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POP WITH ROB LEDERER
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y parents never talked to me about sex. Dad never awkwardly told me how to treat a lady, nor did Mom ever pull out any revealing popup books. Instead, they left it to the pervasiveness of television and, more importantly, the pervertedness of my peers to educate me about the birds and the bees. Although I may have missed out on some humourous, Uncle–Danny–trying–to–relate–to–quickly–maturing–DJ moments, the way I came to learn about all things sexual was certainly as memorable and probably just as psychologically damaging. Every summer of my childhood, I spent two weeks at a cottage with my immediate family, two older cousins, and their parents and friends. One year my cousins, along with their French friend Thomas, took it upon themselves to spend the better part of the fortnight holding fairly formal and highly provocative sex–ed classes for their younger—and far more naïve— relative. Unlike elementary school classes that focus on the biological aspects of the male–female relationship, my relatives’ rendition was based far more in current social realities of the sex scene. They were wannabe Anderson Coopers, showing the real issues, not highly glossed over rubbish. I’m not quite sure why they decided that eight years old was the perfect age for a young lad to be educated about the adult world of kink. Maybe it was fuelled by their own adolescent sexual angst or the many bottles of Molson Canadian they stole from the kitchen cabinet. Or, maybe they were just bored by the prospect of a two–week stint of family fun. Regardless of their motivation, my relatives began their mission with a series of lectures, usually beginning sometime after Thomas had charmed the mothers into having one glass of red wine too many and ending whenever I dozed off mid–discussion. After my initial tutelage, they devised a game—Balderdash with
Playlist
a twist. Rather than trying to accurately define the game–given word (which of course was the kind used only twice in the English language, and both times in Canterbury Tales), we scribbled down the most grossly sexual lines and limericks imaginable, and then voted on our favourite. Thomas eventually began drawing pictures, signaling the beginning of the end for our board game brainchild. That summer contained some of the most defining moments in my young life and saw me take a few baby steps towards maturity. It was like Lucy’s first trip through the magic wardrobe, only the one I walked into was filled with leather and lingerie instead of old fur coats. I have no pictures from those two weeks; mine is not a photo family. All of my memories are housed in “Undone—The Sweater Song”. My eldest cousin had just picked up Weezer’s Blue Album, so we played it constantly and always at an ear–bleeding volume. Now every time I hear River Cuomo indignantly describe the destruction of a knit, all the sexual dialogue comes flooding back to me. More importantly, I remember what life was like for those two weeks. For me “The Sweater Song” encapsulates all of the emotions—the fears, the faux–pas, the anxiety—tightly packed into one punk–pop classic. There’s nothing unique about this hit, nothing in the lyrics or the tone that makes it anything special. It’s just a Pavlov’s Dog thing. When I hear the song, memories of that monumental vacation take centre stage in my mind. The simple sound of the stoned guy’s voice in Weezer’s intro triggers memory as intensely, as could any photograph. If a picture can speak a thousand words, a four–megabyte melody can speak volumes about a life. At a time when family photo albums seem to stay dust–covered for years and slide shows are most commonly used for academics, song association—like Ross Geller’s
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impressive archeological collection—is an appealing way to store memories. It’s incredibly personal and inescapably eternal—sort of like getting your girlfriend’s name tattooed across your chest. Pop culture provides endless opportunities to form these kinds of automatic memory prompts. Sometimes they happen by chance, while other times we consciously Post–it note a song to a time of our life. Regardless, they are something we all have. Whether vinyl record or rap, Lifetime movie or Anne Murray Christmas Special, we all have our own unique pop Pensieve to draw from. Songs become unavoidably entangled in real life. The memories I have of Paris will always relate to Rufus Wainwright’s “Foolish Love”. Just as the words “I’ve had the time of my life and I owe it all to you” causes Patrick Swayze to dirty dance across every 30–year– old woman’s mind, Rufus’ matinee idol charm will always come with a café au lait from a bar just around the cobblestoned corner. It’s the only way I have found to re–experience the true intimacy and raw emotion of the past. Some critics condemn pop culture as the clearest and most obvious sign of society’s demise. However, there is more to it than just cheesy lyrics, bubble gum beats, and guitar riffs. With pop we can construct our own grade–five memory capsule, burying it in the back of our minds for a rainy day. As far as I can see, there is a four–year–old–Michael–Jordan’s worth of potential for every song we hear to bookmark a time in our lives. Many people claim they can remember exactly where they were when JFK was assassinated and Ashlee Simpson was caught lip–synching. That’s all well and good, but I can recall in full screen, video–montage format, the moments that have molded my life. Just skip to the Blue Album’s fifth track, and I’ve got two weeks’ worth of blush–worthy memories to prove it.
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