Usually, when I looked back at my career in rock journalism, I assumed that I was searching for romance because in the end, that's what I found. But I recently uncovered my diary from the year 1991 and it tells a different story altogether. That was the year I found — however briefly — what I was really looking for.
In a million different ways, 1991 was a huge year for me. I was on top of my game as a writer. I looked my best. I had just discovered a spiritual path that fit me. Looking back, it was one of the most exciting years of my life. And it was also an emotional roller coaster. I was in love with someone who day after day, was making me miserable. My grandmother and brother also died that year. I mention neither of the deaths in the diary, but I do remember them happening that year. I don't remember exactly when my grandmother died, but I know it was around her birthday in February. My brother died the night I returned from a trip to Texas interviewing Pantera in November.
The reason I didn't mention anything about these deaths in my diary is that my family and I are not close. Physically yes — we all lived in the same city at the time. But otherwise, we pretty much lived on different planets. I was the "weird" one whose feelings, desires and aspirations were never taken seriously because they were not understood. I was made to feel like an outsider both at home and at school. As a result, I withdrew from my family (and just about everyone else) at a very young age — I may even have been as young as four. I pretty much grew up without any sense of family whatsoever, but at the same time longing for a family — one that accepted and understood me. One where I felt a part of. And I think that's what really drew me to the music industry, and why I bonded so tightly with some of the bands I interviewed.
Anyone who has ever worked closely with a really good band, or has been in one knows that a band that's really working together has a special chemistry. It's like family, but maybe even more intimate because you've chosen to bond with the other members and open yourself up in ways that you'll never open up to anyone else. Such is the nature of group creativity. Every so often, I'd come across a band that would let me step into their world and live there with them for a little while. Anyone who read my articles in RIP and the other magazines where I was a contributor can probably guess which bands those were because it's so obvious in the article. And in 1991 I wrote one of the most profoundly intimate articles of my career in rock writing. It was about a New York City rock band called the Throbs.
Everyone at the Throbs' record label seemed to be a little afraid of them. They were treated like unpredictible, untamed creatures, and my first exposure to them — their album, The Language of Thieves and Vagabonds — certainly did nothing to dispel this idea. It was a dark and decadent invitation into a world that most people preferred to deny in themselves. Or at least a world most people liked to pretend wasn't wholly real. To me, that world was the most real, visceral, fascinating part of my life, so of course I was drawn to the album. I wasn't so sure about the guys, however, judging from all the rumors I'd heard. To make matters even worse, the two guys I was scheduled to interview were the guitarist and drummer who, it was said, were the nastiest of the bunch.
To my surprise — and perhaps to their's — I loved the guys and they loved me back. Eventually I spoke with the other two guys also and bonded just as tightly. We understood each other, and we understood why the corporate world was never going to get what the Throbs were about. Instead of dangerous monsters, I found a group of very moody guys who cared deeply about their music and were very protective of their creativity, and their souls. The four-year-old inside of me had finally found kindred spirits.
Roger, Sweetheart, Dannny and Ronnie were like big brothers with bad reputations — everybody thought the worst of them but I knew the truth. I spent the better part of 1991 befriending them, seeing them in New York, Los Angeles, Phoenix, San Diego and the Bay Area. When they were dropped by their record label, I was probably even more upset than they were. Ever the matchmaker, I tried to spark a romance between one of them and one of my close friends (in retrospect, this was probably a really bad idea, and it was most likely a good thing it didn't happen... but I was a troublemaker in those days). They gave me their clothes. I gave them my moral support.
And then the band fell apart and the guys wandered off in different directions. They drifted away and, for the most part, out of my life. Unfortunately the guy who was making my life miserable (remember him?) was still in and out of my life and would be for another couple of years, fueling the lie of what was important in life. Whenever I felt a little bit lost (which was often), I thought it was because of the lack of a stable relationship in my life. To be honest, I've been in a stable, really incredible relationship now for over a decade and sometimes I still feel a little bit lost. And it was only after finding and flipping through my 1991 diary that I figured out why. Every mention of my romantic life is filled with angst, desperation and anger. Interspersed between these angonizing entries are pages of warm, happy times and they're almost always days I spent with the Throbs, my adopted dysfunctional family. If there's anything I really miss about my rock journalism days, it's that sense of family that I had with them and a few other bands.
I can write and fulfill myself creatively. I can have a great relationship with a wonderful guy. Will I ever have a family where I'm understood and a part of again? I really don't know.
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