What A Bunch Of Garbage!
I was fourteen. It was a warmer season of '95. I stood in line at a music retailer for an autograph session of the thrash metal band Anthrax. This meet and greet was a big deal for my friends and I. In fact, my super awesome mom pulled me out of school a couple hours early in order for me to meet the band. I managed to kidnap a buddy out of drama class (which was another adventure, for a later day...) and drag him with me to meet our metal heroes. Little did we know at the time that this day would be referred to as one of the greatest days of our lives.
This music store, that the signing session was being held in, was a nation wide chain that no longer exists. You may remember the dearly departed Blockbuster Music. It was a pretty sweet store for its day. In the center of the large CD complex was a listening station, formed of two concentric circles of counters and displays, where a fellow could sample any album in the store before buying. It ruled. As a method of advertising, Blockbuster would pre-load albums, spinning at each listening station, to help promote the hot artists of the day. The line to meet Anthrax snaked its way around this circular listening station, conveniently exposing impressionable young minds with money, such as I, to the succor of CD sampling and inevitable impulse buying.
Though, I wasn't allured by the first few CDs I saw displayed in the listening stations, I was reminded by the new releases that Motorhead had just dropped a new album. I managed to snag their new album (Sacrifice) on my way out. Man, now that was a killer record!
As our sampler train neared its Anthrax destination and rounded the last bend, my friend and I happened upon a display for an up and coming band named Garbage. We laughed heartily at the band name, and let forth countless jokes and puns that, in hindsight, were probably so obvious and contrived that the other people waiting in line wanted to strangle us. But who cares about them. Coincidentally, the word "Garbage" was a utility word at the time for my peers and I, similar to how people these days pepper each sentence with "like," "ya know," and "that's gay," which added to the fun and my strange attraction to the glowing pink cover of that fateful disc.
You know you want it.
This Garbage album just so happened to be their self-titled debut which, you should remember, went on to sell over two million copies worldwide. It was a smash hit featuring cuts that are still heard on pop stations to this day, fourteen years later. I remember holding the CD case, reading the back of the package, listening to a brief sample of a song, and setting it back in its display utterly dismissing it with cocksure elitism.
Mulligan!
You see, I would be lying if I told you that I wasn't a little entranced by the melodious sounds issuing forth from the headphone speakers. Shirley Manson's voice was that of a siren, and my heart and will was hopelessly wrecked upon the reef of some forlorn Island of Fools. The cover art of that debut album depicted a bed of bright pink feathers and my soul was resting woefully upon it. But no, a metal head can't like pop music! For shame! I became a prudish Quaker and turned away from my first glimpse of an exposed ankle because I liked it too much. I tried, in vain, to expel this experience from my brain and carried on with an absolutely fabulous day.
Later that evening, after securing our Anthrax autographs and fresh new Motorhead, we partied like people who had no concept of what partying is, unsupervised and uninhibited, and lived a tale for another time. Know this, though, Garbage stalked me for the remainder of that day. I would see a car on the street and think Garbage; a computer and think Garbage; television and Garbage; a plate of bacon, Garbage; an overflowing trash can and think....you guessed it...drinking Pepsi!
Time has a way of healing wounds, and I eventually got to the point where I could look at a pile of soda cans without weeping, but like the appalling results of the trifecta of too many jalapenos, onions, and confectionary, something disturbing and wholly unpleasant festered within my bowels: regret.
Years later, while a student under the tutelage of a tremendous bass guitar teacher, I was once again introduced to Garbage. My bass teacher had just acquired their second album, Version 2.0, and was very excited about it. He was a huge fan and had followed the career of the band and its members since a time before the band even existed. In fact, he had met the band members on several occasions, and even hung out with the lead singer in a social capacity. Oh yes, he regaled me with backstage stories, samples of their new album, and photos of his adventures with the band. Like, whoa! 2.0 went on to sell even more copies than their self titled debut. Garbage was everywhere now, infecting my being like a happy cold bug that keeps you out of school.
Just give in.
I managed to suppress my desires for a bunch of years. A decade lulled on, my parents got divorced, I was expelled twice from school before graduating, and life sort of chewed me up and threw me into a pile of...trash. Then Rock Band came out for the Xbox 360. Rock Band is a music game, just like Guitar Hero, that features the music of famous bands for you to sing and fake-play along with. Now, in order to play the game, unlock achievements, and entertain a group of people that didn't like me yet were hanging out at my apartment anyway, I had to listen to a whole Garbage song, and not only that, I had to sing it. This was the telephone pole that broke the camel's back.
After singing along to "I Think I'm Paranoid," as well as playing along on a plastic guitar controller, I was undeniably smitten. Now, though, I could finally admit it. In short order, that Garbage song became my favorite to play, much to the chagrin of those in earshot, and I knew it was time to buy their albums. It only took twelve years for me to reach this conclusion. Better late than never. So, I did. I jammed those discs out, driving everyone insane, and loved every minute of it.
Regret still pains me, even more so now, because I realized how foolish I was to deny something I so craved. I could have seen them perform live so many times. I could have been there to buy their albums on the day of each release. Now, at this late stage of their career, they may never tour again. The band has been on hiatus since their last album, "Bleed Like Me," and it has been said by the band themselves that they may never release another album or tour. I am a freaking idiot.
Just a few days ago I bought the last piece of the Garbage collection that I needed. The last thing they released was a DVD featuring almost all of their music videos, as well as an in depth behind the scenes documentary. I abstained from buying this because it felt good knowing there was some Garbage out there that I had yet to taste. Now that I have it, and have plucked it clean of all its tasty morsels, there is no more. Why didn't I enjoy them when I had the chance? Screw me sideways ten times!
Has this long winded introspection garbage actually been therapeutic? Nah. Self help is so, like, ya know, gay.
Love,
Smiley Grimm
:)
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