The Michigan Daily - Weekend etc. - Thursday, April 6, 1995 - *Thanks for the memories, now let's kick out the jams, ya crazy villains Anti -Matter Matt Carson Staring with disbelief atthe schlump who was graciously chosen by some damned University committee to speak at the 1995 commencement, I, along with a few thousand other graduates and parents assembled at the stadium, yawn with overt ridicule and, regard- less of political agendas, curse State for their grip upon Clinton. Hey aren't we the victors and the best? Nodding offmomentarily, I wake to *find I've slept through the entire speech. "And so ... looking back on your academic careers at the University of Yawn. Hrumph. Zzzzzzzz ... Looking back, I hear music, feel music - both coming in with music into-the School of Music and a brief diversion, training to become an opera singer, then awaking to my senses and reemerging into the more substantive College of Literature, Science and the Arts (despite its business-like competi- tive drive, the School of Music is not the real world - musical theater majors tromping through the halls, dropping daisy petals along the floors and sing- ing "The sun will come out tomorrow, betcha bottom dollar that..." with their firmly compact, permanent grins em- bedded onto their faces -musical the- ater majors, c'mon and frown; it's not a sunshine day, it's a dark and evil day), and now emanating out from the Uni- versity with Pomp, Circumstance and The Daily. But music has been with me my entire life from the age of seven, when I jumped on my rickety bed to the rhythm of my parents' tattered and scratched original copy of "Meet the Beatles" to my present -day fascination with the individualist expression of love, apathy, limpness, orgasm, alienation - a spectrum of human emotions that become condensed by music into each person's own unique experience. Mu- sic is the lifebloodspirit of us all. Those who can't appreciate its multi-leveled, cosmic deliverance/retribution can at least hopefully hear it surround their entire aura of consciousness. Yet staring at the face of this con- sciousness, I see a vast, veiled void of spiraling entropy because as we all in- crease in age, music becomes memory, no longer holding that secret sauce that can stir us to orgasm at a punch of a tom drum, a strike of a G-chord, the manic and guttural howl of a scream. The Rolling Stones' lifebloodspirit is now decrepit, any power they once com- manded gone with Keith Richards' blood. The old vanguard of '70s rock critics feebly tout the past, seemingly afraid to grasp anything wonderfully fresh. Lester Bangs (my hero -in case you couldn't tell) left this world at the age of 33 in 1982, thereby fleeing the blazing oven onslaught of MTV and the decrapitation of video rock. Thank you, Lester Bangs, for staying true to your instincts and to yourself. Asked recently to name the song that best describes my self, I, being far from my record collection, reeled off four in a moment, not really sure of what I had chosen. Who says free asso- ciation isn't 100 perecent accurate? The New Bomb Turks' "Brother Orson Welles" assaults with its punk ferocity, but the words lie inside the cracked nut's shell: "What are the things we can never have?/Where do dreams go when you're out of bed?/Come into this world a smiling kid. Drop the coffin down, shut the lid./Wanna be a loner with the purest of intent, being your own boss but watching every cent?/Or can you follow to a line someone else's rules?/Security secure but feeling like a fool." Thank you New Bomb Turks for giving voice to my current crossroads conundrum between writing or finding a stifling suit job to make money. The Pixies' "Debaser" in which Black Francis screams "Wanna grow up to be aDebaser." I know what I want to be when I grow up - are there any openings in Debasement? Thank you, Pixies, for providing me with my first out-of-body experience. The Ramones' "Commando," a moron-hop tune with its commands to "be nice to mommy, don't talk to commies, eat kosher salamis," it is still a celebration of The Dumb, a crippling gene of rock that's been lost some- where on the road to ruin and yet still belongs inherent in rock history. Thank you, Ramones, for your low IQs and still being able to chop off my ears. The Stooges'"1969," spawned from the same Ann Arbor soil as I, who embraced youth alienation for the first time in punk rock history as Iggy Pop slyly intoned "Now last year I was 21, I didn't have a lot of fun; Now I'm gonna be 22, a my-my and a boo-hoo." It's another year with nothing to do. Now 1995, turning 22 in two months, I say thank you, Stooges, for your great contribution to music and my life. Thanks to Nirvana, which Kurt Cobain finally found exactly one year ago, for providing me with many an- thems. Thanks to the Cynics, who are al- ways questioning the exertion and loss of love and romance, for guiding me through some tough times. Thanks to the Afghan Whigs for providing even stronger support. Thanks to Icky Joey, the worst band in rock 'n' roll. Thanks to Mudhoney for their grunge. Thanks toBilly Childish formaking me a Youngblood. Thanks to Urge Overkill for saturat- ing my cosmos. Thanks to Sugar for redesigning my eardrum. Thanks to Smashing Pumpkins even though Billy ripped The Nuge. Thanks to the MC5 for kickin' out the jams. Thanks to the Cure for supplying my junior high experience with a little goth. Thanks to R.E.M. who, after the end of the world, suddenly realized that everybody hurts. Thanks for the insight, Stipe. Thanks to Public Enemy, one of the few rap groups I ever grooved with, for bringing your empowerment upon my shoulders. Thanks to Elastica for reaffirming my faith in British rock. Those were some mighty tough times there for awhile, weren't they? Your connec- tion is made from one fan to another throughout the world. Too sentimental? Too personal? Damn right. Listening to music is the most religiously sentimental and per- sonal event in all lives. Hearing a new vibration of power in a song is to me like feeling all my innards simulta- neously contract completely until the point of implosion but then they ex- plode outward. But the point of interest isn't my record collection or the result- ing explosion -- it's your indi- vidual experience with your per- sonal fave raves. You may have your own explosive memories of and thanks for Mariah Carey, Pave- ment or Boyz II Men -- three from whom I don't really ketch the fevah. The feeling is there for you, and the memories may jump upon you at sudden points in your life, but don't ever lose the fevah. This Is Paul McCartney. He used to be in some crappy little four-piece. Don't let half your grade get you stressed during finals. Get the EXAM PACK! mmmmmmmmmmmmmg 1 These are the New Bomb Turks, they are sure sexy MFs, aren't they? I hear Prince has them as his new backing band. (That was a lie.) Blue Notes of Ann Arbor Inc. Ic 74 Located on the upper level of 2*2ce7%'aa 64(C 6 68-71I72 ,. 'us a unmurui Nu uvur w/tuauniv Iu I Ann Arbor's Biggest Modem Rock Dance Party * 541 ~ofr~h a~'~cl .s~a4~ i esr 995-DEAD 215 S. State St. Ann Arb Hundreds of Discs and Frisbees 0 Discover Disc Golf or Discraft, Inova, Lightning, Whammo JvS~va' I Map & ireti sAval -e S e'ar a a A PROVOCATIVE NEW PLAY ABOUT SPOUSE ABUSE by Darrah Cloud Directed by Lynn M. Thomson 4 Stop by and see a Jostens A = ... U 1 representative i