Having a favorite band is a cheesy thing. It’s the kind of thing kids judge you by in middle school, a time you haven’t quite acquired enough lived experience to garner other markers of greatness. In that era, the choices were more based on what we wanted ourselves to be, musical prophesies portraying our most desired selves. I was pretty punk in those days, a fact that can now retrospectively read as a bid for power and a sharp anti-authoritarian streak. Most likely this was born of my aversion to organized religion, or a penchant for skater boys, both pretty important life choices if you ask me.
Favorite bands come and go with the years, often matching patterns of upswells and downward spirals. I would say the signature greats of my youth still remain pretty significant to me today, they instilled in me a sense of questioning authority that is a marked personality trait. More importantly however, they prompted me to think. I found solace in the chords and ramble of politically charged lyrics, I found comfort in the notion of a societally disenfranchised minority.
The older I got the less important music became to me. I was introduced to nerd rock by a boyfriend and music became less about angst and struggle and more about fun and light heartedness. The bands of that time in my life were never to become my favorites. They were a way to pass the time but never something that resonated with the core of who I was. I began to think that music was not something I was terribly into, just something to place in the background while life was happening.
Then I met my favorite band.
Modest Mouse isn’t an epic band. At least not in the way that most people would categorize or conceive such a thing. They weren’t particularly revolutionary in the way they played or the things they sang about. Truth be told I actually had an aversion to them for a few years because I thought their name was dumb (beacon of understanding, I know). When I finally got around to listening to them it hit me like a ton of bricks in the face, I was hard crushed by the beauty of it.
I would now say that I am certainly lyrically driven. There is something about the blue collar poetry of Isaac Brock that brings me to me knees emotionally. It resonates deep in my being, expressing thoughts I had not yet managed to conjure to the surface. Truly part of what was attractive to me about the music was that he was, in a way embracing not knowing the ultimate purpose, acknowledging being an asshole, and making it ok.
It must be said now that there was a time in my life in which I thought I was no good. I felt that deep down inside I was a callous, disconnected, and cold person.
This may be surprising for you to hear if you know me now. Or even if you knew me back when I actually believed it to be true. I am a characteristically warm person, I smile all the time and am very concerned with the comfort and well-being of others. When I was in my early twenties I was hung up on deserting my family in Florida, especially my mom, who has epilepsy and narcolepsy. I don’t think I was consciously aware of feeling this “hung up” on my decisions to leave my house. Quite the contrary, I think I would say that I was very empowered by my choices and volition. Especially because in many ways I was flying in the face of everything I had been brought up to know as my historical, though admittedly latent, cultural ties back to Cuba, where my family is from.
I was a rebellious kid, as you may remember from my punk rock days, but not because I hated my family or wanted to be as far away from them as I could get, as they would guilt trip me into believing. I was rebellious because my thoughts didn’t follow any particular convention, because I was stifled by a state of affairs that would dictate my future before I had a chance to fuck it up all by myself.
I always knew I wouldn’t. I trusted myself and my choices, even if I felt like I was a bad person for putting me first, that wasn’t going to stop me from moving forward. It never has. The consequence of that way of thinking was that part of me always felt like a selfish asshole. I think in some ways this was detrimental in me creating healthy, positive relationships with the people in my life. In a part of my mind and in the way I related to them, they were always dispensable, and I knew that I had to be ok with removing them (or myself) from the equation if it became necessary to protect my free will and self-directed trajectory.
When I think about it now, it’s not an absurd premise or reaction to have, you grow up in an environment that squelches individuality and inculcates you to be unequivocally beholden to a paradigm that you believe is stifling and fundamentally full of shit and of course you are going to be an asshole. It’s more about self-preservation than it is about the outside world. I know that now, I didn’t know it then.
These days I am more prone to pop music. My happiness is brimming from my psyche and spilling out onto the radio dial. While I still prefer the more solemn choices I find myself also more open to other more conventional outlets.
That all said, I always come back to Modest Mouse. I fluctuate in which albums and songs I prefer, but there is always one that is appropriate to every moment. I think, as happy and positive a person as I am, my thoughtfulness will always set me in a place of understood sadness.
Because, nothing means anything, really. At least it’s nice to know that I will always have a favorite band to come home to.
Till next time, my kittens, you know the drill...
Expect great things!
