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.
Love it! In the 1970s, my brother and I papered a whole wall of our bedroom with KISS pictures from magazines. And we had several of their albums. Worried about our souls, our father, who ironically was kicked out of his home at 17 for playing "the devil's music" in the 1950s (my hometown is the birthplace of Rockabilly music), asked two men from our Baptist church to come pay us a visit. They told us the whole jazz about "Kids in Satan's Service" and then proceeded to tear down all of our pictures and break our albums. For some reason, our parents were OK with that. Later, we told our grandmother about it. She was the cool grandmother who had long red hair til the day she died and loved all kinds of music. She was furious and took us to the store and bought us several KISS records. When she brought us home, she told my father that she had "loaned" us some records and wanted to make sure nothing happened to them while we were borrowing them.
PS: This grandmother was my maternal grandmother, not the one who kicked my father out of the house for playing the devil's music.
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!
Damn…... I miss the language of lust, rage and sweaty guitars, said a white girl from Renton.
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!
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.
“We’re all the unreliable narrators of our lives…” dig this ❤️
Thank you, James.
Love it! In the 1970s, my brother and I papered a whole wall of our bedroom with KISS pictures from magazines. And we had several of their albums. Worried about our souls, our father, who ironically was kicked out of his home at 17 for playing "the devil's music" in the 1950s (my hometown is the birthplace of Rockabilly music), asked two men from our Baptist church to come pay us a visit. They told us the whole jazz about "Kids in Satan's Service" and then proceeded to tear down all of our pictures and break our albums. For some reason, our parents were OK with that. Later, we told our grandmother about it. She was the cool grandmother who had long red hair til the day she died and loved all kinds of music. She was furious and took us to the store and bought us several KISS records. When she brought us home, she told my father that she had "loaned" us some records and wanted to make sure nothing happened to them while we were borrowing them.
PS: This grandmother was my maternal grandmother, not the one who kicked my father out of the house for playing the devil's music.