Joy. Pure joy.
It's probably unnecessary for me to point out that joy is something most of us are in short supply of these days. The world seems to be falling apart right in front of our eyes. So it's vitally important that you keep the gloomies at bay by looking for joy anywhere you can find it.
Me, I experience various levels of joy in all sorts of simple ways. Feeling my cat purring on my chest. Putting together a complicated model kit. Watching "Jackass". Laughing at my wife's disgusted reaction when I bring up the Real Housewives. (Any of them. They're just awful.) They're small things, but dammit, they matter.
These are the faces of pure joy.
And, of course, there's music. Music can add a little something special to even the most mundane task. When I've got a stack of dishes to do, I put on some jazz. If I have to hack up prickly bushes in the yard, I throw a good 80s mix on the Sonos system. If I've got a laundry list of errands to run, I fire up my favorite playlist in the car. Great tunes can make anything better.
In fact, one of my most joyful musical moments ever actually happened in a car. And it's a perfect example of how a single song - hell, a single CHORD - can transform a regular, everyday event into an almost religious experience, a moment in time that you'll never forget. Especially when the soundtrack to that moment is provided by one of the most influential bands ever...
R.E.M.
1994 was a good year for me. A damn good year. I had my own apartment. I had a great job. I was hiking almost every weekend. I was in a great relationship. I went to Europe for a friend's wedding. Things were really lining up for ol' Liz Lemon.
And I was lucky enough to be surrounded by a passel of new friends. Friends that I still have to this day. One of those friends was Burt. Burt... oh man, he was my hero. A true force of nature. A take-no-crap kind of dude. Coincidentally, Burt and I met because of music. He accidentally received an Erasure CD in a big Columbia Record Club order. And Erasure was, to put it mildly, not his jam. One of his co-workers told him there was a guy on the programming team that might take it off his hands. The rest, as they say, is history.
So work was great. But unfortunately, the salad days didn't last. Things at the company began to - pardon my French - suck. Management was making some bone-headed moves (with many more to come), and those of us on the technical side were suffering from the fallout. I actually had it easy compared to the team working on the billing engine we'd developed. Burt was one of those poor bastards.
Throughout the company, things were tense. Nerves were frayed. Tempers were short. Morale was eroding. So when work is getting you down, how do you cope? By rolling up your sleeves and powering through the tough times? Nope. By talking to a sympathetic Human Resources manager about your concerns? Uh-uh. By drinking heavily at your desk? Good idea! But... no.
No, you sneak out of the office for hours at a time, that's how you cope. God bless Burt and his rebellious spirit. When he hit a wall, he'd have no qualms about jumping into his Mitsubishi Montero and hitting the road. So thanks to his adventurous nature, we began making "field trips" at least once a week. We'd go see a movie. We'd pile six guys in the Montero and go eat at the crappy Chinese buffet. We'd drive forty miles to get free Violent Femmes tickets. Playing hooky with him was a blast.
Aaaah… the Mirth Mobile!
And it came to pass that on one particularly work-sucky day in the fall of 1994, Burt appeared in my cubicle doorway. He had "that look". His keys were out. And he said those four magic words that made everything better...
"Let's go to BB's."
Ah, BB's! BB's was our Mecca. Our Nirvana. Our Garden Of Eden. BB's was a small, independent music store tucked into a tiny space in a local strip mall. Burt found it one day, and after that the store became our secret getaway. We'd escape from the building and go there all the time. I dropped a lot of hard-earned money on the treasures I found nestled in their racks. It was bliss.
This trip to BB's was like any other. It was a beautiful, warm fall day. We chatted about nothing in particular. Just being away from my computer had already improved my mood. So when we walked into the store, I was ready to do some serious digging. We split up and scoured the racks, looking for things to add to our collections. As I recall, this was the day I found an amazing Prince bootleg, and an imported Queen CD single I'd been looking for. Success!
After about an hour of shopping, we reconvened at the register, and compared our swag. I wanted to brag about my finds, but Burt didn't care. Because he'd found something better, a CD he'd been eager to get. And when he held up Monster, the new album from R.E.M.... my heart sank.
See, at that point in my life, I wasn't an R.E.M. fan. I completely missed them when they first hit the scene, as my musical exposure was limited to whatever I heard on Top 40 radio. Eventually, when I was in college, I heard "Radio Free Europe", and I liked it, but it didn't really make an impact. Years later "Stand" became the theme song for Chris Elliott's "Get A Life", so my love for the show also extended to the song. But then "Losing My Religion" hit the airwaves. Despite it being their biggest hit, it did not click with me. To be honest, it annoyed the crap out of me. With a snobbish air straight out of High Fidelity, I turned away from R.E.M. completely.
So there we were, Burt proudly presenting Monster. And I died a little inside. Because that meant we were going to listen to it all the way back to the office. As I climbed into the Montero's passenger seat, I was already dreading the next twenty minutes. I was doing my best not to let on that I was bummed. But boy, I was definitely bummed.
Burt started the car. We rolled down the windows. He slipped the disc into the player. We pulled out onto the road. He hit play. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, ready to be the patient friend.
Then that first chord of "What's The Frequency, Kenneth?" exploded out of the speakers.
And everything changed.
This is going to sound like a complete cop-out, considering I'm passing myself off as a writer. The goal of putting these columns together is to use words skillfully to describe important moments in my life. But I swear to you, on a stack of my precious Captain America comics, that I cannot explain what happened to me when that song started. It just happened. Maybe I experienced the equivalent of an ayahuasca journey. Maybe I had a small stroke. All I know is, my body and my mind (and my soul, perhaps?) reacted to the music. A cartoonishly broad smile took over my face. My stress, my bad mood... POOF! Gone, in an instant. I wasn't in the Montero anymore... I was floating in some sacred space.
And everything was heightened. The sky wasn't just blue, it was azure. The air wasn't just warm, it was enveloping. Burt wasn't my buddy, he was my best friend ever. Everything was beautiful. Everything was perfect. I was deliriously, joyously, ecstatically happy.
As the song ended, that last ringing, buzzy chord fading away, my euphoria began to fade as well. I could feel a wave of disappointment welling up inside me. Disappointment that this special moment in time was going to end. For three minutes and change, I'd been as one with the Universe. But now reality was crashing back down around me. I didn't want to come back. I wanted to stay in that space.
But then, from what seemed like a million miles away, I heard Burt say, "Damn. I gotta hear that again!" And he started the song over. The Universe heard my prayer!
Now this is how you pose for an indie band photo.
Since that day, I have actually come around on R.E.M. I can now attest, with all certainty, that R.E.M. are awesome. They've got a slew of incredible tunes. (I even like "Losing My Religion"!) Monster itself is chock-a-block with great songs. The languid, sultry "Crush With Eyeliner"... the sparse, almost elegiac "Tongue"... the punchy rock of "Star 69"... To me, Monster is just as good as Green or Automatic For The People.
But "What's The Frequency, Kenneth?" is far and away the best of the lot. Over the years, it's become one of my favorite songs ever. I never skip it when it comes up in a playlist. In fact, I always listen to it twice. Just like back then. And of course I remember that day, and everything associated with it: BB's, the weather, the Montero, Burt. All elements of a tiny, perfect moment that will be with me forever.
Before all this pandemic nonsense, I had made tentative plans to fly back to my old stomping grounds this fall. My batteries get recharged when I revisit all the people, places, and things I don't get to experience on a daily basis anymore. I soak up the crisp air and colorful hues of the East Coast autumn. I stuff my face with all the great food I can't get here in California, like hushpuppies, pulled pork with vinegar slaw, and sweet tea so thick with sugar it would make Wilford Brimley's pancreas explode.
And, most importantly, I love spending time with my friends. That's the best part of the trip. I look forward to hanging with everyone who can spare a couple of hours. I'd even inked something into my itinerary already: an evening on the town with Burt. We were going to get together, have a beer or twelve, and laugh our asses off. But it doesn't look like my trip is going to happen this year. And that's a big disappointment.
So, maybe I'll do the next best thing. It's beautiful outside today, reminiscent of that amazing day back in 1994. I think I'll hop in my Honda Civic. Roll down the windows. Hit the highway. Fire up "What's The Frequency, Kenneth?".
And treat myself to a little bit of joy. Pure joy.
BIO
Don Stroud is not the famous actor and world-class surfer of the same name. He is the non-famous California transplant who became an award-winning film editor and struggling amateur screenwriter. He loves cats, sushi, comic books, movies, music, and Cherry Coke. What's that, dear? Oh yes: and his wife. You can follow him on Twitter, where he pops up sporadically, at @DonStroud2.