Freak Out. Give In.

15 years later, Siamese Dream continues to stand alone as an authentic vision of the idealized dream of rock & roll.

It seems a rarer offering these days for the Billboard music charts to dump a top-ten album in your lap that not only transcends the demands of stylized trends, but, also immortalizes itself through its own ethereal conception and tooth- and-nail execution. And with the ominous presence of homogenous, manufactured rock bands, it is imperative that in our darkest moments of music industry cynicism, we reconnect with the utopian ideals of such albums as Smashing Pumpkin's 1993 album, Siamese Dream, to remind ourselves that there is always a splendid evocation of originality churning and tickling just beneath the underbelly of the music world. 

The 1993 release of Smashing Pumpkin’s, Siamese Dream, spawned a mass phenomena of tongue-biting in the mad world of media critics by defying its own expectations and leaving music journalist frantically scrambling to commit the Chicago band's sound to a specific genre, while desperately trying to quantify its relevance to the thunderous Grunge movement currently defining alternative music. The remarkable thing about Siamese Dream, is that the album, created with pure grit, blood and emotional combustion, still cannot be classified or shoved onto the shelves with its vaguely similar sounding 90’s comrades. This album stands alone as an homage to originality and innocent rebellion; a romantic vision of the possibilities of rock & roll.

With its quixotic lyrics, vertiginous melodies and elegant layers of fervent and swooning atmospheric guitar and drum chants, Siamese Dream, is to be revered, 15 years later, for its authenticity beyond anything else. And yes, the bandmates suffered in sea of profound dysfunction during its recording, but as the heroic Winston Churchill maxim encourages: When you are going through hell, keep going.  And thanks to (or despite of) Billy Corgan's borderline psychotic perfectionism compounded by label executive pressure, the result of that trip to hell and back, captained by the sensibilities of producer Butch Vig, is a musical masterpiece. 

(originally written 5/2008)​

On Monsters (An Excerpt from 'Sunday Morning Space Sermon')

5. Hopeful Astronaut

(MEE sits at an empty bus stop dressed in an astronaut costume. Not a uniform, a costume.  Next to her sits a Star Wars lunchbox with a Post-it note on it.  MEE is holding a giant chocolate cookie.)

 MEE 

A Neuroscientist I am not.

But according to recent scientific studies, it has been proven that romantic love is rooted in the ventral tegmental portion of the brain, the exact area of our brain stimulated by pure chocolate and cocaine.

According to my personal studies, 98.9% of adults, still sometimes believe that there are monsters living beneath our beds.

Beasts and dragons. Boogie monsters.

Skeleton bones beckoning us through the hollow glow of basement doors slammed shut, bolted and barriered by our darkest thoughts. Our saddest tales. Our most paralyzing feelings of alienation.

​2001: a Space Odyssey

In the 1950s, when NASA was seeking their first group of astronauts, they considered all sorts of daredevil types for the dangerous missions, but settled on government trained fighter pilots. Short feather-weights with large bladders and impeccable night vision. Daredevils are brave, sure…but, are they steady?

To this day, Astronauts must go through vigorous psychological testing. They must be able to handle elongated stints of isolation and act in heroic ways at the moment of crisis.

People might say that I’ve got the isolation part down.   In a crisis, however, my skills are limited to running in circles frantically waving my arms in the air and yelling, “Fire! Fire! Fire!”

So, an astronaut, I am not.

Doesn’t it seem that even our on our best days, we leave our living rooms, joys outnumbered by responsibility, hearts bubblewrapped like fine antique teacups? And sure, the heart is safe all cushioned beneath the plastic. But it cannot breathe. The atmosphere is suffocating. The weight is unbearable. Our hearts collapse in on themselves.

Houston, we have a problem. A major malfunction.  

(Eats cookie.)

This morning, however, something shifted. There was a disturbance in the force. I awoke to scorching beams of light sneaking through the slivers of my closet doors. I saw the horizon. I tasted bones. And chocolate.

I surrendered.

I’ve always only ever wanted to surrender.

And then, there was a knock. This may sound strange… but, it was love. Love literally knocked on my bedroom door. I answered. 

Love barreled through me, pushed me down on my pillow and breathed her name into the back of my throat. We wrestled. Wildly. I could taste her promises on my breath. I could feel the weight of love crushing the bones within my chest and bursting the bubbles of the teacup wrap. Pop. Pop. Pop. And with each burst bubble, I heard a louder stronger beat. Knocking. Breathing. Beating.  Love, for the first time in my life, was tangible. Was possible.

(Rubs crumbs from between hands)

My mind felt swept of its shadows. The big, scary monsters, as it turns out, were just cookie crumbs beneath my bed. 

Love left me a note on my closet door scribbled in Sharpie. Yup. Love is left-handed, by the way.   

(Holds up Post-it)

“To: You    

Love: Love

You have hereby been summoned. To a life with me. Defined by nothing but the constant tingle of your ventral tegmental and the eternal beauty of surrender. “

I have been summoned. Like the great fighter pilots of the fifties. But taller.

So, here I go. For the first time in my life, into the great beyond. Finally…finally ready for liftoff. 

(FADE TO BLACK)

(THE END)