Chapter 2. Two Words, Many Meanings
I envisioned myself as a different person living in Boston than I was living in Florida. I pictured myself in boots, drinking coffee, and (most importantly) talking about science. I moved to Boston to be that person. The first day of school, I did my part, I wore a silk polka-dot scarf around my neck and had a latte in hand when I introduced myself to a table of graduate students. When I moved into my office, I played Elliott Smith albums as I unpacked. In a sense, I think I was waiting for an invitation. For someone, somewhere in that department, to like me enough to ask me out for a beer. I continued to feel that way for quite sometime, even though I knew that my polka-dots were unappreciated and that not a single person I encountered even knew who Elliott Smith was. And, (most importantly) not one single person wanted to have a conversation about science. If I had held on long enough, someone, somewhere in that department, would have asked me out for a cosmopolitan, and my disappointment would have come full circle.
So, I had a lot of time to think, a lot of time to read, a lot of time to write. I decided to try out an open mic night. At the time I wasn’t really thinking about the fact that Boston likely has the highest per capita rate of guitar players, or the fact that it’s home to a well-known school of music. At the time all I thought was, shit, I can’t believe I have to lug this guitar across town, in the snow, just to play some music.
By the following fall I met the people that would change my life. And I’m not talking about how they “touched” me here, I mean to say that literally, my entire life was about to change. They collected at the All Asia open mic each week to drank beer in 24 ounce mugs and play music. In the audience they watched, listened, talked about the weather, the shitty weather, and occasionally put down those mugs to climb on stage with one another to sing or play tambourine. They were seriously good, but not at all serious. I found them.... attractive, a quality that I could have never put my finger on at the time. And what I found to be most attractive about them is that they bridged a gap the gap between writer and reader. Or, to put it another way, the quality of the music they made was on par with the quality of the music they listened to. It was the first time that I realized that I wasn’t attracted to music just because I wanted to listen to it, I was listening because I wanted to be the music too. And I did my part, I showed up in long cut off shorts, old baseball T-shirts, and converse shoes with panda laces. I introduced myself to a table full of them and I waited for an invitation, hoping someone, somewhere in that bar, would like me enough to ask me to have a beer with them. And they did.
These people would fill the bar to see our first show. I told this to Amanda as we scheduled it, and laughingly asked ourselves, “Will anyone actually come to this show?” I had contacted All Asia Marc (owner) in April to book the slot (May 26, 2007), and when he asked who would be on the bill, I realized we had an even more important, equally laughable problem. We had no band name. It wasn’t as if we hadn’t discussed this, but a resolution seemed impossible. We had nothing. I suggested a free association exercise. We had nothing, e.g. some ideas were:
sodium potassium pump
protein kinase D (the D here refers to my name, note that there isn’t actually such a thing as protein kinase D)
alpha helix
action potential
corazon (means heart)
vitellene envelope
curvature
These names illustrate the lack of good band name ideas circulating among us when Amanda’s boyfriend (who apparently thought it was amusing that girls were making music) threw out the name “Hot Box”, and offer the best explanation that I can think of as to why we decided upon it.
Chapter 1. On Wallingford Road
Writing music. I recall that everything about it was easy back then, but then again recall is easy. Did I think that it was magical? Yea, I actually do think that was exactly what I thought. Obviously, I can’t provide any evidence for that, but this is why I bother taking the time to write now. How do I really know what I thought back then, when I go back there looking as the person that I am now. At any rate, I know what I am now. And right now, I am longing for that feeling of ease, easy, again. So I am sitting here, working through the past, like several loads of laundry on a Sunday, going through the pockets to see exactly what I might have missed, what might still be there.
The magic part, of course, was that music has never been easy at all. Before I even played a note, I could tell you that the three-flight walk up, two flights of which were outside, lightly frosted, in the middle of March, guitar, backpack, amp, in tow, was not easy. The first songs were written at the top of the final flight, through a door adjacent to it, sitting adjacent to a window, opposite the door, all on Wallingford Rd, which we had always wanted to somehow include in a song or song title but never did. I waited, instruments in hand, for Amanda to clear off a place for me to sit on her futon at the start of that first practice, and every one thereafter, and no matter how many times I sat in that room I never memorized the location of the electrical outlets. I can tell you now that our first practice was as awkward as our last. Amanda and I had known each other for 6 months before we started playing together, but I honestly can’t remember anything about her prior to that day. And it wasn’t as if I didn’t have an opinion. In fact, I vaguely remember having numerous opinions, I just don’t recall any specifics, it was as if that part of our relationship completely recorded over.
I sat down and she played for me what would eventually become the intro for A1. Hence, titled, A1= Amanda 1, or Amanda’s first song. I was actually quite surprised when she played it, as it was really unlike anything I would have imagined a bass player playing, and especially her playing. This of course, was purposeful on her part, as prior to this first practice I knew her music tastes to be hardcore (not the adjective, the genre). And although I didn’t know exactly what “hardcore” was (at least not yet), I was pretty sure that it wasn’t anything I would be interested in. For this reason, she showed me a song she had written that was “indie” as proof, maybe, that she was genuinely interested in creating non-hardcore sounding music with me. I listened as she played and my randomly placed fingers hit some nice notes, and I’m sure some pretty tacky ones as well, I don’t recall specifics. I do recall that I was comfortable, and for an overly anxious person like myself, that had never been able to play guitar with anyone else, it felt really good.
Amanda came to me at work about a great idea that she had for a song. I was probably operating or testing, and I was probably outwardly dismissive. I adopted the non-committal attitude for the work day, while I was supposed to be a graduate student. My palms would sweat when she would bring up ideas in our lab, in front of my advisor, so that I couldn’t put on my latex gloves. I would have to approach her on the side, out of ear-shot, to schedule practices. It was a concept that she half-got. Or maybe she fully got it, and only half-cared. The song was based on the movie Twin Falls, Idaho, a B-side about the twisted lives of these conjoined twins, involving prostitutes, trains, and death. After school, she played what would become the main rhythm of the song on the bass. I listened and moments later played on top notes in patterns that I had never before played, at a tempo and skill level I hadn’t yet reached. We would play it a few times through and then, maybe, one of us would say something like, “it needs something”. I would look out the colorless window, or at the wooden floor, and pretend to be thinking. Then I would just play something, and whatever it was, that was is it. The song was complete. We would run out of her room and pull her roommate away from guitar hero, and force her to listen. Twin Falls was the first true collaboration. Everything about it was equally divided between us two. Amanda wrote lyrics for the first verse, I wrote the second, Amanda wrote lyrics for the chorus, I wrote the bridge. Amanda wrote the bass, I wrote the guitar. It was my first collaboration, and it convinced me that two heads are much, much better than one.
tension then
i could feel the tension then,
in your fingers bent on my leg,
but it was easier to pretend
you would always stay.
destroying the haiku spirit
the bell jar descends,
it fits the whole country in
and the sour air sweeps
through the passionless streets.
with an obscured view, you
conform to consume, you
head off to bed-
save your questions for the end
the fresh air ascends
leaving you trapped within
this strip-malled town but the
moneys all run out
what will you buy now
buy now
the waves
push and pull the sand
till your footprint's
swallowed by the land
the end of the day
I wait for the day to end so I can leave here and return earlier again,
tomorrow. Borrowed phrases get me through simple movements of the day, when hello and goodbye are the only original things I have to say.
outside, the black branches against the white sky are the backdrop for my olan mills,
and even if changing scenery was that easy, I wouldn’t pull the loop attached to the stills to bring me closer to you.
I walk to the elevator that takes me down, then climb stairs to reach the ground, floor. I end where I begin, right there where you and I have been, many times before. Waiting for the engine to turn my car from cold to warm and this song plays while I’m thinking about making love to you. Sometimes when I turn the corner I think I see you shift uncomfortably in the passenger seat.
tell me that you want me to slow down. My glasses have fogged from the heat of my nose beneath.
I talk to you now as if you are dead, the ghost sitting at the foot of my bed listening to the end of my day when I’m taking off my socks and rubbing my feet..
your love
like a palmful of sand,
slips through my fingers when i
close my hand.
the things that i know
never been in love and
it doesn’t matter
my heart beats to deliver blood
love doesn’t matter
sometimes i wake to voices in my sleep
conditioning me to believe
guidelines and boundaries
will give my mind more time to think
and the things that i know
don’t give me hope,
and the things that i don’t
still bother me.
every one belongs to every one
every one belongs to every one else
every one belongs to every one
every one belongs to every one else
i dream in color tv
when i dream of you and me
we are breaking from captivity
we wear our hearts on our sleeves
and say love words that we believe
and the things that we know,
give us hope
and the things that we don’t,
keep us from being alone
every one belongs to every one
every one belongs to every one else
every one belongs to every one
every one belongs to every one else
goodbye
2 sides to every story, they say and we will
0ut live them both.
0pinionated mouths retailing out their
7 cents, but I stop listening
at two.
your side was mostly in your head
except when it came out of your teeth
all broken down and wet on the sidewalk, leaning on the
railing, next to the tree,
outside in the sun
for everyone to see.
divide and conquer, they said and we
expected to win with this strategy.
considered the plan for
every unexpected turn. we were
prepared to meet
the enemy, with thin strips of ourselves.
it seems we had focused
on our own minds, (a little too much) to
notice the instructions were for the both of us.
