Song of the Day — Stewart Copeland

I’ve never been an S.E. Hinton fan.  It’s a bit unfair, because I haven’t actually read any of her books.  Just saw the movie versions of The Outsiders, and Rumblefish, long ago.  “Bad boyfriends” is the way I would characterize her characters.  Unpleasant, insecure, inarticulate, potentially violent guys.   If I’m wrong about this, blame Matt Dillon.  I loathe him, and think of him as the ultimate bad boyfriend.  If he’s so perfect for the starring roles in those movies, then please let me take care of your two-year-old triplets while you go out and watch him.  Triplets have a stomach bug and keep vomiting?  No problem.  I must play Barney DVDs at full volume to keep them from fussing?  Done.

I had my very own bad boyfriend once, back in high school.  Maybe that’s a misleading way to describe what he was to me.  We were friends, not lovers.  Both of us craved nothing more intensely than a girlfriend, though neither of us had a clue how to pursue such a thing.

Even so, the descriptor fits.  I was insecure, and he expressed admiration of me.  Sometimes.  I was depressed, and he provided excitement.  But only on his terms.  I had a fragmented sense of self, and he defined clearly for me what I should be.  And what I should not be.  He was vicious in his judgments, tongue tied with his idols, cruel towards those who lacked status.

I will not name him.  My loathing a distant public figure like Matt Dillon does little worse than scuff my soul.  Hating this insecure, conflicted old bad boyfriend of mine would gouge me.  My soul is already pockmarked enough.  Besides which, bad boyfriends cannot exist in isolation.  I chose him, stayed with him.  I was a barnacle,  and he was my passing ship.

I joke sometimes about feeling hungover without having gotten drunk, as a metaphor for uncompensated pain, but knowing him was actually not a purely bad thing in my life.  Mostly I learned useful negative lessons, like don’t decide to like something just because someone else does, and don’t tolerate a bully even when it’s your friend who’s being mean, and don’t base your self worth on anyone else’s opinion.

One positive thing stays with me, though.  My bad boyfriend had excellent musical taste, and an enthusiasm almost magnetic in its ability to draw me in.  I owe him gratitude for introducing me to the whole Bowie/Eno/Talking Heads circle, and Elvis Costello, and many other, more minor, figures.

I saw Rumblefish with this bad boyfriend.  He was the one who noticed the soundtrack, and bought it, then made me listen to it.  It was Stewart Copeland’s masterpiece.  He had been the drummer for The Police, which was disintegrating as a band around that time. This soundtrack featured mostly instrumental music, some of which was fascinating but not so accessible, and some of which was just great, like this:

Our Mother Is Alive

There was one clear best song from this album, though.  One whose lyrics my teenaged sons live everyday, sung by Stan Ridgway (from Wall of Voodoo).  Though I kept myself boxed in with my bad boyfriend even after hearing this, the words and images stuck.  Eventually I jumped out of the goldfish jar and into a brand new skin.  Swam in the ocean, and acquired this piece of chalk that I’m using now.  This will make sense to you if you listen to the song.

Don’t Box Me In

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Posted in Music
Tags: Music, Rumblefish, Semi-biographical, Stan Ridgway, Stewart Copeland