No guitar.
Ah, what a great memory! Is "getting lucky" a common idiom anymore? It sounds so innocent now.
Gods of thunder and sixth grade. Gave me chills of nostalgia. Four of us played the Fab Four in sixth grade. This may reveal my age. We did not lipsync. We sang their songs acapella. That may have been all the tech we had. The girls loved us. As with your story, they wanted autographs, but not our real names. I misspelled Starr.
I misspelled Starr! That's a great line!
"... are afraid of sweaty electric guitars." Either they are afraid of it, or they just cannot even see it.