THE BLANK GENERATION

Jon has a wonderful walk down memory lane posted at Unfinished Novellas on Bob Dylan. And that brought back a lot of great memories for me, too.

Jon and I have a special relationship. A very unique one, indeed. It dates back to seventh grade at Ingersoll Junior High in Canton, Ill. I don't know if this is necessarily true for him, but for me, Jon was the first person that I connected with in a truly meaningful way. He understood me, and I him. And we appreciated each other as the foolish little devils we were. Jon was a genius, and I recognized this even at the young age of 13.

For some reason, we were assigned a project in our English class (of all classes) to create and market a dream vacation spot, our paradise resort. (Maybe that wasn't exactly the premise of the project, I may not be remembering correctly.) Jon and I competed directly against each other, building these elaborate blueprints for our ideal destinations. Ours were quite similar; they were huge mall-like complexes that featured indoor baseball stadiums and amusement parks and god knows what else. "Mine has a ski resort." "Yeah, well mine's got an amphitheater and Bell Biv Devoe is going to play there." Through this silly competition, we allowed our imaginations to run naked through the woods—and we bonded.

Even dating back that long ago, Jon had a fascination with music that matched mine. He was the first person that I identified that really "got it" as I did when it came to music. By my freshman year of high school, I had discovered my older brothers' record collections. But, at the time I was still just a fool when it came to what I enjoyed. Still, I experienced music as a holistic process. The music I enjoyed, regardless of its quality, affected me in a meaningful way, serving as a steady friend and a healing guide.

Likewise, Jon also felt a spiritual connection to music, even though neither of us would likely have labeled it as such at that time. His obsession had developed beyond mine at that point—and honestly, he's still ahead of my curve. Jon had secretly signed himself up to the BMG Music Club (or maybe it was Columbia House, or both). He was ordering records with the money he earned from a paper route (if memory serves), without his parent's knowledge. They would not have approved of Jon smuggling Aerosmith records into the house. I assume his money was better spent on school clothes or Nintendo games, anything but the Devil's music. (Jon's father was a former minister.) Yet, Jon didn't let that phase him. He licked the stamps that represented album covers and placed them on the ordering card and waited for his records to appear, rushing home every day after school before his parent's arrived to ensure that he was the first one to peep at the day's mail.

On weekends I would ride my bike five miles into town to hang out in Jon's room, a tiny little alcove in the basement of his parent's house. There, we swapped baseball cards and listened to all of the contraband that Jon had successfully smuggled across the border. Our bond grew tighter, even though we had barely known each other a year or so.

Then, Jon moved away. Looking back, it wasn't that big of a deal at the time. We were friends, but I had other friends, too. And they were sticking around. But then, over the next year or so, I became even more of a music nutjob as I fully delved into my bros' collections. And, I began to miss Jon even more. He had only moved 45 minutes away, to another high school, Morton High, in our conference. But, for a kid without wheels, it might as well have been California. This was before the internet took hold, so we really lost touch with each other.

I don't remember why or exactly when I first traveled to visit Jon in Morton. It might have been our mutual friend, Josh, that drove me there since he had his license and car well before me. I remember hanging out in Jon's room—still in the basement—watching videos he had taped off of MTV and making mix tapes full of crappy metal and hard rock tunes. Jon was still purchasing CDs, of which I had few if any; luckily, I had all those records to fall back on. But, my brothers were both far too old to have any Queensryche or Testament, and for fuck's sake I just had to have some of that shit. Jon was my dealer.

Well, luckily for our longterm health, we soon discovered the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Bob Dylan. You may chuckle at the mention of the Peppers. But, they did both Jon and I a great service. Through their selection of covers, we were introduced to Sly, Stevie Wonder, Robert Johnson, and, yes, even Dylan (who needed no introduction). When we got into a new band, we didn't just listen to their records. We mined the artist for their influences, and then went and (sometimes literally) hunted those influences down. The Peppers' influences were one thing, but Dylan's were another. We were probably the only high school juniors in Central Illinois listening to Woody Guthrie.




The Peppers also got us into modern alternative rock as a whole, which led us to underground and indie rock by extension. Dylan, however, and the genres associated with him—from folk to country—have had a far greater impact on us, and more staying power, too. In the entry I linked to above, Jon mentions the Peoria newspaper article that featured his scarred arm. I'm sure the reporter thought he had happened upon a great story—a fucked-up kid who went to the extent of tattooing Dylan onto his arm to show how unique he was. In retrospect, it's a rather funny, if not charming, concept, though. Jon was attempting, in his way, to tell his parent's to fuck off while also showing his close friends how "deep" he was. In actuality, Dylan was an artist his dad probably enjoyed, while some of his friends were only lukewarm toward him. Oh well, it was the thought that counts. And Jon has plenty of other tattoos one could say the same thing about.

As for me, I wasn't about to put needle to skin to show my devotion to Dylan, which grew with every additional Dylan album I procured. But, I did let at least a portion of my high school know just how hip I was to Bobby D. During my senior year of high school I experienced a strange little renaissance that I still can't fully comprehend. It began with being named the lead in the school's musical, and ballooned into being named "Mr. Little Giant" (keep your jokes to yourself) in my school's first-ever male pageant and later prom king. (As a disclaimer, my friends and I decided to do the pageant as a joke. Turns out, no one in the pageant had any talent or charisma, and I was selected as the best of the bunch despite my two-inch goatee.)

The facial hair was part of my costume for the musical, Man of La Mancha. Yes, I was Don Quixote. If you're finished laughing out loud, allow me to explain just how I landed such a role, having never been a part of the drama club or the school choir, and having never participated in a play. I was in love with a girl who thought I was the second-coming of Kurt Cobain. (That part didn't work out, obviously. The girl is ancient history, I'm still alive, and I've yet to knock Michael Jackson off the charts.) She was a drama queen, in both senses of the phrase, and really wanted me to try out for the school musical. It was the final semester of my senior year, and so I figured, "what the fuck?" If I don't try out for the musical, I'll never get to spend any time with this girl, who will be in rehearsals night after night after night. Maybe I can score a bit part or something.




As with any musical, part of the audition process was to act, and the other part was to sing. Everyone else was busy preparing pieces from other musicals for their audition. Most, if not all, of my competition was involved in choir anyway. But not I. I was guilty of singing along to Incesticide in my car, but that was about the extent of my vocal training. The night before the audition, I came to terms with the fact that I had yet to figure out what I was going to sing. Others already had their songs selected and their accompaniment planned, and I had yet to even select what I was going to butcher, let alone figure out who would be brave enough to join me on stage in playing the fool.

That night, I was listening to a Dylan album, The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan. It hit me: I could do a Dylan song. After all, even if my voice sucked, surely I could make a Dylan song sound respectable, no? I frantically telephoned my friend Scott and pleaded him to help me out. I needed him to learn the guitar chords to this Dylan song and join me on stage. My song? Well, let's just say that it probably wasn't the best choice, but Eddie Vedder had recently pulled it off at Dylan's 30th anniversary concert. And, hell, everyone liked Vedder's voice despite the fact that he sounded like shit. My conclusion: I was sure everyone would dig my take on the same song: "Masters of War".




So, for the first—and probably only—time in Canton High School history, "Masters of War" was the audition piece. Scott and I warmed up in the bathroom prior to my audition. It was really our first time rehearsing together. But, when I took the stage, let me tell you was there ever a spark! I'm positive that somewhere in that mess of microphone cables, something surely shorted out in response to my croaking. But, the girl thought I did a good job, at least.

I'm quite certain that I received the lead in the musical, ahead of more qualified and deserving guys, because the director saw some potential in me. After all, I was new to the scene and I could act reasonably well, especially in comparison to the other dudes trying out on the strength of their lungs. I know it wasn't because I nailed the emotive portions of "Masters of War". Oh no, I did not.

Dylan would soon have his revenge on me, unfortunately. As a penalty for butchering his song, I was forced to decline an invite to see Dylan in a quaint theater in Peoria. The tickets were front row, too. You see, the Dylan concert just happened to be the same night as the dress rehearsal for Man of La Mancha. Don Quixote had windmills to concur; there would sadly be no Bobby D for him.

Jon got to go to the Dylan concert, of course, and sit front and center for it. And he had a great time, too. Two nights later, he witnessed this blogger in tights, a wig, and a fake mustachio, singing his ass off under the bright lights. And I'm sure he had a great time, too.

It's been eleven years since I last sung a Bobby D tune in public. I'm sure it will be at least eleven more years before the next occurrence as well. Jon now lives in Denver. It might have seemed like he was a time zone away from me when we were in high school. But, sadly, he now actually is. I've made one trip out to Denver in the five-plus years that Jon has lived there. Other than that trip, we've briefly caught up with each over the holidays on a few occasions.

Today, we keep in touch through these blogs and e-mail. The blog itself I often think is pointless. After all, who gives a fuck what some minor music critic from the middle of nowhere has to say about the new Bright Eyes record? I mostly keep up with this blogging business so that my friends can stay in touch with me, even if it's through something as impersonal as cyberspace. I've never been good with words when it comes to expressing my feelings for someone. (Jon can testify to that; he's read some of the gibberish I passed off as poetry in high school.) It's easier for me to ramble on for 1,000 words about Bright Eyes than it is for me to put into words just how much I miss some of my friends that are now spread out around the country. For that, I'm sorry.

But, I think Jon knows just how much I miss him still today. If he ever desires a reminder, he needs only to think about "Dylan in a dumpster," which means nothing to you but everything to us. Those days are in the past, and those memories will always be there for me to return to. I only hope that in the future, we can share more time together in the flesh. After all, I've still got a box of baseball cards and a few blank tapes. I'm sure Jon hasn't traded in all of his Queensryche records; and I know he still dreams of one-upping my paradise resort. But guess what, Jon: I've got a video tape of a skinny kid pretending to be Don Quixote, and it plays seven days a week in my 10,000 seat movie theater that dispenses FREE TUBS OF POPCORN. Try topping that.


N/P—Brian Wilson, Smile

This entry was posted on Thursday, February 3 at 9:37 AM.

3 Comments:

Oh my sweet Don Quixote,

I SO had forgotten why you missed the great Dylan show of '94. In fact, I had forgotten you missed it at all. Now I remember, but I can't remember for sure who accompanied me to your play in Canton a few days after the show...was it Lewis? That's my only guess.

Thank you so much for the kind words. I think you know it all goes double for me. I find it amazing that we've managed to stay in touch all these years....and not only that, I find it even more amazing how parallel our paths have been all this time. Other friends have come and gone, but in the end you remain.

"Dylan in a dumpster." Wow. I've got two words for you: "Three Days." I may just have to blog on that one a bit. To be sure, there will be more riffing in days to come on the Love Ballad of the Noiseboy and Anti-Rove.

Btw, I hate to disappoint you, but I have not owned a Queensryche record in years, though I do still believe there to be some worthwhile stuff on Operation Mindcrime. I do however, own at least one Testament LP (I might have two, I'd have to check) and another on cassette. So if you're ever in need of some Souls of Black, I can still be your pusherman.

I'll see your 10,000 seat movie theater, I'll top it with real butter, and raise you a launchpad to outer space. Shuttle included, with a Bob Feller Bowman card on board.

To the moon, Alice, to the moon.

Jon

By  Jonathan Wright, at 3:09 PM  

oh my - how fun it is to read about the good 'ol times in Canton. I often forget that good times even existed in Canton, so it's great to read about yours and remind me of mine. As for the junior high project - we were told to build our Utopian society. I love that word.

-- Heidi

By  Anonymous, at 7:18 PM  

Hey Heidi! Long time, no talk.

Don't tell me there was no fun in Canton. Don't you remember marching band practice? Now THAT was good times.

By  thenoiseboy, at 8:03 PM  

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