I’m a big fan of keepsakes. There are certain things that I simply cannot throw away, because of their purely sentimental value, the memories they evoke, the part of my life I am reminded of when I hold them and look at them. I’ve always been this way. When I was little, I would carry around a plastic fish I named “Mrs. Pengally” – that fish was my totem, but sadly it is among lost relics and I have no idea of its whereabouts. If I did, I might still throw it in my purse, just for the sheer comfort of knowing I had a part of my former identity so close to me.
I once wrote an entry of my most prized possessions; the one that comes to mind first and foremost is the guitar pick I have that was handed to me by Conor Oberst (a.k.a. Bright Eyes, at the time). That was a magical night, and that moment stands out to me as purely euphoric and surreal. When I hold the pick in my hand, see its etchings from the wear of steel strings, I am transported back to the heart-leaping moment in October 2007 when I called and left my best friend a message in whispering fervor; “we just talked to one of the roadies and he wants us to meet them at Earl’s!!!” I love that a memory, a moment, can be summed up by something you hold in your hand. Maybe that’s ‘hoarder’ thinking, but because I value memory so much, because memory to me is a gateway into solving the mysteries of self, and conversely, the mysteries of the ‘other’ in relation to your sense of ‘self’, an object that can manifest such a past moment, when the moment simply cannot be resurrected, is valuable.
I also associate memories with music; time and time again, my life and the people, places and moments in it, return to the music that I valued in that version of the past. And even if I don’t listen to, or have not revisited that music, that artist, that album in months, weeks or years, they will always be a part of my life. I envision fast-forwarding to when I’m much older and established than I am now, listening to an album from my twenties and recalling it all, in vigorous detail — the falling and breaking and pain, the victories, the joys, the happy memories spent in and out of Starbucks with my best friend, waltzing down Whyte Avenue on Saturday afternoons in June and listening to rustling leaves and feeling rain soaking into my jacket, and the smell of my neighborhood – cleanliness and dirt and food and lilacs and coffee and snow, my first-ever independent outdoor run, my first class, my first date, my first kiss (God forbid) … just all of it. I can do that with any of my favourite albums.
The one that I most value, the one that means the most to me, of any album, of any moment, musically, timely, emotionally, the album I attach myself to in the most meaningful and fantastically perfect way is Ryan Adams’ “Love is Hell”. Time and time again, I return to that album at the right time in the right place in the right weather and I can remember the first time I heard it; the first time I recalled the line, “memorizing my shoes in a cigarette shop”; the first time I smiled at the sexy and bizarre nature of “eyelashes and some white leather boots” and of course, the day I listened to ‘English Girls Approximately’ and really, really understood its meaning, and could palpably touch the line, “I ain’t never been good enough to ever keep around.” The stark, nightmare-black images evoked by ‘Hotel Chelsea Nights’ haunt me, lost in their world of shadowy winter. When I isten to them, I feel as alone as Ryan probably did in that moment, and I feel engrossed by that same bleak hopelessness. ‘Love is Hell’ is as valuable a sacred document to me as any book, record or movie I have personally ever experienced. It speaks volumes to the dark person inside me, in a way that is both disturbingly erotic, and deeply comforting.
The record is available, though extremely scantly, on vinyl. As I collect vinyls and have slowly collected Ryan Adams’ entire repetoire on LP (and CD… I’m excessive). I always imagined it would be the absolute apex of my collection, should I ever have a chance at owning the scantly available record that defines my life. It would be the material possesion which would most adequately and truly express my search for, and discovery of, myself over the last six years. And to own that record, would remind me of the day of the concert – that day, July 29 2007 – the day when I went to the west coast and came back a changed and affected person…. it would remind me of sitting in the old Southgate Transit centre with my residence friends, ‘Love is Hell’ in my discman, playing the Wonderwall cover for my friend who only lightly scoffed at it (later she revealed, she didn’t like Ryan’s voice)… this was the first time my copy of the album was ever played. It would remind me of walking towards the LRT station in my second year, one of the first times I went downtown shopping, and truly hearing the album for the first time, truly, in my cold misery, understanding its powers and magnitude… it would remind me of walking to the grocery store when it was dark and snowy out and seeing streetlights glow on the smooth bank of hard-packed arctic snow. It would remind me of going to New York for the first time and having pieces fit into a jigsaw board, standing right in front of the Chelsea Hotel.
I have just purchased the record. And the sense of nostalgia, of my university undergrad life, and residence, and heartbreak, and concerts is already flooding back to me. The sense of vindication I feel is simply astounding.
New York Fruit Stand 