The Bitterest Pill (I Ever Had To Swallow). The Jam. 1982. Polydor.

 Sunday nights at eleven I set my radio dial to 98 FM, KZEW, and waited for radio programmer George Gimarc to queue the instrumental mix of the B-52s’ Runnin’ Around that served as introduction to his two hour show, the Rock and Roll Alternative. I listened regularly to the Gimarc show, looking agog with a teenager’s quarter-focus at how the new artists either embraced or eschewed tradition; the quality of the artistic imagination in revolt my second favorite adolescent curiosity. Looking back at that time—the early to mid-eighties when I was a high school student—it’s apparent now that I was using the spell cast by late twentieth century American media to absorb, in a whirlwind, as much of contemporary culture as I could withstand in order to continue building upon the foundation of identity begun years before with my first memories. What I learned during this period that I spent immersed in the Western pop new wave was how large the sense of anxiety that loomed within our culture actually was, running like a current through generations of music and, by extension, through us. This unease with current domestic and world events had even generated a rhythmic vernacular that many of us internalized, allowing it to become a roiling neurosis that demanded to be fed in any number of unsettling ways while eating its way out. One method I favored for feeding the one-eyed puss of mental imbalance was record collecting. Gimarc was himself a known local collector whom I’d seen at a few collectors conventions, even buying an old pressing of The Velvet Underground and Nico and  a Joy Division 7” flexi-disc from his personal cache. Listening to his show I became aware of VVV and Metamorphosis, two Dallas retail shops that specialized in records by lesser known artists. One afternoon, while I should’ve been out flesh peddling or learning first hand about the science of injecting opioids like any other sensible American teen, I got into my battered Mustang and drove east on Interstate 30 to Exposition Park where Metamorphosis was.  Memory says that it was a late Friday afternoon because my recall of it comes charged with that heightened sensation of mixed excitement and expectation that lasts all of Friday, as if a diminished form of holiday were waiting to burst like a discotheque ball piñata at day’s end with a steady stream of expedited desires. I was a brashly irresponsible, lazy, and inattentive car owner but my addictive personality dictated that I fill an emotional void, and my low grade OCD wouldn’t allow me to stop fantasizing about import 45 singles that would brighten my collection like totems from another world. For that day’s trek I ran my car’s air conditioning system against the summer afternoon’s mix of humidity and heat, intermittently eyeballing the temperature gauge on the Mustang’s dash as if it were possible to will the car engine into consistent, undying functionality. An overcast sky and a steadily accumulating glut of rush hour traffic accompanied me on my drive until I crossed the Dallas city limits at which point the rain began to fall. I tried cracking a window for a cigarette smoke but the downpour was too insistent. Cars began braking on the interstate as traffic mounted just outside of Grand Prairie. The temperature gauge indicator needle began registering an increase in heat. In response I shut off the cold air and began acclimating myself to the car interior’s overpowering warmth, keeping an eye on the car hood for signs of smoke coming from the radiator. A stone’s throw from Reunion Tower, traffic was now at a complete stop. Pouring sweat I looked around me, half expecting to see the bewildered faces of my fellow commuters, shocked at the sight of my outrageous predicament. Yet no one showed any sign of having witnessed my emergent crisis. Or had the knowing multitude seen the horror and were now conspiring to desperately ignore me for fear of contamination by contiguity? Rain continued to pour and the stifling heat inside of the Mustang had established a sarcophagus-like climate that had choked the confidence from me to death but I cracked the window to breathe easier, allowing a torrent of rain to coming rushing in so that I was forced to quickly raise it once more. Traffic inched forward. My 2nd Ave exit to  Exposition was imminent; my hope was to make the exit, drive the Mustang to Metamorphosis and park it, then shop long enough for the engine to cool down enough so that I could then drive it to a gas station to refill the radiator for a return exodus to Fort Worth. The rain began to let up so I cracked the window again, this time low enough that I began to get some fresh air. I lit a cigarette. The smoke now coming from under the hood was incontrovertible proof that I had gravely miscalculated my ability to function as a capable motorist. I remember buying records that afternoon from a blonde Amazon with severe looks and a stylish butch haircut who wasn’t in any mood to bond with customers over retail  survey tested bullet points. The Jam single was an overwrought emotional record of romantic betrayal in the Northern Soul style, and as taken with it as I was, I nevertheless missed the naked working class aggression of their early material which, as late as 1980, could still be heard in what remains their masterpiece single That’s Entertainment. Meanwhile, a newly formed band from Manchester had been receiving minor press attention Stateside and raving notices in their native UK. I also bought two of their singles that afternoon which were sleeved with clever kitchen sink drama film stills featuring the regret soaked image of a young man seated naked on the edge of a bed and another of their grinning lead singer raising a glass of milk in parody of a toast. The new band had enough talent to not only challenge the spirit of the Jam’s minor historical achievement but then to actually succeed it with a fearless originality that gave shamelessness itself  cause to sing.