Your Possible Pasts

Reading a book of old albums reviews this evening and stumbling upon one of those rare positive write-ups for Pink Floyd's The Final Cut, it pings my brain in just the right spot at just the appropriate time of year. Because it reminds me of of what time of year this is, and a certain fact that I always wrestle with concerning it.

Christmas, as much as I actually love the holiday, has always been associated with heartbreak.

And being who I am, I always associate holiday heartbreak with certain albums or songs and over all the years the ones that stand out most vividly were the tunes that got me through Christmas of 1987 when I was home for college break. I spent most of those two weeks alone in my room at night with the lights off, with the lonely electric Christmas candle in the window as my only illumination, sitting cross-legged on my bed and playing solitaire for hours as the candle cast long card shadows on the opposite wall. For some reason solitaire never fails to relax me, to center me and empty my mind of anything other than focusing on the next card. It had an amazingly ameliorating effect on the pain I was feeling at the time.

And for some reason, so did The Final Cut.

I also remember playing Talking Heads '77 a lot those nights, as well as the first two Peter Gabriel albums, but I sometimes found them too distracting, or in the case of Peter Gabriel, too emotionally affecting, and often when the first album would finally end with "Here Comes The Flood" my concentration and resistance would break like a levee and the "flood" would hit me hard to where I'd just drop my cards and start crying. As much as I still love all of those albums, it can be just as painful reliving them again, especially around this time of year.

But The Final Cut was different. Something about that album had a way of just soaking up that pain like a sponge, and even had a quiet way of politely waiting for my back to turn so that it could wring it all out somewhere where I couldn't see, like a gentle nurse who cleans up your sick and disposes of it so that you don't have to look at it, smell it, or even think about it anymore. I don't think it had anything to do with the lyrical content of the album itself, because damn if I could tell you what was being said. I've never been one to pay much attention to lyrics in the first place. But there was something... soothing about that record -- tonally, phonically, maybe even the warm organic analog sound of a needle moving quietly across the grooves like a cozy fireplace crackling in the background. It felt like somebody else was there in the dark with me, someone warm and human feeling angry along with me. Feeling sad along with me. Feeling lonely along with me. Every time "Not Now John" finally segues into "Two Suns In The Sunset" I felt as if all the toxins in my body were expurgated for one evening, and I could finally fold up my cards and turn in for the night.

I've actually been considering compiling a CD of songs from that year that remind me of that particular heartbreaking Christmas of '87, some of which would be:

"Not Now John" by Pink Floyd
"Two Suns In The Sunset" - Pink Floyd
"Looking For A Kiss" - New York Dolls
"Win A Few" - Nico
"Burning Flame" - Vitamin Z
"Haunted When The Minutes Drag" - Love And Rockets
"Here Comes The Flood" - Peter Gabriel

Although I suppose that would really be torturing myself, wouldn't it?

Noooo. Part of my New Year's resolution: No more unnecessarily torturing myself. Really, I should know the drill by now. I have no excuse. But I'm a tough cookie. I can take a little necessary torture every now and then.

Have no fear. I promise a considerably more upbeat Christmas comp this year, like every year. I do truly enjoy this season. And I do truly intend to enjoy it.

Truly I do!

Just no more perusing album reviews until next year, old girl.