Listen, man: just because I have a new book about the Ramones coming out, it doesn't mean I've forgotten about my long-threatened OTHER book, The Greatest Record Ever Made! (Volume 1). That book ain't dead yet. Expanded from an earlier piece, the following was prepared as a potential chapter in GREM!, but is not in the book's current blueprint.
An infinite number of tracks can each be THE greatest record ever made, as long as they take turns. Today, this is THE GREATEST RECORD EVER MADE!
Written by Gerry Beckley
Produced by George Martin
Single from the album Hearts, Warner Brothers Records, 1975
The story you're about to read is true. The names have been changed to protect those caught in the circumstances as they happened.
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| Simon and me, represented by anonymous actors |
1978. In the spring semester of my freshman year in college, my roommate and I did not get along. At all. We'd been friends initially. At the beginning of the previous semester, Simon and I both lived separately on the third floor of our dorm, and we'd hit it off at first. I was living in a triple, and my roommates hated each other. Before the fall semester was half done, they were at each other's throats, and we all needed to go our separate ways, fast. Dan left, Pete stayed, and I switched places with Simon's then-roommate, Bill. And that, in theory, shoulda put us all on a path to serenity and peace.
Ha! I say HA!!
I don't remember how long it took for Simon and I to start clashing, but I doubt it took very long. On the surface, we were very different: a white kid from the suburbs of Syracuse and a black kid from Jamaica, Queens. But there were similarities, too. We were both sensitive, we both thought of ourselves as witty, and we were both basically lonely, insecure individuals. Simon didn't have a girlfriend at the time, and he wanted one; I had two girlfriends in rapid succession--with an unfortunate overlap of about a half hour, and a potential third on the periphery--but was still standing (barely) on shaky ground.
Ha! I say HA!!
I don't remember how long it took for Simon and I to start clashing, but I doubt it took very long. On the surface, we were very different: a white kid from the suburbs of Syracuse and a black kid from Jamaica, Queens. But there were similarities, too. We were both sensitive, we both thought of ourselves as witty, and we were both basically lonely, insecure individuals. Simon didn't have a girlfriend at the time, and he wanted one; I had two girlfriends in rapid succession--with an unfortunate overlap of about a half hour, and a potential third on the periphery--but was still standing (barely) on shaky ground.
And we were both really, really into music. Alas, the music was also an area of contention.
You know what sounds I was into. Simon favored far mellower fare, including Renaissance and his favorite group, America. Decades later, I finally recognize the appeal of these artists; at the time, it was wallpaper to this burgeoning punk. Simon, in turn, thought my music was noise. There wasn't a lot of common ground there.
You know what sounds I was into. Simon favored far mellower fare, including Renaissance and his favorite group, America. Decades later, I finally recognize the appeal of these artists; at the time, it was wallpaper to this burgeoning punk. Simon, in turn, thought my music was noise. There wasn't a lot of common ground there.
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| For dramatic purposes, my college girls Becky and Tina will be portrayed by Frida and Agnetha |
Conflicts commenced almost immediately. Or did they? My memory of events is adjusting itself. Conflicts really arose more after I'd switched girlfriends. Simon got along all right with my first college girl Becky, but Becky and I didn't spend all that much time in my room. Tina was in my room a lot, and she and Simon did not get along. My problems with Simon were not her fault, but her presence exacerbated issues. Even after Tina and I broke up, Simon and I remained at odds, and the situation never improved.
It got worse, actually.
Becky and Simon started dating, which was okay with me; I really did wish Becky well, especially given how poorly I'd treated her. It took me a while to appreciate how much of a dick I'd been. Story of my life. I always think I'm in the right at the time, and rarely realize until much later, in retrospect, how much I contributed to any random clusterhug. I like to think I've matured, a little bit, somewhere along the line.
But not when I was eighteen. Not yet. I was still a clueless schmuck at eighteen.
The stereo in our dorm room belonged to Simon. I don't recall now whether I was forbidden from using it, or if I was allowed to use it occasionally provided I was more delicate and careful with it than I generally was with anything else. Either way, I was using Simon's stereo one day, listening to my freshly-purchased new copy of My Aim Is True by Elvis Costello. Tina was listening to the LP with me--although no longer really a couple, we were still spending (too much) time together--and I was perhaps a bit too clumsy with the stylus. Simon claimed I'd damaged the cartridge, I denied it, and I left the room in a huff. When I returned, I discovered that Simon's aim was also true; my Costello LP had been snapped in half.
I saw red.
Simon was at the other end of the hall, talking to our Resident Assistant. I yelled, and charged down the hall full-steam, intent on doing to Simon what he'd done to My Aim Is True. The RA grabbed me and pinned me against the wall, as Simon scowled at me. It would not be our only physical confrontation, but I'll spare you the dreary details. He was right, and I was right; he was wrong, and I was wrong. It took me years to accept my own culpability in all of this.
I made plans to move out, preferably to another dorm entirely, but it was easier said than done. Frustrated, I gave up on the notion of new digs. That meant Simon and I had to figure out a way to coexist.
It got worse, actually.
Becky and Simon started dating, which was okay with me; I really did wish Becky well, especially given how poorly I'd treated her. It took me a while to appreciate how much of a dick I'd been. Story of my life. I always think I'm in the right at the time, and rarely realize until much later, in retrospect, how much I contributed to any random clusterhug. I like to think I've matured, a little bit, somewhere along the line.
But not when I was eighteen. Not yet. I was still a clueless schmuck at eighteen.
The stereo in our dorm room belonged to Simon. I don't recall now whether I was forbidden from using it, or if I was allowed to use it occasionally provided I was more delicate and careful with it than I generally was with anything else. Either way, I was using Simon's stereo one day, listening to my freshly-purchased new copy of My Aim Is True by Elvis Costello. Tina was listening to the LP with me--although no longer really a couple, we were still spending (too much) time together--and I was perhaps a bit too clumsy with the stylus. Simon claimed I'd damaged the cartridge, I denied it, and I left the room in a huff. When I returned, I discovered that Simon's aim was also true; my Costello LP had been snapped in half.
I saw red.
Simon was at the other end of the hall, talking to our Resident Assistant. I yelled, and charged down the hall full-steam, intent on doing to Simon what he'd done to My Aim Is True. The RA grabbed me and pinned me against the wall, as Simon scowled at me. It would not be our only physical confrontation, but I'll spare you the dreary details. He was right, and I was right; he was wrong, and I was wrong. It took me years to accept my own culpability in all of this.
I made plans to move out, preferably to another dorm entirely, but it was easier said than done. Frustrated, I gave up on the notion of new digs. That meant Simon and I had to figure out a way to coexist.
The funny thing is, we did manage to get through the rest of the semester somehow. We still bickered, but we both at least tried to keep the peace. When freshman year finally ended that May, we were delighted to be parting company, but we shook hands and bid each other good fortune.
I saw Simon sporadically during the rest of my time in school. Sophomore year, Simon came to my dorm room, furious about something he thought I'd said about him; this time, I really was innocent, so I invited him in to talk about it, and we made a cautious peace. A couple of years later, after I'd graduated but still lived in town, Simon visited my apartment once, and the exchange was friendly and basically good-natured.
I saw Simon sporadically during the rest of my time in school. Sophomore year, Simon came to my dorm room, furious about something he thought I'd said about him; this time, I really was innocent, so I invited him in to talk about it, and we made a cautious peace. A couple of years later, after I'd graduated but still lived in town, Simon visited my apartment once, and the exchange was friendly and basically good-natured.
My perception of the group America remains permanently tethered to my memory of Simon. I hated their records. I may or may not have been okay with (or, more likely, indifferent to) either "A Horse With No Name" or "Ventura Highway" when they occupied my radio in 1972, but I had no use for "Muskrat Love," "Lonely People," or "Tin Man." I don't remember hearing "I Need You" until Simon played it for me, and its lyrics We used to laugh/We used to cry/We used to bow our heads and wonder why were like nails on a chalkboard to my ears. Now, I bow my head and wonder why. All these years later, I can't explain why I was so dismissive of this music.
Even within my willful stance as a teen misanthrope, I had to concede that America's song "Sandman" was possessed of a simmering, surly spirit. And, no matter how much I claimed to hate America, I had to admit that "Sister Golden Hair" was just brilliant.
This was an unenlightened period in my young life. For example, I thought the Beach Boys were hopelessly square. RAWK! I thought anything mellow had to be the sound of capitulation to the mundane, the boring. I held fast to an underdeveloped mind-set cast somewhere between Annie Hall and Never Mind The Bollocks, Here's The Sex Pistols.
Yet I loved pop music. I liked ABBA, I liked the Bay City Rollers, I loved Herman's Hermits. Loving Shaun Cassidy's hit version of Eric Carmen's "Hey Deanie" at the same time that I was getting into the Clash isn't necessarily a contradiction--it's ALL pop music--but I was a contradiction, and so sure of my conflicting convictions.
Will you meet me in the middle
Will you meet me in the air?
Will you love me just a little
Just enough to show you care?
Well, I tried to fake it
I don't mind sayin'
I just can't make it
"Sister Golden Hair" is everything you could want from an AM pop radio hit. It sounds bright and sunny, catchy as hell, while conveying a sense of yearning and regret. I understand regret: I still look back and wish I'd been better. Even within the maelstrom of sullen teendom, as I blithely made blunders and committed sins that I should have known enough not to do, as I dug in my heels to hate a band my roommate and former friend adored, I grudgingly--no, willingly--accepted the wonder of "Sister Golden Hair."
It's been more than forty-five years since I met Simon, and more than forty since we last had any contact. I remember my behavior, and it makes me cringe, the time between notwithstanding. I suspect I learned some lessons in the process, though I wish I could have learned these lessons a bit more quickly and efficiently.
If, in fact, I've learned them at all.
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Carl's new book Gabba Gabba Hey! A Conversation With The Ramones is now available for preorder, courtesy of the good folks at Rare Bird Books. Gabba Gabba YAY!!
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Oh hell, Carl, ALL teenage boys are like that at 19. Glad you came around to how great America was (is?). The band, that is
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