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11/08/2005

An Itcher in the Ol' Ticker

WE ARE THE KEYMASTERS

AND WE, WE ARE THE GATEKEEPERS

So I've been holding my tongue for a hell of a long time on this one but tongue be held no longer, behold:

For several weeks, I would sit and listen to little else than My Chemical Romance's "Helena" for hours on end, and I could not for the life of me figure out why. I would YSI it to friends and say ANALYZE THIS and they would just respond in the blankest of prose, something like "I feel like I don't even know you sometimes." I'd say, "it is the sound of two teenagers who look exactly the same, textbook androgynes of the early post-punk 21st century groping each other by the blue light of the television, fucking each other's bullet belts right off in suburbs across the country, it is brutally Honest and True and I might Love it, this past I never had." Usually they were gone by this point, but I still had "Helena." And alone with her I realized something, right at the end of the bridge: "when both our cars collide."

One day I snapped, realizing it wasn't anything short of the feeling behind my beloved Shangri-Las (esp. "Leader of the Pack); the same mountains of grotesque drama, the same cartoonish, uncanny, and morbid fixation on DEATH and ENDING; the same hopelessly myopic and hence thrice as intense passions, those heart-vomiting Teenage Feeling. Now I'm a man of questionable tendencies in psychogeographic/conceptual urban planning; you might not want to walk these bridges with me, but I'm going to build a few. I still love Kim Gordon circa EVOL (in my own riddled misogyny, "Shadow of a Doubt" is still one of the most cripplingly sexy songs ever, I guess I've just always liked my blowjob queens to be ghosts anyway). There's something in the mess of "Helena," and "Helena" specifically, that cries out to me as a return to some age-old form, the throbbing desires of youth not to die per se, but to feel the charge of death as something important; lest we be reminded that the Smiths are yet to come and still too intellectual, and Wallace Stevens (or at least on "Sunday Morning") has the feeling, but with fucking tongs (insurance is a tough sell with corn syrup blood on one's hands). Whew. I needed to get this stuff off my chest before moving into something a little bigger, with thoughts drifting into the world of One Kiss Can Lead to Another, which I recently purchased, and Justin Cober-Lake's great-duh pre-surgery probe of the girl-group myth, more than a little resonant with Maureen Dowd's recent plaintive, addled lamentations about the current state of feminism in a perceived culture of gender relations regression. Coincidence? FUCK NO, AS USUAL.

2 Comments:

Blogger Ian said...

B-but, it's about his dead grandmother!

Which is an argument on par with "but the Shangri-Las/Ronettes/whoever didn't write their own songs" - i.e. IT MEANS NOTHING. Good analysis, the song (and the whole album, I swear!0 is pretty fucking sweet.

Have you seen the video for "The Ghost Of You"? It totally fits into the whole drive for death-as-significance thing you're getting into here - they allow it to take place on Juno Beach, fer fuck's sake.

4:49 PM  
Blogger Alfred said...

You should post your thoughts on Wallace Stevens, only, like, my favorite poet.

8:41 AM  

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