petty
This past July, I spent about 2 weeks meandering through the streets of San Jose and the adjacent little towns/cities (?)–trying my darnedest not to feel like some newb alien girl. My roommate had the radio station tuned to some abomination that these folks call radio, and I made it my mission in life to find a decent radio station before my time was up. Back home, in Denver, I was spoiled by the best radio station in the world (KBCO, if case you’re wondering). What made KBCO great was they played an abundance of popular stuff alongside really old stuff and mostly unknown artists. I used to love to listen and discover music that maybe I missed or that no one knew about. Van Morrison, Stevie Nicks, & Tom Petty were mainstays–holding down the fort with their dependable brand of tunes. These artists were always a part of my life, though. Every happy day included a few songs from them, and I knew all their songs by heart. Especially Tom’s.
I remember that hot as fuck day in July, driving around–looking for a goddamn Starbucks–just wanting some damn iced tea–wanting to do a good deed–and being lost as all get out. I finally found a radio station that didn’t make me want to stab myself, but they played far too much Imagine Dragons. So I was more than grateful when an old friend appeared. This song.
I remember rolling down the windows, driving probably too fast (as is my way)–singing my heart out–and finally seeing the elusive Bux. I had done this exact thing so many times, on dozens of mountain roadtrips. This music had always been mine, and for a second, I felt like I was still me. Even though I was here.
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There was something about Tom. About his sad, weary eyes and his gentle voice paired with his layered lyrics and infectious riffs. Above all, he was a storyteller. The people in his songs were outsiders who didn’t fit in and knew they were meant for something more–something else–and life often kicked them in the gut. He told stories about people like me. There was always a bit of humor and a bit of badass to these stories. The music was about standing back up. It was about telling the truth. And it was beautiful and sexy and fun.
I remember this music was always in the background everywhere I went as a kid. It was always next to Elvis and Cash in our home. Every single happy day in my life, this was my soundtrack. It was music that could send you flying down a highway, hoarse from singing along. Lyrics that meant something with a beat that made you move in your seat. It was hopeful, but only because the narrator had seen some shit and come out somehow alive.
I knew nothing about Tom’s story until my late 20s when his music became even more important to me, getting me through terrible relationships and jobs. Then I found myself listening to interviews about his life. About his childhood–one that was a lot like mine–and I found myself identifying with him. He respected his audience above all else and wasn’t afraid to be himself with them. I admired how he stuck by his art–but moreso the process of creating something from nothing–and how he advocated for other artists. He inspired me to do the same for myself and my peers. The idea that an artist is an activist was especially important to me this year. His music, again, got me through the darkness by acknowledging its existence and raging back with its allegiance to flight.
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Yesterday was hard. But not in the way I expected. When you’re approaching forty, life often feels harder than it needs to be. Some of us have lost our parents–or are starting to–and slowly, as time goes on, our heroes go too. Those people we thought were immortal. The ones that transcended space and time and showed us who we were. Artists are especially dear to me, I’ve found. They help me access the person I was when life was simpler. Maybe not good–but that is still mine.
Whenever someone’s heart just stops, I think of my Mama. Well, I think of her every day of my life–all day long. That is not new. But I specifically think of the day she died, and my heart breaks a little more because no one needs to die like that. And that was kind of what yesterday was: one wave of needless suffering after another. But then I remembered I could still sing along to that lush chorus, and I had another day in the sun to look forward to. And I decided then that I’d honor that suffering by ending my own as often as I could. And I could do that by accessing the gifts that man gave the world.
Thank you, sir.
pause.sigh.go.hi. 