Friday, February 6, 2015

Pixies



Let us time machine back to the Year of our Lord 1992ish when my sister gave me a mix tape (which is back then what we called a hand-picked-to-pluck-the-heart-strings-of-the-receiver curated collection of audio files) of what would now be called grunge or early 90s alt. that included tracks from the Pixies album Surfer Rosa.

Kurt Cobain of Nirvana said he wanted to sound like them. Smells Like Teen Spirit. 

They were that kind of band. A band that influenced rock gods. If I never thanked my sister properly, I'm thanking her now.

Where Is My Mind? I'll tell you when I hear that song my mind is elsewhere, in Western Massachusetts, in Northampton, in my superheated Victorian dorm room at Smith with the Gloria-Steinem-walked-here feminist superheated feeling captured by the Barbara Kruger t-shirts I chose to walk to Thornes to buy sage smudge sticks to clarify the murk that was my relationship with M -- who was my boyfriend, kinda. It was a confusing time. But the music was so good.

I was majoring in English. However, I liked better spending nights on the Cape calculating the growth rate of mussels, and in the lab, away from Chaucer, and Dustbowl American Lit., dissecting clams for Marine Invertebratology.  Those textbooks I still occasionally hover over, filled with longing for the coastal life that I have not lived.

Pixies is an emotional loud-QUIET-loud and so, I guess, is life. So hella, yes, I'm buying tickets for Boston, for my birthday, suburban riot grrl mother rocker than I was am.

See you there.


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