Maybe you just had to be there

When I was 14, in 2015-2016, everyone I knew liked a band called Teen Suicide. They were your typical lo-fi bedroom style band - quietly strummed guitars, toy keyboards, whispered and whiny vocals, fuzzy DIY recordings. Whether my friends were metalheads, hip-hop fans, or punks, we all shared an affinity for Teen Suicide.            

When I went back to them, a couple of years ago, when I turned 21, it was hard to understand where I was coming from back then. My friends (or at least the ones that stuck around) shared in my confused sentiment. We realized that Teen Suicide was the soundtrack to our teenage debauchery of trespassing, getting high, staying out all night, and whatever other illicit activity we found ourselves in. Once that experience faded, so did the music. Bedroom music has since morphed into things like Clairo, music from which I feel so deeply detached, it almost befuddles me when I see such immense praise for it.           

To know where I’m coming from, maybe you just had to be there.

(Cy Twombly - Untitled, found on Artchive and belonging to a private collection)

            Similarly, when classic hyperpop band 100 gecs released the album 1000 gecs in 2019, my old band Pictures of June was picking up some steam. We played shows around town, met touring bands like Frail Body and For Your Health, and made good friends all around town. Our pre-show ritual was always the same – a sit-down meal at the nearest Wendy’s and blasting our chosen songs from 1000 gecs (I always preferred 800db cloud). Everyone was into it; it was the unaware swansong for the pre-pandemic party days.            

Once those days truly ended, 100 gecs felt like a band outside of time. The parties I went to were ill-advised, drunken affairs punctuated by a deep sense of internal guilt. 100 gecs had no place, and as such, was discarded. No one I know still has that same affinity for 100 gecs. Plenty of people are still fans, but when I think about the heavy-headed delirium that coursed through my veins, the sardonic sing-alongs in the car with my bandmates, all that euphoria is like a ghost, trundling through my mind. I’m glad I was there, because there’s nothing like it when I try to plumb the depths of my own music collection nowadays.

            My dad, like many dads, is really into Led Zeppelin. He’s not just some dad-rock loving, grilling-on-weekends kind of guy, though. He showed me Slint, MF DOOM, Wolf Eyes, and so many more pivotal bands for me. But right now, he’s getting back into Led Zeppelin really hard.           

I like Zeppelin alright too. I have a lot of their records, and a lot of good memories with them. Regardless, it’s good to have some crossover with not one but both of my parents, who bonded over a love of Zeppelin back in the '90s. But my dad is going deep right now, listening to archives of live shows, buying up old records of specific performances. I didn’t really get it until he told me that one of the albums he’s been looking for is an album he had as a kid but sold. That’s when I got it; this was his Teen Suicide, or his 100 gecs. Something that fueled a time in his life that made sense, or maybe made no sense, and that’s what made him feel free. I wasn’t there for it, so it doesn’t really touch me. I guess I just had to be there.