My First Fandom
Aug. 8th, 2004 03:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trishkitNow I'm avoiding work in a slightly more constructive manner:
My First Fandom (Part 1)
1982, Maple Leaf Gardens, Toronto
Thundering explosions and seizure-inducing lights filled the arena. It was louder than anything I had ever experienced, even the annual fireworks display. I was enveloped by a suffocating wall of noise that separated me from my stepfather and my sister, even though they were right beside me. The noise and lights somehow managed to increase in intensity. I struggled to focus on the stage far below. KISS had started to play.
When we entered the sixth grade the year before, my twin, Cat Pee, and I were starting to expand our musical horizons. Our introduction to the Beatles by a fellow summer camper had made us realize that there was a little bit more to life than the “Walt Disney Movie Favourites” album and Peter, Paul and Mary. We used to spend hours in our playroom singing along to The Ballad of Davy Crockett, but we were ready for something new.
It was the right place and right time for change. Our stepfather, George, had entered our lives a year or so previously. I remember the first time we met him. Perched uncomfortably on the black vinyl couch in our living room, resplendent in a plaid shirt, leather jacket and corduroy driving cap, he was a gentle-looking man with long hair and a beard. I can only imagine what it must have been like for a mellow 70’s dude to be confronted with two small, shaggy-haired twins who responded to most conversational gambits with giggles and then dove into our books as soon as Mom decided we had spent enough time being sociable. George is an extremely quiet guy, and my memory of our first year together is filled with him mooing like a cow and reciting Steve Martin and George Carlin bits in a valiant effort to make conversation.
When we moved in with George, a lot of things suddenly made sense. Previously, Mom mostly listened to Gordon Lightfoot, John Denver and the Kingston Trio. She then started to play music by artists like Fleetwood Mac and Meatloaf (the nightmares caused by the Bat out of Hell album cover require more space than I have at my disposal to recount). And David Bowie. Oh David, David, David. My mother still wants to marry you. Call her.
The first thing a visitor would notice upon entering our basement (after recovering from the visual assault of the orange shag rug) was the album collection. Carefully ordered in dozens of red milk crates, the records took up most of the floor. George was really into music. Cat Pee and I were really into reading, but we found common ground when we discovered that most album covers were worthy of closer examination. We spent hours poring over his collection. George would point out the good ones and attempted to explain the finer points of the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and Ship Too Late To Save A Drowning Witch covers. Our tiny little minds weren’t quite ready for most of the concepts explored by the album cover artists, but we finally had something to talk about.
Fast forward to 1981. We were 11, we were (slightly) more sophisticated and we were ready for something new. George had just the thing: KISS. He spun “Shout it out Loud” on his stereo that had speakers the size of Stonehenge and we were hooked.
I suppose that Cat Pee and I, with our Famous Five books and Barbie dolls, weren’t your typical KISS fans. We weren’t rockers. We weren’t disaffected. It didn’t shock our parents. We just really liked the music. Plus, it was a lot easier to draw the KISS dudes than real people.
I can see now how KISS would appeal to children in addition to surly teenagers and headbangers. They were cartoons who created catchy, anthemic tunes. My favourite was Peter Criss, the drummer, mostly because he was a cat. My sister, always more daring, selected Paul Stanley as the object of her affections. We did it all, the magazines, the albums, the posters, the movies. We’d spend hours listening to the music and drawing pictures and writing fan mail that we were too shy to send.
Cat Pee and I were all alone in our KISS love among our contemporaries. Most of the other kids were listening to the J. Geils Band, Asia and Styx (die, Mr. Roboto, die). There were some older kids who walked around wearing KISS Army patches, but they were a whole two years older and were too awe-inspiring to approach. They also seemed to spend most recesses sneaking smokes behind the portables while we were seriously into skipping doubledutch, so it was just never meant to be. We mostly just talked KISS with George.
So, when George heard that KISS was coming to Maple Leaf Gardens in nearby Toronto, he thought it would be the perfect opportunity to take us to our first concert (dear sweet, brave soul). It was quite the expedition. We piled into George’s 1965 Lincoln Continental and went to the Big Smoke. We dropped off our stuff at our downtown T.O.-dwelling aunt’s, rode the subway (!), navigated through the bewildering crowds to our seats in the greys high above the stage.
There we were. At an actual concert. About to see our heroes. And I just wanted to go home.
To be continued...
It's been a while since I've written anything just for fun (and it was a lot of fun). I hope that it is readable.
All right. I'm now going to get some real work accomplished, I swear.
My First Fandom (Part 1)
1982, Maple Leaf Gardens, Toronto
Thundering explosions and seizure-inducing lights filled the arena. It was louder than anything I had ever experienced, even the annual fireworks display. I was enveloped by a suffocating wall of noise that separated me from my stepfather and my sister, even though they were right beside me. The noise and lights somehow managed to increase in intensity. I struggled to focus on the stage far below. KISS had started to play.
When we entered the sixth grade the year before, my twin, Cat Pee, and I were starting to expand our musical horizons. Our introduction to the Beatles by a fellow summer camper had made us realize that there was a little bit more to life than the “Walt Disney Movie Favourites” album and Peter, Paul and Mary. We used to spend hours in our playroom singing along to The Ballad of Davy Crockett, but we were ready for something new.
It was the right place and right time for change. Our stepfather, George, had entered our lives a year or so previously. I remember the first time we met him. Perched uncomfortably on the black vinyl couch in our living room, resplendent in a plaid shirt, leather jacket and corduroy driving cap, he was a gentle-looking man with long hair and a beard. I can only imagine what it must have been like for a mellow 70’s dude to be confronted with two small, shaggy-haired twins who responded to most conversational gambits with giggles and then dove into our books as soon as Mom decided we had spent enough time being sociable. George is an extremely quiet guy, and my memory of our first year together is filled with him mooing like a cow and reciting Steve Martin and George Carlin bits in a valiant effort to make conversation.
When we moved in with George, a lot of things suddenly made sense. Previously, Mom mostly listened to Gordon Lightfoot, John Denver and the Kingston Trio. She then started to play music by artists like Fleetwood Mac and Meatloaf (the nightmares caused by the Bat out of Hell album cover require more space than I have at my disposal to recount). And David Bowie. Oh David, David, David. My mother still wants to marry you. Call her.
The first thing a visitor would notice upon entering our basement (after recovering from the visual assault of the orange shag rug) was the album collection. Carefully ordered in dozens of red milk crates, the records took up most of the floor. George was really into music. Cat Pee and I were really into reading, but we found common ground when we discovered that most album covers were worthy of closer examination. We spent hours poring over his collection. George would point out the good ones and attempted to explain the finer points of the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and Ship Too Late To Save A Drowning Witch covers. Our tiny little minds weren’t quite ready for most of the concepts explored by the album cover artists, but we finally had something to talk about.
Fast forward to 1981. We were 11, we were (slightly) more sophisticated and we were ready for something new. George had just the thing: KISS. He spun “Shout it out Loud” on his stereo that had speakers the size of Stonehenge and we were hooked.
I suppose that Cat Pee and I, with our Famous Five books and Barbie dolls, weren’t your typical KISS fans. We weren’t rockers. We weren’t disaffected. It didn’t shock our parents. We just really liked the music. Plus, it was a lot easier to draw the KISS dudes than real people.
I can see now how KISS would appeal to children in addition to surly teenagers and headbangers. They were cartoons who created catchy, anthemic tunes. My favourite was Peter Criss, the drummer, mostly because he was a cat. My sister, always more daring, selected Paul Stanley as the object of her affections. We did it all, the magazines, the albums, the posters, the movies. We’d spend hours listening to the music and drawing pictures and writing fan mail that we were too shy to send.
Cat Pee and I were all alone in our KISS love among our contemporaries. Most of the other kids were listening to the J. Geils Band, Asia and Styx (die, Mr. Roboto, die). There were some older kids who walked around wearing KISS Army patches, but they were a whole two years older and were too awe-inspiring to approach. They also seemed to spend most recesses sneaking smokes behind the portables while we were seriously into skipping doubledutch, so it was just never meant to be. We mostly just talked KISS with George.
So, when George heard that KISS was coming to Maple Leaf Gardens in nearby Toronto, he thought it would be the perfect opportunity to take us to our first concert (dear sweet, brave soul). It was quite the expedition. We piled into George’s 1965 Lincoln Continental and went to the Big Smoke. We dropped off our stuff at our downtown T.O.-dwelling aunt’s, rode the subway (!), navigated through the bewildering crowds to our seats in the greys high above the stage.
There we were. At an actual concert. About to see our heroes. And I just wanted to go home.
To be continued...
It's been a while since I've written anything just for fun (and it was a lot of fun). I hope that it is readable.
All right. I'm now going to get some real work accomplished, I swear.
