As February’s weary fingers wrapped silently against the glass, brilliant formations of crystals exploded like wildfire before them. Four teenagers sat silent in a car. One was uncomfortable, but the other three barely noticed. At the very least, I don’t remember caring much, I was deep in thought.
From the outside, the scene looked all too stereotypical. An older blue Toyota sat idling in the driveway, windows fogged beyond recognition. Bodily shapes were barely discernable through the blurry panes, while the bright winter moon shone down like a disapproving authority figure. The hour was late. They should be home by now.
But inside the car, things were not as they seemed to the prying eyes of curious parents. Though the situation had all the ingredients of usual teenage mischief, there was none here to be had. No secret swigs of forbidden substances. No nervous laughter amidst clouds of illegal smoke. No. Tonight there was something else filling this car, entrancing the four young bodies contained within it. Was it…love? Something new, something unfamiliar and yet all too welcome. Possibly love…perhaps a door being opened before them, welcoming them to a new level of enjoyment and understanding that they were unaware even existed. But again, things were not as they seemed from the outside.
The previous events of the evening proved to be fairly unremarkable. A typical weekend night in west Toledo, Ohio. The farm kids were no doubt raising hell miles away, and the throngs of kids flanking the social circles were assuredly sipping away their insecurities to the Barenaked Ladies or Dave Matthews for the millionth time. I still cringe at the painful remembrance of the “herd mentality” and my utter disdain for it. But here, that night, in the basement of some reception hall, following the Confirmation ceremonies of a friend’s younger brother…there played out the social lives of the in-betweens, the unclassifiable. I’m sure every school has them, as I can’t imagine them being unique to Toledo much less Ohio: The group that could fit in with any other level in the societal stratification of high school. Not jocks, not preps, not fakies and certainly not nerds. They were athletes, intelligent, down to earth kids with good manners. They were not leeches or parasites, they were fine on their own and often enjoyed being on the outside when they chose to be. They blended seamlessly and happily. But most importantly, they’d found each other as friends, a pleasant release from the norm.
My thoughts on these matters raced in a random pattern, one topic leading to the next in a mental pantomime of the spreading frost lines before me. I sat blinking, the cold, calculated music rhythmically thumping from the radio. “This music…this music defines my teenage years,” I thought in some sort of usual, dramatic, narrative fashion, a la The Wonder Years. Though a broader palette overall, *this* particular music captured the social angst inside far more surgically than Bad Religion or Minor Threat ever could. The feedback and distortion from Mr. Brett’s guitars were too typical, too indicative of commercialized revolt. As cogs and gears click into place, synapses firing and sense being made in my head, I’m overwhelmed by the quote by some art guy about “true revolution existing only in the abstract.” That was it. This music was different from all the rest, and yet there was a sense of joy and excitement that somehow spilled forth from this genre that my mother thought was modern rubbish. It was new, and it was abstract. And at that moment, we all sat silently as if observing a new species of animal at a zoo, in wonder, in awe.
As the gearshift thump-clanked into reverse, red break lights blearily awoke for duty. The passenger door opened, followed eagerly by one in the rear. Left hanging in the cold evening air was something…something inexpressible. Years later, I now cannot take for granted that what passed between us that day was an equal experience shared by all. I know one among us was more than likely thinking about a warm bed instead of how this music helped define who they were.
The night that I fell in love with electronic music I was with three incredible friends. Bound by the radio-signaled sounds from a Detroit club in the distance, I discovered a balance of controlled creative expression, not human yet somehow touching the soul moreso than any modern new-rock alternative band was able. It felt different. It made me feel different. It made me feel part of something new and exhilarating.
Though a few years have passed, and I’ve similarly fell in love for the first time all over again with blues, with the sultry voice of Nina Simone, with the scratchy fever of James Brown and soul music, I still remember that night. In one single, atypical evening I shared a silent moment with good friends, and took my first feeble step towards a lifelong romance with music.
