A Celibration by way of Confession
This makes the 100th post up on Satellite for Entropy since I started it back at the beginning of 2009. I thought it fitting to mark the occasion in some way, and tried to think of something special to honour all the music that keeps inspiring me to ramble on about it as well as something that hasn’t been done a million times before, but I’m not even sure that’s possible. So, in true S4E fashion, instead of making this post about music, I decided to make it all about me and do something I know for sure no one else can, that being to tell you a bunch of my – up until now – closely guarded, musically inclined secrets. I’m going to steer clear of “deep, dark” territory, I don’t think anyone’s ready for that, especially me.
I have to admit to a few people already knowing this, but I may as well put it out there for the enjoyment of the masses. For quite a while I believed Prince‘s father’s name was Hugo, which I had no reason to believe other than going by the lyrics to one of my favourite songs, When Doves Cry. Which lyrics imparted this information, you might ask? “Maybe I’m just like my father, Hugo“.
At the age of 12, I was quite convinced that if I could somehow manage to meet Jon Bon Jovi, there was no way possible he would not fall madly in love with me. The day I heard he was getting married, to someone else, was a very dark day indeed. My dear heart was broken for the first time, which I nursed by listening to I’ll Be There For You countless times and burning a piece of paper with the lyrics written on it, because I thought doing so was tragically poetic and romantic. At least I got the tragic part right.
For a year 10 drama class assignment, we were meant to choose and learn a monologue and subsequently perform it in front of the class. Come the day of performance and I had done no such thing. When my name was called, I walked out in front of the class wondering if I should admit to not doing my homework or try to get away with it. I chose the latter and decided there and then to recite the lyrics to Metallica‘s Fade to Black. I stood there looking as dejected, depressed and desolate as possible. “Life, it seems, will fade away”, said I, in my best Shakespearean accent. “Drifting further every day…” I ended this ‘speech’ by melodramatically pretending to stab myself in the stomach, complete with sufficiently protracted, spasmadic death scene, finally laying still and silent in front of the class. My drama teacher stood up, pointed at my lifeless body as he faced the class and said “See that? Now that is the level of committment to performance I expected to be seeing from all of you”. He then congratulated me on such a fine effort and gave me an A.
One time I stopped to talk to a particularly attractive street busker who had been playing his guitar and singing a bunch of my favourite songs. As I was quite earnestly trying to chat him up, he lamented the obvious flaws in his singing voice, which I had noticed but overlooked owing to the whole very attractive thing. “Oh,” I said coyly, “I did notice that your voice breaks a bit when you go for the higher notes, but I think that adds to its charm.” It didn’t work, of course, the guy just cracked up laughing at me because he knew I was full of it. We never saw each other again.
Speaking of my failed attempts at wooing prospective partners, I once had a massive crush on the son of one of my teachers. I came up with the idea to write this guy a song and send it to him, even though I really have no ability to write or play music. My solution? I used Music, a “game” on the PS1 that contained pre-made riffs that you could piece together and hopefully sound ok once you hit play. I slowed everything down to about 90bpm, thinking it would make my efforts sound like a hauntingly touching ballad. Thankfully, I abandoned this brilliant plan once I realised I completely sucked at Music.
Thus ends my brief window into the musical maladies of S4E past. There are, of course, many more tales of woe, transgression, faux pas and downright shame lurking about, but I think I’ll save those for a really special occasion, either post #500 or when Mr Bon Jovi finally realises that I am his true soul mate. Whichever happens first.