Part IV: Mercy for the man at the bottom of a pile.

I was just in love with melody and syncopated rhythm. And I am huge on lyrics to this day. I love a good pop song and demand structure within reason, but if the lyrics are inane, it's gone. Well, most times it's gone. If it has a beat and I can bug out to it, fine. I have this weird habit of focusing on rhythm lines and little guitar and keyboard flourishes. Not main-song structure, but little production additions, built up wall of sound like, as if they were teenage symphonies to young love. And I had my phases. Countless pencil renditions of Kiss (what 10 year old boy wasn't fascinated by fire and makeup? Well, ok, the fire part....), pretend all-knowing expertise with disco, and I even pride myself for being a rap "pioneer" with having purchased a then-brand-new 12" single of "Rapper's Delight" as one of my very first vinyl acquisitions with my own hard earned sister-sitting money; the music was so new and foreign to me, to this day, I can recite every word flawlessly, from repeated analysis. I credit my fourth grade friend Nicki for writing the words down on a napkin for me.

I wore out Joe Walsh's "Life's Been Good." I even tried to write lyrics to the instrumental B-Side when I was maybe 11 years old (no, I didn't save them.) I had Rod Stewart and Blondie singles in my locker for the longest time. Our teacher wouldn't allow us to play Pink Floyd in the afternoon, what with the "we don't need no education" refrain. I even confused "Dirty Mind"-era Prince with Freddy Prinze for the longest time. That SAME guy on "Chico And The Man" wears leg warmers and a shark tooth necklace? Huh. Never woulda guessed. It was a time of showing off to your friends, and who's older sibling had the cooler records.

But I believe I can trace back to one defining moment at the roller skating rink. A Friday night. Me, out on the floor by myself, long losing my friends to video games and pizza. The floor teaming with raging hormones and judging junior high insecurities. Skating personal space less than a forearm's length. And that robotic, synthesized monster of an intro..."Don't worry/ I won't hurt you/ I only want you/ To have...some...fun." And the crush began. Four-wheeled skates stomping like an army. I turned around in my confusion, trying to get the beat down in concentrating on this song I'd never heard, but wanting to move my mouth like I could sing along. And saw a crazed mob of delirious teenagers in a hysterical pop induced frenzy heading toward me. What was this music? Who was it? I needed to know. I mean, I was all for boundary pushing. But THIS...this was nothing like I'd ever heard. This was a blast of pure perfection. The beat was huge, and the guitar walked all over my psyche. And once "1999" was complete, all 3:35 of the 7" edit, and once I pulled myself out from underneath that pile of sweat, Stetson cologne, and flailing bodies...me and my musical discrimination were changed forever.

This was a rebirth of sorts. I needed something challenging, to latch onto and call my own. And I found it not just through Prince, but through Kate Bush. Miles Davis. By way of Depeche Mode and The Smiths. James Taylor. New Order. Oasis. More roots-oriented rock by Bob Dylan or The Allman Brothers Band. Even Merle Haggard. Many more to whom I have opened up my mind, not just to listen, but experience. I learned later, the most brilliant piece of tonal heaven didn't need a verse-chorus-verse structure. It didn't even need words. The song just had to speak to me.

And I have been all ears since.