New year, new me, right? 

Wrong.

For most of 2022, my attitude towards life was more of a bystander than someone actually creating moments or making things happen.  For the people who know me well in real life understand that’s not me.  And that’s okay.  Considering the curve balls pitched to me in recent years, I’ve swung at what I could and watched the rest in efforts to simply hold on and make it to the next inning. 

Spoiler alert:  I did, bitches.  And I’m going to crush this one, because it’s back to the old me.

In reflection on the choices I made for tuneage at varying points in the year, it became apparent that I was ignoring the connection to artists and albums that have shaped and meant something to me.  Which is silly.  I feel like when we encounter an impasse it makes sense to reinforce the bridge to that which is familiar, though my maladaptive brain takes it as a cue to burn it instead, thinking a change might be better. 

Maybe it was soul crushing depression or being ridiculously stubborn.  It could have also been getting caught up in comings and goings of the Insta, navigating social media that feels foreign to me, feeling envious of beautiful vinyl set-ups when “all I got” is a shitty Audio-Technica that needs some serious mechanical attention soon. Or feeling like my collection wasn’t quirky or obscure or even large enough comparatively to what I frequently see, and deliberately digging for albums on those bases as opposed to what I truly wanted.  Somehow justifying that I showed my face, which I never intended to do and regret at this point in time.  Because who really needs to see yet another chick on the ‘gram in the same black hoodie and beanie every day posting about Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” like it’s the metal equivalent of “Fanfare for the Common Man.”  (And don’t get me wrong, I do love the Black Album but not necessarily because I think it’s shimmering musical genius.) 

I was worried about being unoriginal and lame, especially as a woman.  I don’t have big or even fake boobs, like my handle ironically (and intentionally) misrepresents.  I’m not remarkably pretty or blonde.  I’m not edgy or inked and I’ve been told most days I’m not particularly funny.  I likewise carry speech as if I were the lovechild between a Wisconsin-nice farmer with a decent education and some sort of pirate-sailor.  Jesus cripes, what a Quasimodo I am.    

But there…what I wrote just now in passing points to some core music memories that I haven’t thought about in some time.  I’m reminded of coming home to my dad after going out and doing teenager things (probably in the middle of a cornfield) with Appalachian Spring spilling out the windows of his brightly lit kitchen.  He’d mostly be in the bag, cooking up some sort of shit on a shingle for real late supper, and pretending he wasn’t waiting up.  On his good nights, he’d listen intently.  Most other nights, though, it’d have to be the other way around.  Either way, we were both listening to the good bones of American classical music together, which is at the heart and center of why I ever touched hands to keys in the first place.  Thems some of my soul’s roots right there.  That’s not to say I went back to my bedroom, lit a doob, and cranked some Aaron Copland by any means, but it did give me a great foundational understanding of how genius is composed into sound and is harnessed within a time structure.

Gish was one of the first important albums within my formative years after developing my own taste and has only gotten better with age.  It’s grungey without being specific to Seattle. It’s Wisconsin, having been produced by the relatively unknown at the time, Viroqua-born/bred kid, Butch Vig, in Madison, WI, at Smart Studios, despite the Smashing Pumpkins being, gasp, a Chicago band.  Shit, the CD was even purple, which I thought to be incredibly cool and obviously well-thought out, having otherwise no association to the significance for it.  The sound absolutely hit and became a basis to identify the uniqueness of Butch Vig in a variety of other bands he produced for, like, Sonic Youth, L7, AFI and so on.  Don’t forget that one 3-piece flannel band everyone knows called…oh, Nevermind.  (See what I did there?  Knee slapper!  Who says I ain’t p/funny…)

Anyway, as time went on, it wasn’t just the aesthetic, as the kids say now, the long-haired cat-less version of Billy Corgan, his seemingly random lyrics and word salad song titles, or the sound and production je nais c’est quais; it then became an appreciation for the effort, work ethic, and quite frankly, micromanaging that went into creating it, namely between the partnership of Vig and Corgan together.  Because, hey, I totally get it.  When you got a vision and a true counterpart, you’ll go to the ends of the earth to make shit happen, which resonates and inspires old skool Kim in a large way.  I admire the hell outta it. 

So, nah.  This is not a new year, new me.  There will be no emotional paralysis, no watching, waiting, or wondering.  2023 is the year of reconnecting with the tunes, places, people, and things that have made me who I am, better or worse.  And Gish is a start and a great way to kick off a reinvigorated year.

@siliconeandvinyl