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MP3 Jessica Star Rockers - Beloved On Earth
9 MP3 Songs
ROCK: Acoustic, FOLK: Modern Folk
Details:
You arrive here long before you get high—before the indie rock and the Salvation Army clothes and the very first joint someone eventually passes to you underneath the bleachers at a high school football game. You prepare to stare down the loss of everything familiar through an intentional interrogation of ignorance, the last resort of an ego to make good, having forever nagged your unconscious with a mad galactic technicolor escape—maybe San Francisco or New York City or Prague, the twilight tollway down to old Chicago. Maybe James Dean hunched and bent with cigarette, sloshing through the puzzled, puddled boulevard of broken dreams. Maybe the wind will blow to Mexico, face nuzzling the smell of slick black leather, the bitch seat of Steve McQueen’s chopper, you in the perfect pair of jeans.
But no. You awake to daily chores, morning mass, spaghetti on Sundays, girl scouts, confession, communion, grace before supper and prayers before bed. In real life you’re the Italian Catholic farm kid whose parents girdled your early musical taste with the likes of Janis Ian, The Carpenters, Crystal Gayle and Willie Nelson—The John Denver Variety Show and Hee Haw a sort of latter-day Milton Berle or Lawrence Welk. After-dinner family time. Wholesome entertainment.
Your soul isn’t akin to this eternal slow-down, having recently stumbled across authentic rock n’ roll in the basement, hidden among moldy sleeping bags and discarded eight-tracks. Your older cousin moved to Utah and left his vinyl behind, so you take it upon yourself to resurrect the impressive collection, blow the dust off, spin it on your plastic record player attached to your stereo, since you can’t yet afford CDs. The Doors, Pink Floyd, Bob Dylan, Led Zeppelin, Cream. An occasional Foghat or Steppenwolf. Why, you ask yourself, do the Beatles sound so much better on Rubber Soul than Help? How in the hell did the Beach Boys ever come up with Pet Sounds?
At fourteen you chance across Kerouac’s On the Road, discover Ginsberg’s Howl, notice the absolute plethora of naked lesbian’s dancing between the pages of your mother’s dog-eared copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves. Something intense is whispered, some hinted-at element you only half-perceive, and imagining the reality of it traffics through your unconscious, sends you long-haul reeling into a deceptively infinite valley of questions. You adopt bell bottoms and a mantra. We have no need of a God. Each of us is his own.
And then some tortured older boy garage band soul lends you a copy of Burrough’s Naked Lunch. Janice Joplin and Jimi Hendrix were genius, but they fucked up. This is proof. There’s a lifestyle, a way to live it and outlast death, outrun responsibility. This is what you believe. Someday you’ll write your own story. You’ll lose yourself to find yourself and learn things. You’ll buddy up to that snake and leave your parents’ oppressive Eden far behind. Unlike ignorance, knowledge moves infinitely forward.
And for that suspicious inner voice, parochial dogma bouncing loud against your inner walls like some parasitic worm, there’s only one answer—Yes, Sister Marietta, if I were Eve I would’ve damn well eaten that strange fruit, too.
This is a conscious decision. There are millions of kids like you all across the states, toting around backpacks filled with poetry, collecting vinyl and acting stoned, huffing glue sticks and whip cream chargers, relentlessly searching for that rumored forbidden.
So you wait and watch, a seeker, a kindred spirit, trying to determine all the names and places, praying no one notices you’re just learning as you go.
Sit back, smoke a joint, spin Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde...
Imagine walking outside on a warm February morning which reminds you of one day in Spring when life changed for the better. Remember what it felt like leaving home for the first time. Imagine leaving the planet.
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