By Todd Lavoie
I want to rave like a street-corner rapture-seeker about the enormous healing properties of Los Angeles’ new unashamed pop-messiahs Music Go Music, but first, a little personal exposition.
When I dare to cast a fleeting glance back in the direction of my tween years – the absolute apex of my chronic bumblinghood, that endless expanse of skinny arms and butterfingers and nervous stammers – I’m tempted to take refuge in how deep-down cool I told myself I really was despite my oversized glasses and severe bowl-haircut and startling inability to interact with the rest of the human race. I had Clash cassettes, after all – and the Fall, too, and mixes of Echo and the Bunnymen and Flipper and Dead Milkmen songs I’d taped from local college radio shows! I mean, who could step to that kind of coolness at such an age? Sure, I was scared of my own shadow, but the Misfits convinced me I was the biggest bad-ass in all of New Hampshire, pubes or no pubes. Since I couldn’t speak for myself in public, I’d simply assumed that the meticulously crafted Gang of Four and Fishbone logos I’d etched across my fifth-rate denim-blue Trapper Keeper-knockoff would do the talking for me. I knew all of the words to the Smiths’ “Reel Around the Fountain,” for Christ’s sake – why oh why didn’t any of my equally self-conscious gangly-wangly peers take notice? Or care? Why was I so alone?
Here’s the thing. This so-called coolness I’ve just described? It’s only part of the picture. See, there’s a deeper, darker secret, lurking underneath the Morrissey quotes and ballpoint-pen notebook sloganeering: I also harbored a wide-eyed fascination with Top 40 radio. Or, specifically, the stuff I’d hear in the car on the way to a swimming lesson, to summer camp, to a Little League game I’d rather avoid.