I miss the days of having an
“it” record; an album by a beloved artist or band that I could, for weeks on
end, listen to on repeat. In this modern age, the way music is consumed has
dramatically evolved. It may be a less-than-astute observation, as it’s one
made by many, but with there being so much readily available via streaming and
illegal downloads, not to mention an overflow of bedroom musicians creating
original content on their laptops, there’s just so much available. Even the
most devoted audiophile might say too much. So, not only is it hard to
find an “it” record, it’s hard to find an “it” song. This got me thinking of
those years of teenage angst. The “nobody understands me” years. And the
records that helped me through them.
In early 1998, my “it”
record was by a Scandanavian dance/pop group, who shall remain nameless. I
loved just about every track on this record and for several weeks, listened to
it each day. When friends came to visit, yes, they’d be forced to listen as
well. Hey, my room, my rules. You don’t like it, there’s the door. One day, I
reached for the disc in preparation of dropping it into the tray. For reasons I
can’t recall, I flipped it to the reverse side. When the translucent surface
met the light at the right angle, I noticed something strange: the disc was
scratched. No, not scratched in the way CDs not properly cared for would so
often get scratched. Scratched with intent, with purpose.
In the center of the disc
was a circle of curving lines, like the petals of a flower in bloom. By the
shape of these scratches, it was clear they’d been made by an average house
key. I’d never noticed this before. Wondered how long the desecration had been
embedded there. Momentarily panicked, I put the CD in the stereo and hit
“play,” certain that, instead of the thumping European dance beats that filled
me with such glee, I’d hear only skips and distortion echo from the dual
speakers. Much to my surprise, and relief, the album played fine from
beginning-to-end, and continued to do so for several years. The attempt at
musical sabotage had failed.
I didn’t have many friends
growing up. For lengthy spans, I’d have only one I’d consider close enough to
enter my domain. At the time of the incident, there were two: a male and a
female. The male couldn’t care less what music I played and would often sing
tunelessly along with me. The female rolled her eyes and snubbed her nose at
every artist I held dear, every song I gravitated toward, every CD in my
waist-high tower. Whenever I pushed the stereo’s “play” button, she’d groan and
complain. Occasionally, I’d allow her to bring her own music just to avoid an
argument.
Distinguishing who’d carved
the flower-shaped scratch into the disc required no detective work, but even
still, I said nothing. I continued to play the album in her presence, just so
she’d know her efforts were futile. I knew then, just as I know now, that I
should’ve immediately severed ties with this person, but not only did I pretend
the incident never happened, I continued a friendship for several years after
the fact. Most would call me spineless and I’d readily agree. But when I look
back on incidents like these—yes, there were others—I can see why and how I
developed a “one and done” policy over the years.
A solitary chance is all you
get. Betray me once and you’re out of my life for good. It takes a lot for me
to forgive, as I know forgiveness only opens the door to future betrayals. If
they do it once, they’ll do it again. Guaranteed. So, I’d rather be alone.
Books make much better company anyway. At least I don’t have to worry about
them stabbing me in the back, or defacing personal property simply because our
tastes differ.
