Seven Songs: Song 4 - "Watching the Wheels" by John Lennon

One of my favorite things about music is that it's open to interpretation. Sure, the songwriter has the final say when it comes to what he or she meant when writing it, but the listener can take whatever they want from the song and that meaning can even change over time.

(I suppose I just recapped why I'm writing this series of posts. Bear with me.)

John Lennon's “Watching the Wheels” has always been near and dear to my heart since the first time I heard it in high school. If you'll recall from the last post, I had just been dumped and was naturally feeling sorry for myself. Enter “Watching the Wheels.”

I listened to those lyrics obsessively and determined that Lennon had taken a break from something important – perhaps life itself – and that it was just fine with him, thank you very much.

I was on the right track, sort of. “Watching the Wheels” was John's response to his critics deriding him for taking five years off from music to raise his son: “No longer riding the merry-go-round / I just had to let it go.” When you really think about it, taking that time off was quite the admirable thing to do. He was John Lennon, after all, and instead of taking cues from his contemporary rock stars – penetrating groupies with seafood, being in the throes of heroin addiction – he chose to correct a mistake he made with his first child.

My connection to this song isn't so noble.

I wanted to take a step back from life not because I needed to get my head straight but because I was hurt and vulnerable and I didn't want to feel anymore.

Lennon came back from exile and wrote “(Just Like) Starting Over” and “Woman” along with “Watching the Wheels”; I started an exile of my own and wore black while listening to angry music. If “No Surprises” was my immediate reaction to the breakup, “Watching the Wheels” was the confirmation of those feelings. Maybe I didn't need her after all. Maybe I would be all right on my own.

Now I could just leave it at that – a childish reaction to a teenage relationship – but I did write above that the meaning of a song to me can change over time, and “Watching the Wheels” has done just that since my first experience with it in 1998.

John Lennon has always been my favorite Beatle – though George Harrison is running a close second – for as long as I've loved the Beatles. It started out as being that way because of his way with words and his sarcastic sense of humor, but as I learned more and more about him, it became apparent that he was a deeply flawed and conflicted human being. He lost his mother not once but twice: she abandoned him at an early age, then just when he was reconnecting with her as a teenager she was run over by a bus. He supposedly beat his first wife. But then he turns around and writes a song like “All You Need Is Love.” Lennon was a millionaire many times over, but he didn't forget his roots with his song “Working Class Hero.” It just goes on and on and on.

I admire the man for not being afraid of wearing those scars on his sleeve, and I've taken “Watching the Wheels” as a sort of philosophy. That, of course, is a conflict in and of itself. (I'm pretty sure I don't need to spell out for you why, so I won't.)

I've never been one to show much emotion. I might feel it inside, but it's rare that it would actually come out. This has led to being described at least twice on separate occasions as “cool” by coworkers. I just don't let the bullshit of a workaday lifestyle get to me. Sure, I get pissed off once in a while, but I'll always try my hardest not to let coworkers see me cursing to myself, ready to destroy something.

This isn't just about work, though. I am certainly a proponent of not getting caught up in your job – your profession does not define you completely. There's so much more to life that's not worth losing your shit over. (Note: I've lost my shit over stupid things. It happens to everyone. This is okay.) I started off by referencing my first relationship and I think the message of “Watching the Wheels” (how it speaks to me, anyway) carries over even into adulthood. I'm not saying that if a relationship ends – even with someone you love dearly – you should just go out and drink whiskey until you're so pissed up that you can't see then try to nail the nearest warm body with a pulse. But the world has not ended at that point. To let something like that cripple you, to let it affect your everyday life, is like letting them win. It's okay to take a few steps back and say “I will not let this ruin me.”

In the song Lennon wrote “Well I tell them there's no problems, only solutions.” I think that line about sums up what I'm trying to say here. I've had people do shitty things to me like everybody else. I get flustered and angry just like everybody else. But at the same time I don't think – I hope – I dwell on it as much as most other people do.

My philosophy courtesy of “Watching the Wheels” probably won't work for too many people. There is a level of disconnection involved here that probably would make a lot of people feel uncomfortable. But over the years it has held true that being on the fringes of whatever it is that I'm supposed to be involved in has been nothing short of a calming influence on me. It's not perfect, but what is?

Seven Songs: Song 3 - "No Surprises" by Radiohead

Despite the fact that I'm not exactly your average human being, I spent my high school years wanting to be with a girl. I wanted to be touched, held. I wanted to get laid, for Christ's sake. About halfway through my sophomore year, I would finally find someone not completely creeped out by my dour demeanor.

It was a typical teenage relationship. We didn't go out on dates so much as we spent most of our time together making out on somebody's floor or couch. It was great for what it was, but at the same time there was really nowhere to go with it. Is there anywhere else to go when you're sixteen?

Like all good things, the relationship eventually had to come to an end.

It was late summer in my parents' basement. She said it was over and handed over her copy of OK Computer by Radiohead and started to cry. I bawled my eyes out in front of her, perhaps more vulnerable than she'd ever seen me. After regaining my composure I think she kissed me for the last time and left.

I can remember my mom asking me if I was okay – I don't remember the answer – and retreating back down to the basement and putting the CD in. After listening to “Karma Police” I switched to “No Surprises” – her favorite song – and the rest is history.

The song isn't affecting simply because it was a favorite song of my first love. Certainly that resonates with me, but there's more to it than that. With “No Surprises,” Radiohead completely nailed what it feels like to be numb.

A heart that's full up like a landfill
A job that slowly kills you
Bruises that won't heal

Those first three lines, sad but sung with such a lack of palpable emotion. Certainly I felt something; but I didn't know what I should be feeling. Sadness? Anger? Indifference? All of the above?

You see, this was my first break-up. I wasn't sure what went wrong or what I could do to make things right. I wasn't sure if I was going to make it through all right. All I could do was throw up my hands, shed some tears, and sink further into my music. I searched for answers but came up blank, much like the narrator in the song.

Common sense would indicate that I should have grieved for an appropriate amount of time, but gotten back up on that horse and find some other girl to make out with. It was high school! But I didn't. I listened to songs like “No Surprises” and slipped further down that fucking rabbit hole. I surrounded myself with walls, some of which are still up to this day.

That relationship – for better or worse – fucked me up. I opened myself up to someone for the first time and got burned. I would not be hurt like that again. Thom Yorke spoke to me at the time (and times to come): “I'll take the quiet life / A handshake of carbon monoxide / No alarms and no surprises please”

Now, in a bit of irony that only took me 10+ years to realize... “No Surprises” was an apt title to begin with. The relationship was going nowhere and had to end at some point. I think, at that point in my life and for some years to come – that the song was to me as “The Wall” was to Roger Waters. It was my way of saying to the world, “that's enough of this bullshit!”

Years later, in a happy, contented, mature relationship I don't need the song, at least not in the way I needed it then. But I would be a liar if I said there weren't days when I wouldn't mind taking that “quiet life,” to melt away in a calm, numb world where there aren't any surprises.

Seven Songs: Song 2 - "Santa Monica" by Everclear

For most of my pre-pubescent to early pubescent life I was immersed firmly in the music of my parents. Sure, I once convinced my parents to buy me a Vanilla Ice tape ("Those lyrics are horrible!") and was sorta-kinda into really gay club music (Technotronic, Right Said Fred) and gangsta rap (Dr. Dre, Snoop Doggy Dogg), but I didn't have much emotional attachment to it. Aside from The Beatles -- and my feelings for it -- it was all Beach Boys and Herman's Hermits for me.

At 14 years old I had nothing music-wise to call my own. As a shy kid who mostly lived inside my own head -- as a grown man I still do most of the time -- it was imperative that something could speak for me. For all intents and purposes I had no voice.

/sidetrack time

This brings me to one of my favorite stories my dad told me about me.

I was a quiet little boy -- ya fuckin' think -- all of 2 or 3 years old and my parents were visiting with my dad's mom and his uncle. This is paraphrased because it was over 25 years ago, and I couldn't possibly remember it.

Me: /plays with alphabet blocks on the floor.
My dad: He doesn't talk much yet. That's not normal, is it?
Uncle Donnie: It'll come. Maybe he just doesn't have anything to say.

I smile every time I think about that little story.

/end sidetrack

Well, I discovered "alternative" rock radio in the 8th grade. I loved Nirvana (more sidetrack: my dad yelled at me when he saw the booklet for Nevermind with Kurt Cobain flipping off the camera; I thought that was awesome) and Oasis and the Smashing Pumpkins. And then there was Everclear.

I dared not ask for the album that first year -- in fact I bought Sparkle and Fade at a used CD store on my own -- because of song titles like "You Make Me Feel Like a Whore" and "My Sexual Life." But I loved the hell out of that album. It was just music to me at that point, but I still loved it.

Then I started high school. A public school. In a town I had lived in for all of a year and a half. I was optimistic, but I was also scared out of my mind. Still being shy and voiceless, being that proverbial fish out of water, I needed an anthem. I needed something to describe perfectly how I felt. I found "Santa Monica."

Say what you will about Everclear, but Art Alexakis knows his way around a hook. Those opening chords kicked in and I was taken away to my own little place. The first two verses represented my ticket out of Cudahy. I didn't hate suburban life as much as I hated being thrown in with a bunch of people I didn't know. It didn't help, being me, not being able to strike up a conversation with people. In September of 1996, I would have given just about anything to take "my big black boots and an old suitcase" and "find myself a new place."

And then that chorus. Jesus Christ that chorus influenced my worldview, and still does, as sad as that may seem:

We can live beside the ocean
Leave the fire behind
Swim out past the breakers
Watch the world die

Aside from the obvious angst in those lines, he does start it off with "we." Much like imagining myself being held to "With A Little Help From My Friends," I imagined swimming out past the breakers of Lake Michigan, finding some non-existent island with someone, anyone (hopefully a girl, though) to spend the rest of my days with, watching the world die before our eyes. She would soothe the pain of every pretty girl that would sneer at me -- of course, I never would have the courage or confidence to counter that, but what's the difference now? -- and every jock asshole that would make fun of me. Damn, the solution seemed so simple then.

That chorus is great, no doubt, but the couplet at the end of the song brings it all home. If there are two lines in all of 90's rock that I would have to pick as my favorite, I would be hard-pressed to pick something other than this:

I just want to feel some sunshine
I just want to find some place to be alone

In those high school days, it would take me away from those aforementioned sneering girls and laughing jocks; today it's a celebrity-obsessed culture; it's a bickering political wasteland; it's the guy with a high-paying job that he loves, who consumes things just to consume, obtains things just to obtain. I know I can't be bothered to just let go and have a good time -- this much I've known for years -- but I sure as hell can be bothered not to be deluded into thinking this world isn't just puppy dogs and rainbows.

Don't get me wrong, though. "Santa Monica" is far from a downer for me. It makes me feel wonderful every time I hear it. It gets my head bobbing -- and my fist pumping for the 'place to be alone' line -- whenever it comes on. It reminds me -- despite all of the confusion and hurt and hate -- of a time much simpler then the present. Then again with a present full of economic uncertainty, bitter political partisanship, soulless advertisers, pop music based on image (I'm looking at you, Lady Gaga) not songcraft, and reality television, who wouldn't want to swim out past the breakers and watch the world die?

Seven Songs: The Long-winded Intro/Song 1

I recently finished reading Nick Hornby's novel High Fidelity for the second time. If you've read the book or seen the movie – both are wonderful – you know that music plays a prominent role in both. In some promotional footage for the film, John Cusack – who plays Rob, the lead character – talks about how we experience music autobiographically. I have to agree with him wholeheartedly here.

Even more poignant than that, however, is this passage from the book (which also serves as the opening lines in the movie):

“What came first – the music or the misery? Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music? Do all those records turn you into a melancholy person?

People worry about kids playing with guns, and teenagers watching violent videos.; we are scared that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands – literally thousands – of songs about broken hearts and rejection and pain and misery and loss.”

Hornby took those points one step further with 31 Songs, (not quite as good – I didn't recognize most of the songs) a series of essays about songs that affected him in some sort of way. Various authors took notice of this, and McSweeney's even published a bunch of them.

After reading through the songs I knew, I thought that I could do the same thing.

I picked seven songs that, throughout my life, really got to me. Going through them, I noticed that the tracks weren't necessarily connected to specific events; rather, they're concepts and themes that reflect who I was, who I am, and perhaps who I may become.

I hope writing about them doesn't take too long. The longer I get away from an idea, the easier it becomes for that idea to fade away. The songs will appear in roughly the chronological order of my life.

Without further ado, here is the first song in the series:

“With a Little Help From My Friends” – The Beatles

from: Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band

The short version: Henry Rollins already described it better than I ever could.

***

I was 12, maybe 13 when I would come home from school each day and turn on the television. I watched after-school programs like everyone else – Animaniacs, anyone? – until I got bored. This is when I would scavenge through my dad's CD collection. Aside from the car radio, this is where I discovered the Beatles.

My favorite albums at the time were A Hard Day's Night and Sgt. Pepper. Right off the bat, I heard something in “With A Little Help From My Friends” that resonated with me. Only thing is, something was a little bit off: I didn't have any friends. Sure, I had guys I played basketball or video games with, but I wasn't close with them. I couldn't confide anything in them. They were just dudes who enjoyed my company enough not to tell me to fuck off.

That camaraderie in the chorus (“I get by.../I get high.../I'm gonna try... with a little help from my friends”) was something I longed for. It would kill me every time Ringo got to that second verse:

What do I do when my love is away?

(Does it worry you to be alone?)

How do I feel by the end of the day?

(Are you sad because you're on you're own?)

The third verse doesn't get any happier:

(Do you need anybody?)

I need somebody to love.

(Could it be anybody?)

I want somebody to love.

There were nights then (and throughout my adolescence) where I would hear those lines and imagine myself being held. If it wasn't out of loneliness it was out of the fact that I knew even then that those years of my life were going to be tough. To my feeble mind being held was adult and exotic; it was my ticket out of Hell.

As a child – and probably still somewhat as a grown man – many felt I was afflicted with this profound sense of sadness. Hearing those verses certainly brought it out in me then. I continue to be affected by such lyrics to this day.

Listening to the song now – and I think even then – I can find hope amidst the sadness. Ringo does have his friends to help him get by; I would eventually find friends of my own. Ringo believes in love at first sight; I would find love. Really, I could have picked any Beatles song here. As sad as that song made me feel at 13, it also made me feel human. In those seven years (1962-69, Let It Be was done way before it was released in 1970) the Beatles recorded music, they made songs of joy, exuberance, despair, hurt, love, loss, and a million other emotions and experiences. I can put on any one of those tracks, experience those feelings, and feel alive. It brings me back, in a way, to a time when those feelings were new and exciting.

To listen to the Beatles is to listen to life itself happening before your ears. “With A Little Help From My Friends” was the first song to lead me down that wonderful, terrifying (and, yes, long and winding) road.