Heather in Paradise

to soothe the savage beast. I have just spent hours killing time, listening to music that speaks to me, that recalls memories, that picks at old hurts, and applies salve to other wounds…I am not a musician. I have loved musicians, with a fierceness that was probably undeserved…but throughout my life, music has saved me. I have subscribed to it, applied to it, consecrated myself in the church of it, been an unrepentant whore for it.

Tonight I pay homage to Morrissey. To Modest Mouse and Elliot Smith. To Wilco, Son Volt, and Uncle Tupelo (I am nothing if not loyal). I love you, Depeche Mode, even if I hardly ever owned one of your cassettes. The Smiths, The Cure, I’m not ashamed to admit it. The band I saw at Scenes at Carmel High School in 1992? I love you, too. Wherever you are.

Prince, you have your own chapel. REM, somehow you followed Prince. Neko Case, I am not worthy of you. I prostrate myself before you.

And the history, which I have learned and continue to learn? O Johnny Cash, O Patsy Cline, O goddamned Loretta Lynn, Dolly Parton, and Hank Williams.

I haven’t even gotten to the Rock and Roll or the Punk yet, have I? How I have wished my mother had been into the punk rock instead of the late 70s rock.

Those of you who know me know what I have to say about the Beatles. And if you say you don’t like them, well, I know you are just trying to be cool. Saying you don’t like the Beatles is like saying you don’t like breathing.

And the Rolling Stones. And Blondie. And the Pretenders. Christ, there are too many of you. I cannot possibly kiss you all, at once, under the gun.

And my 90s? My Cupcakes, my Hum, my Triple Fast Action, All, and Built to Spill. O Afghan Whigs, why hast thou forsaken me?

I’ll keep it as it is, remembering you in spurts, in passionate bursts of love, wringing my hands and praising the sweet earth for your existence.

And Local H? Why, you are the Holy Grail. But I guess everyone already knew that.