When you get past the cliches of expression, I suppose you begin walking abandoned roads in a nowhere land. I wonder how novelists do it; finding in language an expression that is fresh, new and yet striking at the heart of its own truth. I’m not equiped with examples this early in the morning, and I don’t think I’ll be pottering around my books to look for good ones; it’s just an idle thought.
Rock music. 90’s grunge, STP and glorious clamour of guitars accompanying Scott Weiland’s voice. Back when I was holed up in my hostel studying for exams, Core would be on constant repeat, load and drowning out everything else on my first RM 75.00 radio-cassette player. It was my first radio, this rectangular, boxy thing. My father bought it for us when I was about 12 years old. It’s still around, these days droning out the monotony of news from the BBC. It had black dials and contraptions modulating output.
There was a graph-like section with three grooves and slides. I learned through experimentation that one modulated the bass, the other the treble, and the third was for volume output. It had squigly lines above each groove against a repetitive row of horizontal and vertical white lines, making the whole affair look like a pastiche of mass market kitsch and technological hype.
But the music was pure, that’s what I’ve always felt about grunge; raw, pure, and in contradiction to the culture that grew around it — mass market frenzy by barely clued-in marketing types leeching on a growing movement. It was as if fickle-minded fashion types finally found a suitable candidate through which they could express their abhorence for the long-haired, tight-jeaned rebellion of the 70’s and 80’s.
When I think of ‘grunge fashion’ nowadays, the image I have is of a callous, indifferent model strutting down the… what’s it called? gangplank?… the background receding further and further. Her capped, blond hair, dead eyes, the wealth of blond on grey and black. And a monstrosity of bland beige and the ubiquitous checkered shirt thrown over for effect. Checkered, boxy squares of alternating colour, a fashion statement. How I hate checkered, boxy-squared shirts these days.
The music was pure, and it felt that everything else wasn’t. Wicked garden, a seduction, a threat of violence, a declaration of intent: can you see like a child can you see what i want i want to run through your wicked garden cause that’s the place to find you can you see without lies can you speak without lies i wanna drink from the naked fountain. It’s primal, lah. Then Pearl Jam’s Vs joined the playlist and the rest is just murky history. Raw: animal, go. i’d rather be with an animal. Hah!
I’m trying to figure out the right image for it all. I’m thinking “lionized”, “caricature”, “mohawk” and psychedelic colours.
