Metal Meredith

I Have A Confession To Make

Most of my friends pop in their favorite albums and sing along, they dance a little. They think back to when they saw the concert, danced to the song with a former boyfriend or girlfriend, or heard the song in their favorite movie and they smile. I know people enjoy music, but at some point life gets in the way and what seemed like a passion becomes just a use for distraction in the car on a long trip.

I can’t explain why this never happened to me. In fact, I couldn’t begin to tell you when my addiction started. I can’t pinpoint the moment. I can tell you that I knew all the words to the Grease soundtrack (much to my parents’ dismay) at 8 years old. I knew Barry Manilow and Barbra Streisand songs much younger. Still, I can sing the entire Barbra Christmas album without straining to remember lyrics. So ingrained was the love for music, my dad joked on many occasions that I could memorize an entire Culture Club album but not important dates in history. He did not understand that Thomas Jefferson was not as interesting as Boy George to an 11 year old.

My whole life seems to be measured by what records I listened to and when. Time is measured by what year I eagerly absorbed the video for Duran Duran’s “Wild Boys” while babysitting, when I bought Poison’s “Look What the Cat Dragged In” or which Barenaked Ladies concert I went to. I remember my high school years dotted by which songs I liked, who I idolized and how I was unapologetic when no one agreed. I was never scared to admit who I listened to. This was an area that peer pressure never touched. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

My father took me to see Culture Club at Hampton Coliseum, November 1984. I proudly wore my concert t-shirt to school the next day, ridicule be damned. At the show, I danced my geeky 13 year old butt off. I can’t tell you much about that show and I don’t blame it on my being so young. Fact of the matter is that I wasn’t really there. I was having this musical out of body experience. It allowed me to be the “Super Me” and I never wanted to go back. In a way, I don’t think I did.

In 1998, Kym invited me to see Depeche Mode. During the show I was speechless. I realized how many of their songs I knew, how many scenes in my life were played out with their music as the soundtrack. I was intoxicated. I bought the greatest hits and listened to it non-stop. I bought 2 copies to have one in my car and one in my house. I had a suspicious feeling that I was not going to get over this one anytime soon.

Life moved forward and Phil and I got married, started our careers. The band put out another album and I was all giddy and speechless when I met them in 2001. Kym still makes fun of me, stating it was the first and only time in our long (15 years?) friendship that she has seen me choke. For anyone who knows me, talking isn’t difficult for me under any circumstance.  I was so in love with the concert that night that I paid a ridiculous amount of money to go again a month later with Ronni. She was nice enough not to make fun of me, but sympathized with me when I cried through most of the show. She even told me she understood me, which certainly has made our friendship a lasting one.

For the next 6 months, my life revolved around this band. I went so far as to fly to L.A to interview for a job with the record label in hopes of eventually working for their management company, fueled by dreams of being on tour with them by the next album. Phil, ever the fabulous husband, quiet and supportive, went along for the ride. When it didn’t pan out, we stayed in Richmond and decided to start a family instead.

This year, they put out a new album. It has actually only been a week since it came out and I am back in that place. To outsiders, people without this strange connection to music, I just can’t explain it well enough for you to understand. But I will tell you this… I cry, a lot. When I heard the first single, I cried. When I saw the video, I cried. When I bought the concert tickets, played the album the first, second and fifth time, I cried. When I had a dream about them and Phil woke me up with his snoring, I cried (more than I care to admit, really). I can’t tell if I am mourning or celebrating. But what I am doing is feeling, feeling so deeply it hurts, it aches, and it makes me want to burrow into the speakers to get a closer to the music.

I ponder daily if I am teetering dangerously on the edge of reality and fantasy when I get to this point. I start to wonder if there is something lacking in me or in my life that so badly needs to be filled by music. I get knots in my stomach when I think of my favorite bands never putting out another album, wondering if what I have from them already is enough to last me for the rest of my days.

Kym and I had a chance to thank another group of musicians a while back that shaped not only who we are as people, but as friends. We are so lucky to have had the chance to do so. Only, a simple “Thank You” never feels like enough. How do you tell someone, someone you really don’t know, that they had a hand in shaping your life, your thoughts, and make them understand that it is not just music, it is not just a concert, but has become part of your chemical and spiritual make up?

I have talked with Ronni on several occasions about my addiction and why I feel so deeply, why I love it so much and seem to react so much more intensely than others. She had no real advice, no words of wisdom. She simply told me that “most people will just never understand.” I suppose she is right.

At 33, I am still crying like a 14 year old with a rock star infatuation. All in all, it feels good to know that this part of me is still alive and kicking. I can only hope that one day, Vivienne will share this love of music. Even if she rolls her eyes when Mom starts to tear up when “Enjoy the Silence” comes on the radio, I will be happy knowing she is feeling the same feelings for her own rock star crush.