Soundtrack My Childhood

Beatles sing-a-longs not withstanding, my first musical memory was probably either singing MC Hammer at a water park or going to see the New Kids on the Block in New Orleans when I was five. Needless to say, the 80s impacted me growing up, but not in the zany Cindy Lauper kind of way- more like the cheesy Vanilla Ice kind of way. By the time I got to middle school, however, my sister started dating an artsy guy who listened to The Cure and Alice in Chains, so I got a little better in the 90s.  It took a little while for me to start buying records that didn't completely suck- the learning curve is pretty steep when you're from Baton Rouge and music blogs haven't been invented yet. Two things saved me from the the suburban palate of bland: soundtracks and MTV. Granted, they represent a limited segment of the color wheel (maybe 3 primary colors at best) but soundtracks were the blogs of the 90s- professional mixed tapes, musical tastes customized from the music industry elite.

Soundtracks that sculpted my early musical taste include: Reality Bites, Singles and Good Morning Vietnam.

Reality Bites:
In 6th grade, I got hold of the soundtrack for Reality Bites. I'm still not sure how I managed to smuggle Juliana Hatfield's 'she's such a sucker, he don't wanna fuck her' lyric past my mother (who, for the record, burned Footloose because it glorified premarital sex), never mind Alanis Morisette who's still referred to as 'The Chicken-shit Lady.' The song on this record that stands out the most is still Turnip Farm by Dinosaur Jr. Probably my first exposure to dissonant rock, where the guitar overpowers the simplified lyrics.  It's a great mix of grunge, acoustic and (wait for it) Peter Frampton, with a little bit of revival thrown in there for diversity. 

Singles:
Admittedly, I heard most of this record on repeat through my sister's wall, but exposure to 90s Seattle gunge was a huge deal in the sheltered South.  My virgin ears learned Soundgarden, Alice in Chains and Pearl Jam -- doubtless some of the best bands of my formative years.  In fact, when recently polled on my favorite records of all time it was *very* difficult not to include Jar of Flies in this mix.  Another huge favorite (though not from Seattle) from this record was The Smashing Pumpkins - still one of my all-time favorite bands (Mayonnaise kills me).  And though I didn't learn about Jimi until my dad busted him out on a road trip much later in life, Hendrix's "May This Be Love" made its way on to the record.

Good Morning Vietnam:
Way before Forrest Gump was even an idea, Adrian Conauer taught me about the 60s with some great tunes and really dirty jokes (which I can quote to this day).  A lot of these bands are past my time, so this soundtrack spark a musical adventure, but it did function as a complete piece of art that encapsulated the energy and pain of the Vietnam war.  "Nowhere to Run To" by Martha and the Vandellas - yes!" and the Supremes, "You Just Keep Me Hangin' On" are great favorites - with their brassy ladies leading the charge with tambourines and sparkles to back them up.  The Beach Boys got hooked up with three songs here, including "I Get Around" and who could forget Louis Armstrong closing the record with "What a Wonderful World" which is played as Saigon takes on gunfire.

Honorable Mention -- Dangerous Minds:
It would be hyperbolic to call this whole soundtrack earth-shattering, but Gangta's Paradise really was.  Beyond my dance team picking up an edited version for our half time performance (true story), this soundtrack opened up rap and hip-hop in my school.  Master P, C Murder, Mystikal and the 504 Boyz quickly popped up as we all tried to rebel against the status quo with really bad Gangsta Rap.

The Housewife and The Hipster: BR vs. NOLA

I've been meaning to get back to Louisiana for quite some time, but there's something that makes me procrastinate the pilgrimage. Part of me in undeniably proud of my culture. We have the best food in the country and the warmest hearts, great music, Cyprus drenched wetlands and iconic self-expression that includes words like, "DIN" (pronounced, daa-gn, as in Boudin).

But for me, there is an incredible schism between what exists between New Orleans and Baton Rouge- and it's a lot more than 60 miles and a few feet of elevation. Baton Rouge. No matter how far I travel or where I go, it's a word that I can't escape because - though I feel a sharp sense of self-loathing at admitting this - it was and is a huge part of me. It's not that I'm ashamed of who I came from- as my grandparents are the most amazing people on the planet- it's regret that I put up with the city for so long. They are the types of things that are hard to explain unless you've been there...It's that right in front of the Budweiser distribution center, there are 3 massive crosses that stand 10 stories tall. It's the gigantic outdoor store and the concrete shopping center after concrete shopping center that stretch across the entire 'city.' It's that there's next to nothing going on, unless you're into football...and if you're not into football, there must be something wrong with you.

But, as long as it's been, I still know the short cuts to avoid traffic and I still know where to go to see the best view of the LSU lakes. The most redeeming quality Baton Rouge has is that in houses 3 of my favorite humans in the world. My maternal grandmother, Beverly, and my paternal grandparents, Bebee and Will. Bebee's house is straight out of the 40s- it's not dwarfishly small ceilings and a upstairs that feels like you're living in Barbie's house. She and Will both have their designated sitting chairs, though they'll give you the honor of sitting in the chair of your choice when you're their guest. Will shuffles to the door from his chair, pulls his glasses down to the string around his neck and says, "Hello, Em-ly. God bless you" and gives you a tight hug and kiss.

There's something about the smell of their house that used to unnerve me, but now it feels like the safest place on earth.  Perhaps it's the Civil War swords mounted on the wall or the way they carry orange juice on a tray to serve you with their shuffling steps. Looking at them and their complete devotion to each other makes me think I might be able to love someone if I could stop dissecting everyone and everything for 15 minutes.

It's literally gotten to the point where I feel nervous about returning home and facing all of the emotions that have taken me a lifetime to sort through - or pretend to sort through. The religious presence is stronger than ever, positioned alongside the daunting social class stratification it's hard to believe that I came from there.  From the skyscraper-tall white crosses that portal you into the city -- the ones that we've joked about painting in rainbow colors -- to the insistence that we pray at every meal, religion is the South.  It's a beacon that they don't even see or notice, the proverbial elephant in the room. 

And yet, to all that Baton Rouge is -- it's rules and simplicity, camoflauge and football games -- New Orleans is its stepsister.  Both beautiful females, one is a docile home-maker and one is a renegade hipster running on 4 nights sleep a week. 

Without fail, every time I'm in New Orleans it feels like I've eaten a vitamin filled with all the nutrients I could need for my spirit.  All of the things I miss when I'm away -- everything is music, dancing is unencumbered, smiles are unbridled and creative inspiration is like the humid air taken into the lungs, to the arteries, to the very cells in my body.  This is the very fiber of what matters in life - it is something to cherish and to protect.

As I leave the city, on less that two hours sleep, hungover in last night's makeup on the longest one hour drive known to man to a ladies brunch at my grandmother's posh town house in Baton Rouge, I'm reminded that I am both of these worlds and I am neither.