Street Art: Disco Sucks

 

Slayer Rules in Rockland County, or at least it did.

When I was a young teen, there were two camps in the tri-state area: rockers and disco-loving Guido's. I actually love to dance to a strong beat, and I love the sound electric guitars make, so I didn't have tribal affiliations to either side. Nonetheless, the divide was deep. You were either a dance "fag" or a rocker, and kids were forced to choose sides in my house to avoid taunts. 

Ice cream, rock tees, boat rides, and family history

My brothers were (naturally) metal guys in their teens, sensitive to hints of "gayness", so it was a powerful card in my back pocket if they got out of line with me. If I wanted to get under their skin quickly, all I had to do was tune into to a "gay" disco station and turn it up. We had cheap doors with easy locks that could be turned with a thumbnail to open quickly, and that's exactly what they did if I dared to play offensive music; open my door and forcibly turn the dial on my old stereo I inherited from my godfather, complete with 8 track player.

I see Doucettes (live and dead) everywhere.

In retaliation, I had to do pathetically little. I loved their t-shirt collection (I still love mens' shirts) because their boxy square cuts went great over 80s clothes, like leggings and tight jeans, and I would often take their shirts out of their drawers to wear when they weren't around, which infuriated them. The one musical tradition we all agreed upon as siblings (and still do) is that the Stones rule. I mean it. We believe in The Rolling Stones the way a guido needs hair gel before leaving his house. Yeah, that badly. And we were right. They've withstood the hands of time to dominate the rock scene the way few other rock bands have, except for U2, another band I discovered foraging through record stores on trips to the city. I grabbed a single to their first hit "Gloria" because I knew I was hearing something powerful and raw, and I was right about that, too. I would go on to design CD's for musicians and bands in a post-production studio in Colorado, that's how good an ear I have for audio. I know quality when I hear it, and I know shit, too.

Acadians in Nova Scotia.

Rummaging through some photos on my mom's bookcase, I found photos of a story about my history that I tell sometimes to friends about how I wore a black and white-sleeved Stones concert shirt (which were all the rage back then) that my brothers outgrew on our history tour to Nova Scotia during the early 80s because we're Acadian (not my mom; too bad for her!). It was the first time I was there, and it was epic: just like one of my ancestors, I almost died on the boat ride there. It was a 8 hour trip across the Bay of Fundy from Maine, the roughest waters in the Atlantic. I threw up for most of it, and so did my mom, and so did many others because the bathrooms were outfitted with cots. I said to my mom "If this boat sinks, I won't even care", so bad was my mal de mer. My brothers sporadically threw up over the side of the ferry because my Canuck Dad (also ex-Navy) insisted that they would be fine on deck in the fresh air. At least I had some privacy in the ladies room.

Disco sucks and now you know, too.

These were some of the things I thought about when I saw rocker scratchitti in a bench in the local park, made years ago by boys not unlike the men in my family: tribally loyal, fierce, vulnerable, brave, rockers to the core, though now open to other music occasionally, two of them still playing guitars (both acoustic and electric) to rock music.  

 What do you see in your hometown that takes you back?

People of the streets, check this out: http://www.pinterest.com/mariedoucette/street-art-sacred-spaces/.