According to film director Dave Markey, 1991 was The Year Punk Broke. I was a teenager listening to the initial swell of the New Wave of Rock and Roll that year, having been tipped off by the local college radio station WFIT. It was the only outlet playing bands that just months later would be household names and required listening. J Mascis' tortured vocals and guitar mesmerized me when "Start Choppin" was the new Dinosaur Jr. release, and I felt that the song belonged solely to me. Smashing Pumpkins, Ned's Atomic Dustbin -- all these players were a private circus for me to escape to. Cool music reserved for a small group of spooky nerds trying to find a judgement-free time in small town Melbourne, Florida.
That wave crashed into American radio in 1992. The secret bands were now very popular, living in the low single-digit slots of every weekend countdown. We were in our teens, and we were the perfect age to love Nirvana. Our generation had just been defined. On August 14, 1994 I woke up extremely early for a non-school day. I had anticipated this day for months, running all the different scenarios in my head. My first festival show, Lollapalooza 4 was to take place about an hour's drive from my home. Having a somewhat sheltered childhood, the opportunity to really, PHYSICALLY be a part of the music that I revered as divinity itself was just outside of my comprehension; this CAN'T be true, I thought. I'd fight to grasp to the idea that this was really happening. It would be by WILL alone that my '84 Dodge Colt hatchback would even make it that far, but I had prepared the car as much as I could, and had some friends from beachside traveling with me. I gave them a call to get ready, and their perplexed responses deflated my excitement. It was WAY TOO EARLY for the drive and they were currently registering in-person for the next school year, because that's how you did that back in the 20th Century. It was a phone call from Amanda, my sister's lifelong best friend that shot the fatal blow: "Did you hear? Lollapalooza is cancelled." Tropical Storm Beryl had come ashore the previous night with 60 mile-an-hour winds and heavy rainfall. Apparently Beryl had saturated the Central Florida Fairgrounds such that the Lollapalooza stage could not stand, and the show was cancelled. On the bill was a whole pantheon of alternative rock: Siamese-Dream-era Smashing Pumpkins, Beastie Boys, The Breeders, L7 et al. I was crestfallen.It was a silent drive South on A1A. Having picked up my ticket refund money, I faced a day rife with disappointment over the cancellation. Despite this, it was gorgeous on the coast. Time for some retail therapy. After a few minutes' drive, I pulled into the Groove Tube, an independent surf shop. The air smelled of sandalwood and Nag Champa; at any given moment one would hear the Sundays or Catherine Wheel playing on their in-house sound system. "Judy's staring at the sun...". After browsing the hemp jewelry I drifted over to the compact disks. My eyes landed on "Simpatico!" by Velocity Girl. Their music video for Sorry Again had received some moderate airplay on MTV's 120 Minutes. I remember the night I saw the video and filed them away in my mental "check this out later" file. That song fed me a soaring, distorted guitar riff as an intro to get my attention, then shifted to a bright, pop-laden hook that inferred motion or progression; he speed of something in a given direction. Atop it all are the vocals of lead singer Sara Shannon, both sunny and melancholic, which is exactly the day I was having. I brought it to the shop assistant, who was surrounded by blown glass pipes and dream catchers. I was not aware that with this purchase, I was stepping into an obsession that would last me the rest of my life.
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