“Green is the color of my envy,
it’s the color of fame;
so I’m gonna write it down,
gonna scream it out,
and I’m never gonna be the same again,
As an adolescent girl I would lie on the floor of my room, on my stomach, elbows holding me up, and I would flip pages of countless music magazines. I would tear out the pages carefully, choose them with care, and tack them up on my walls and my closet doors. I would sit for hours, watching those early days of MTV, keeping track of my favorites in spiral bound notebooks. I would turn the music on as loud as my speakers, and my Mother would allow (pretty damn loud, actually) and daydream of a future filled with glitter, dusty stage floors, tour buses, and a re-defined me.
I am not sure I ever saw myself as a rock star. Sure, I loved to sing, but I had no illusions of having a great, nor powerful voice. I have penned a few songs, but I lack the charisma to be any kind of front (wo)man, and I have no real desire to learn to play the drums or keyboard (I took piano as a kid and it frustrated me, I still do want to learn to play guitar though). Yet somehow, in the liner notes and cover art of albums, and the interview pages of any magazine I could lay my hands on, I would lose myself in wishing.
Maybe it was simply loving music the way I do, perhaps it made me crave to be close to its source. Or could it be that there was so much inspiration in music, in my own writing, that I fancied myself the girlfriend/best friend/publicist/fucking seamstress for the band in some future me-incarnation. I don’t know.
For now I think I will keep playing the music loud. I will write about characters whose veins pulse with back beats and lyrical refrains. And, as everything else that touches me so deeply, it will change me.
Superstar :: Tegan and Sara