His name was Gavin and he was beautiful. The British accent, the romantic curls around his face, those abs … c’mon! No teen girl could resist, certainly not me.
You should know that you’re reading a blog written by a now-woman who, my freshman year, had Gavin’s cover on Rolling Stone in the front of my binder. This deliciousness greeted me at the beginning of every class. And if that wasn’t enough, my bedroom was plastered — PLASTERED! — with pictures of him.
Of course, what better way to worship at the altar of Gavin than to listen to his band constantly? My parents probably know the lyrics to every song off 16 Stone and Razorblade Suitcase better than anyone else in their mid-40s because they heard me play those albums on repeat so many times.
I still love that music. The most recent albums … meh. They’re OK. Gavin freely admits that he writes entirely different songs these days. Problem is, he tries to make sense and be poetic — emphasis on ‘tries.’ That was the joy of those first two albums, they were incoherent mumblings, but they worked.
Bush was the first concert I ever went to and it will likely always be my most memorable. I remember the date (June 16), but the year is a little iffy (I’m 85 percent sure it was 1996). I was 13 or 14 and went with my then-uncle, who encouraged me to fight through the mosh pit to get to the front of the crowd. Being short worked to my advantage as I navigated up there and, sure enough, by the time the second opener (Veruca Salt) finished their set, I had my hand gripped tightly on the bar.
A few songs in, I officially had a “front row” view. There were a few feet between me and the band. That was my only focus, but I should have paid attention to all the crowd-surfers; they were the ones who kicked me in the head while trying to make it back to the ground. They’d kick me so hard, my head would — *wham!* — hit the guardrail separating me from the security guards. Over. And over. And over.
The show was amazing, despite my broken nose and split lip. So amazing, I couldn’t bring myself to go to a Bush show in Portland a few weeks ago because I worried it would taint the initial memory of them.
I apologize for this all being so long-winded, but Bush and I … we have a history. So, on that note, enjoy some oldies, but (I think) goodies: