The first time I fell madly in love was my freshman year of college. I saw this hyper-tall, not-conventionally handsome, sweaty man roaring through college on a bicycle and made it my mission to meet him. We finally did meet, one night in the rain, where we kissed near an overflowing garbage can. Even though he had no idea where to put his tongue, I didn’t care, and we dated for a year.
He introduced me to a world of music with which I was previously unfamiliar. Metallica, Jane’s Addiction, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Cypress Hill. Angry, fun, not-conventionally handsome belters. And when a mysteriously named music festival landed in Long Island, my tongue-tied boyfriend borrowed a friend’s car, picked up Slurpee’s at 7-11, and took me to Lollapalooza. He wouldn’t let me buy a joint from a white man in a Rasta hat during Ice Cube’s set which should have been a sign that he liked to control me, but that day I thought it was sweet and I was in love with being with a man who could pick me up with one arm.
That was the first time I heard Pearl Jam. When Eddie Vedder began to sing, I felt the way I do every time I look up at a skyscraper. Humans can do this? My people, my species, we can do this?
Nearly 30 years later, I am spending the weekend in Napa to attend a music festival with my just-tall-enough, very-much-handsome husband who has also introduced me to heaps of music and gratefully does not try to control me. Last night, as we were swaying to Stevie Nicks and marveling at her scarf changes between songs, I felt happy. Leading up to this weekend, I had three nightmares, three nights in a row, all having to do with October 7th, when festival goers in Israel were savagely attacked. I was nervous. Now that I’m here, though, I feel fine. Which also feels weird.
Pearl Jam is performing tonight. I hope they play “Better Man.” I want to dance, and I also hope there is somewhere for me to sit down.
When I was being treated for cancer a few years ago, I created a deathbed playlist on Spotify so if things did take a turn for the worse, at least “Call Me Maybe” wouldn’t be the last thing I’d ever hear. Eddie Vedder was predominantly featured, along with Bjork (of course) and Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition” which in retrospect might have been too frenetic. I deleted the playlist last year.
Shara Kaufman says
Thank you for thinking of Oct. 7 and then mentioning it in your blog. Crazy how that feels risky and how you might open yourself to attack for it. What a world.