‘Redemption Is A Bitch Too End On’

Lately, I’ve been listening to Matt Pryor’s podcast ‘Nothing To Write Home About.’ Every week he interviews a musician and ask questions about the stories they have from the studio and the road. Most come from the punk rock scene of the late 90’s/early 00’s that unfortunately have awful genre labels attached to them. With the popularity of mediocre bands like Fall Out Boy and My Chemical Romance, the scene that was once underground and special to those who loved it has blown up into the mainstream. And with the MTV population eating it up, it seemed to lose all meaning. It was no longer special; it was now for everyone. 

My biggest musical influences come from generations past. The Beatles, Pink Floyd, The Doors, etc; I got into these bands due to my parents influence. Music was always being played, so obviously I was attracted to whatever my folks were playing. Luckily, they didn’t listen to crap, so I’m forever grateful for their taste in music. Then came the onset of early 90’s R&B and the alternative wave of rock from Seattle; directly influenced by my older sister. She was always had the radio playing; switching back between Boston’s favorite stations Jammin’ 94.5 and WBCN 104.1 (R.I.P.) Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, and Alice In Chains became my newer favorite groups. Mix that with the onset of pop-punk, and my pallet changed thoroughly; making me search out newer music I could put my stamp of discovery on. Looking back now, perhaps this was my generations first influence of discovering music differently. Not by parents, siblings, or radio, but by word of mouth between people. And the internet.

When I started to get into underground music, people’s original mindset was basically a lyric taken word from a line in a Big D & The Kids Table song: ‘Want everyone to see that they did it first.’ Let me make something crystal clear: I went to punk rock shows for the music. Never to meet girls, get drunk, or be seen. I’m not straight edge; in fact, I love beer, but it just doesn’t feel right drinking at these shows; even today when I legally can. I rocked out in the pits with friends and sang along as loud as I could. I never wore tight pants or spiked bracelets. I wore band t-shirts to shows, jeans, and sneakers. During the week, it was collared shirts, sneakers, and jeans. I grew my hair out REALLY long once because my mindset was: ‘I might as well while I have the hair to do it.’ If you saw someone from a band in the club, you may say hello and tell them thanks for making such great music, and then walk away. It wasn’t big enough that you couldn’t talk to someone you saw play to a few hundred people 10 minutes ago. It was nice. You felt like you were part of some beautiful secret. Then the overground started to take notice and sink their poisoned fangs into it. Now I know how Seattle fans felt when Nirvana released ‘Nevermind.’ 

My buddy Mark really got me into a lot of music; especially at a certain point in my life when I needed it. Jimmy Eat World, (pre-‘Bleed American’) The Get Up Kids, Hot Rod Circuit, The Movielife, Saves The Day, Alkaline Trio, The Format etc; were always in heavy rotation. While I really enjoy punk rock and hardcore, I’ll always be a sucker for harmonies and melodies. That’s why I was more attracted to bands with a more melodic frame. We would drive all over New England seeing shows: The Worcester Palladium, Lupos and The Met Cafe in RI, Toad’s Place and The Hawks Nest in CT, Bill’s Bar and Axis in Boston, and The Middle East in Cambridge, MA. One of my favorite travel stories was the time a bunch of my friends and I drove to the Worcester Palladium for Day 2 of SkateFest (we were also there the night before). It was a great show, until The Movielife played there last set. Right before ending their set with ‘Jamestown,’ they basically stated they were done. We were heartbroken. We left immediately; bummed out to say the least. What did we do to cheer ourselves up? Drove 70 miles to see Big D & The Kids Table play at the Hawks Nest in Hartford. Then drive over 100 miles back to our suburban homes. It was an interesting day that definitely had it’s ups and down, but one I will always remember. If it hadn’t been for Mark, I never would have heard some of my favorite bands of all time. 

There are few current musicians/songwriters that continue to impress me and respect them. Vinnie Caruana, Chris Conely, Dave Grohl, Eddie Vedder, Andy Jackson, Ben Gibbard and Matt Pryor. These guys could release anything with their name on it and I’m going to gobble it up. Why? Not only are they talented, but I have a deep respect for what they do.

While I don’t attend many shows anymore, I always keep an active interest in the music. I’ll see bands like Silverstein and Hawthorne Heights releasing new music; which I don’t really care for, but appreciate their effort in continuing to do what they do. In the past few years, I’ve seen a lot of bands reuniting and/or doing anniversary tours of albums. It’s strange; I feel ‘Something To Write Home About,’ and ‘Sticks and Stones,’ came out a year or two ago. In a lot of ways, I still feel like a 16 year old kid, hiking to see The Starting Line and The Benjamins (remember them!?) at Skatefest 2001. 

These are some of the feelings and memories I get from listening to Pryor’s wonderful podcast. Not all musicians/songwriters are douche bags; Pryor proves this week after week. 

Twenty-Second & Twenty-Third

We all are among the dead; the few who believe in the softly spoken words over loud piercing screams. The energy and flow from rhythm to rhyme- rhyme to rhythm “inspiring the uninspired.” (1) We all desire to be above the masses; worshiped and praised; to be put on a pedestal of premature notions the majority place upon those. No one wants to be another face in the crowd. We all want to stand out and have our voices heard. “Rather be thin than famous” (2) Becoming undone from bonds of destined demons deliberating in front of a dismal audience. Entertain us, Entertain us. The front of true love is fear of dying alone. A bullet sounds the same in every language. No more ideas; just facts. Direct though-Direct Action.

one way, fuck this.

(1) The Press

(2) JK, NC

©M.T.Melanson 2007

Drinking too much from this river of blood; while the love of others gets spit back out. Eyes tell the things that don’t want to be told. Life limits get rejected by the bodies of lonely souls. Waving the flags that our fathers’ did with no idea why. Sick with the smell of freedom floating through the atmosphere. Not one for confrontation; not one for success. Fight for the honor of the lost cause. Battle cries are full of fear, not hope. Floods of innocent tears from the unfaithful observers washing their hands of the damned. The colors from the night sky bleed through the veins of the horizon. No more fighting with closed fists; raise those hands up to the sky. Bright days are on the way. Same written words spray painted on the same buildings. Destruction upon debris upon lost ideas. Cigarette smoke confesses to the fresh air. Lies are the spice of life. Shed the light from the burnt stars. Written words are frowned upon by all that are read. The house always wins. Try as it be, knowledge is sacred. Life experiences are the only experiences worth living for.

©M.T.Melanson 2007

Twenty-First

It’s a hot night; the kind of night you get into your car and want to take off your shirt, but know your sweat soaked skin will stick to the seat. The car radio only gets two stations; political chat and jazz; I go for the jazz. It’s cool to the chilled and changed speed of the other cars around. The windows go up, then down; no need to decide now which way they’ll stay. My mind is shut off enough to function, but without effecting my memories or emotions. It’s a canvas with a knife cut through the center; a crumpled up piece of paper that just missed the garbage can. A fresh start for a fresh idea. I’ll drive to the outskirts of town; I’ll drive past the borders of counties; I’ll drive till the tingling twine of street lights flicker to a hiss; I’ll drive till the land runs out, then I’ll swim. I’ll swim for the horizon. Moonlight motives and persuasive persona’s on the heart of the sea. This is your story; your turn. Choose your beginning and make it end well. Rip out the chapters you so desperately choose to dismiss from the archives and entries of what makes you, you. It’s like watching the same old love story and hoping that THIS time, she’ll end up with the good guy. Swim out, drop, and escape your fate.

 ©M.T.Melanson 2007

Thirty-Fifth (I Like…)

Thirty-Fifth (I Like…)

- I like pop punk, reggae, and folk.

- I like girls will a hint of sadness in their eyes.

- I like how beer always taste better outside; doesn’t matter what season.

- I like telling stories to people who have never heard them before. I like hearing stories I’ve never heard before.

- I like not thinking further than 6 months away.

- I like football, hockey, and baseball; don’t care too much for basketball anymore.

- I like how my car had over 190,000 miles on it, and I’m ok with it not having the chance to get to 200,000 miles.

- I like not having any internet feature on my phone; when I see my friends out and about always looking up something, it makes me miss the questioning games we use to have to play. I want to bring back the i’n person communication’….I think society is missing that.

- I like how I’m a pretty liberal democrat even though those close to me favor the right wing.

- I like the relationship I now have with my parents; 10 years ago I would have said it was impossible. Now it’s nice to sit down, have a beer, and discuss life with them.

- I like how in my mind, I grew up too fast. It’s given me the opportunity to revert back to the goofy, simplistic idea of life.

- I like smoking, and even when I do decide to quit, I know I will always like it regardless.

- I like peaceful hippies; the kind that aren’t afraid to voice their opinions but also aren’t afraid to hear your opinions in a non combative fashion.

- I like black and white movies.

- I like Pearl Jam more than I like Nirvana (and I like Nirvana a lot).

- I like dancing and singing at weddings.

- I like my beliefs in religion and higher powers; for someone who has a lot of faith in mystical forces, I have a lot of doubt in the structures.

- I like the smell of marijuana even though I don’t like smoking it anymore.

- I like how some of the population still questions the government; Oswald? 9/11?

- I like the fact that I’ve seen both Toad The Wet Sprocket and the Gin Blossoms after their ‘prime.’

- I like having cereal for dinner.

- I like waking up Saturday/Sunday morning without a hang over.

- I like it when people download my mixes.

- I like vinyl; going through the artwork and linear notes; and I also like how vinyl sounds better than any other format.

- I like thrift stores; finding interesting t-shirts and cheap books.

- I like playing softball for my best friends team with some of the greatest people I’ve ever met. It makes the summer nights seem carefree again.

- I like long drives through Hull, the forts, and all the way to Hull high school where the road meets the ocean; you can drive no further.

- I like going to a bar for one more drink and ending up staying for six more; the beers taste too good and the conversations are too enjoyable to leave.

- I like people watching and coming up with crazy stories; ‘That guy right their is a Q-Tip salesman who lives with his mom in a one room apartment; he bathes in the kitchen sink and chews coffee beans for a pick-me up.’

- I like the person that I’ve become. I never thought I would live past the age of 27 and if we were to round up, I’ve done that with flying colors.

© M.T.Melanson 2011

Thirty-Seventh (Old Before Our Time)

*this was posted on my old blog (skippingthesurface.blogspot.com) and once in a while I’ll get a random comment telling me to buy Viagra cheap or that the prince from stupid country needs money and he’ll share it with me. Regardless, I had a comment this evening saying something simple: ‘Helped me a lot, just what I was searching for :)’ Whether it was bullshit or not, I don’t care. This is why once in a while, I throw one of these free writes out there. If you have a minute or two, read it. I’ll understand if you don’t, but you never know…it might speak to you as well. Cheers. Have a good weekend.*

No parent should have to bury their child; no child should have to bury their parent, yet it is still something some of us, none of us, all of us must face. It fucked me up; scared me into submission. It’s my silent excuse for not seeing the newborn child of the sun or the child of the moon that’s due during the summer solstice. It’s my excuse for being a weekend binge drinker and the occasional midnight toker as of lately. The short temper I’ve ingested -the unhappiness creeping through my veins; losing sympathy one breath at a time. Selfish for feeling sorrow for something that hasn’t, won’t, will happen to me. It doesn’t matter what has happened in the past; looking into the eyes of a long misplaced friend takes you back to the good times. The trips down to the coast; the homecoming pictures, the basement make out sessions, (you bit (bid) me (well) first.) the greetings and farewells over sweet sounding swells of winds and waves from the horizontal change. I wouldn’t wish these bad times on my worse enemy, because something like this changes your whole perception on what’s right and wrong with the world. It can turn even the preacher into a parasite on the holiest of holes. The whore into a believer of monogamy. And now, as I sit here, picturing the encounter, I still don’t know what I would have said differently. I should have cried with you; I should have held you tight and told you that it fucking sucks and whatever higher power let this happen should suffer 10 times worse themselves; that I know what it feels like or that God has a plan (:grunt:). But all I can think to say is ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ It’s true that we will all meet again at the next mutual acquaintances funeral; we’ll see each other but that doesn’t make it right. Simply (feeling) old before our time.

250 Words

Within 20 ft. on the same street, the rich wine and dine while the poor shake down people for a spare dime. Shivering, walking for a degree of education so I can leave my carbon footprint in an unappreciated nation. Everyone wants to work, but no one wants to work for it. An acoustic guitar scheme is nothing but a pipe dream. Play for the joy of the bedroom walls and empty halls. Unheard music makes it a special treat like hopping on a train to find an open seat. A secret to keep makes honesty complete. Consideration is mutual admiration. Respect is earned, unstudied, situationally learned. Propaganda molesting the airwaves, bumper stickers screaming, ‘Jesus Saves.’ If I wanted a bible, I’d of swam the Nile, for The People Vs. God, the trial. Instead I had work, school, work, school, skipped the marriage for hope’s fool. Tiresome fury at the age of thirty. I want to quit life and clean up after the dirty. Why worry over the same story? Ending is the same like the beginning of what became. The plot line of a western gold mine. Digging through the shit for a cash in crime. The cobra kisses to kill with its tongue, like an opera singer tells her story with a song to be sung. Things must be done for the freedom bell to be rung. Lead us to the gallows to the be hung. I’d rather die fighting to be free than bow down to hypocrisy.

©M.T.Melanson 2010 

1000 Mass Ave. Cambridge, Massachusetts

Written: November 18, 2008

Twenty-First

It’s a hot night; the kind of night you get into your car and want to take off your shirt, but know your sweat soaked skin will stick to the seat. The car radio only gets two stations; political chat and jazz; I go for the jazz. It’s cool to the chilled and changed speed of the other cars around. The windows go up, then down; no need to decide now which way they’ll stay. My mind is shut off enough to function, but without effecting my memories or emotions. It’s a canvas with a knife cut through the center; a crumpled up piece of paper that just missed the garbage can. A fresh start for a fresh idea. I’ll drive to the outskirts of town; I’ll drive past the borders of counties; I’ll drive till the tingling twine of street lights flicker to a hiss; I’ll drive till the land runs out, then I’ll swim. I’ll swim for the horizon. Moonlight motives and persuasive persona’s on the heart of the sea. This is your story; your turn. Choose your beginning and make it end well. Rip out the chapters you so desperately choose to dismiss from the archives and entries of what makes you, you. It’s like watching the same old love story and hoping that THIS time, she’ll end up with the good guy. Swim out, drop, and escape your fate.

 ©M.T.Melanson 2007

Something Bad Is Going To Happen

I wear khaki pants and a button up shirt to work everyday. And although my hair is long, I put gel in it and slick it back.  

I don’t have any piercings or visible tattoos. I don’t wear flat brimmed hats, tight pants, or obnoxious jewelry. I wear glasses because I have trouble seeing and contacts irritate my eyes.  

I drink beer. I smoke cigarettes. I don’t smoke dope, but I’m not against it. I eat red meat and like a 5 year old, avoid vegetables as much as possible. Most of the time I just eat cereal for dinner. And on a bad day, I eat ice cream. 

The truth is, I look pretty ordinary; a hippie brought up in the wrong generation. I come across as a pushover; a square; a joke.

But if I see you in the pit at a punk rock show, the floor will clear, the sky will open up, and you will be looking for a corner to hide in.

Punk rock isn’t fashion. It isn’t tattoos or piercings. It’s not being straight edge or a burn out. It’s not about wearing band shirts and posting memorable lyrics online. It’s not about radio plays or music videos. It’s not anarchy symbols or violence. It’s music that hits you in the right way when you need it the most.

Punk rock didn’t save my life; it just made my life better.  

Thirty-Second (I Use To Have Dreams)

A pocket-full of poems for the people to hear. Place them down on windshields, writing worse for the wear. One strong breeze and all my thoughts are gone. Ideas will feed my thirst of power. Lighting fires on beaches to cook fish and drink beer. Mailing postcards from Dixie that read, ‘Wish You Were Here.’ Like O’Sully sang from F to E, here Lake Placid to the great Mississippi. Carved initials in a tree under the sparrow’s nest, got a tattoo in Long Beach of my families crest. Dropped acid and road a train one way, stopped at a road house bar and drank for one whole day. Thought I saw Mojo on Route 66, thumbing his way for the River Styx. Someday soon I’ll make for the coast, leave behind my tireless ghost. Wanted the walls to be secure and hide the fire of my own internal war. But now I’ll light candles and mutter silent prayers-just your avid grinner who holds back his fears. Until the day my truth takes hold, the fury and fire will shatter the mold. Perhaps I’ll shave my head and wear combat boots or drown in a bottle like my family roots, or cash in my sell-out check for a 3-piece suit. Maybe I will, I just might get first class on my 10 minute flight; juggle e-mails with the seatbelt sign on, discuss semantics till the night hits dawn. I smoke too much, I dreamt to hard for a dismal future and a mysterious facade. Perhaps careers cannot hold a flame to sunsets, port wine, and hours to kill. When working 9-5, you can’t stop and appreciate the little things. The world is changing and the people with it. What happened to endless summers? Was it traded in for a 401K? Security is all we crave among the lucky wanderers, searching out bonfires and pissing them out one beach walk at a time. Siting Indian style only makes your feet fall asleep. No spiritual enlightenment or comfort. I use to have dreams, but why fall asleep when there is nothing to look forward to? It makes me wonder when it all changed.

© M.T.Melanson 2011

Thirty-Sixth (Who Am I? Where Am I Going?)

It’s romantic; the idea of ditching a materialist world, packing up a few prized madalion’s and notebooks, and finding a new home every single day of the year of the rest of your life. But instead, I take comfort in the modern world’s technological inventions. Instead of opening a book, I turn on the T.V. and see the life get sucked out of my body. Video games over musical instruments. I can order a pizza and a female (or male) companion and have them both delivered within 30 minutes or less (or your money back guaranteed). We’re all kind of pass the honeymoon period in all aspects of life. I wouldn’t hear of a break-up or child being born by telephone anymore; why waste time talking to one person when you can inform the world with one bulletin post. When is the last time you received a letter from someone? Not junk mail or a brief thank you for the wedding/shower/fundraiser you contributed to and attended. I’m talking feelings. Beautiful feelings that mix with ink and punctuation. Feelings that take time to express, more time than seeing a smile or sniffle of sadness. As I type this, I wish I had a notebook and a familiar pen. Writing fast to express every idea, every concept, every rhyme, every experience so I never have to forget it again. Writing fast after waking from a dream just to question my own sanity (how could I be shoveling snow in Phoenix, AZ, while high on bath salts, while conversing with half of JFK’s head and Hitler’s mustache?) Take the time to appreciate the insanity in our heads; the craziest ideas might not always be right, but at least their honest and fun. Take the time to write, listen to albums, (not single tracks) drink heavily, and get to know the people you’ve loved for ages all over again.

© M.T.Melanson 2011