My brother is blaring his new favorite song on his laptop in his room. When he played it the first time, I stopped and said, "Hey, I have this cd!"
"What?!" he answered. "I just spent 99 cents on it!"
"Why didn't you ask me?"
"I just figured out what it was."
"Dude, if it sounds like angst with keyboards, I have it."
The song is "Tear You Apart" by She Wants Revenge and, right now, the only song that I can think of that gets more play on LA's alternative stations is "King Without a Crown" by the Hassidic reggae guy whose name I can never recall.
It took me a few listens to warm up to She Wants Revenge, mostly because of the Interpolish quality and a quick review of the bio on the website wherein the band notes that they were *always* into the 80s bands. Yeah, the emo dorks who made fun of me for listening to Soft Cell back in 1996 are probably saying that as well right about now, I thought. But I can admit when I'm wrong and I was wrong with She Wants Revenge. Cynicism momentarily plugged my ears and I failed to realize that "Tear You Apart" is a fucking awesome song. Listen to it once and focus on the rhythm, all steady and clublike. Listen to it again and tune into the urgency of the melody. Listen to it a third time and focus on the lyrics. This guy's legs might crumble beneath him if he doesn't get you back to his place by the end of the night.
This song is like those moments when your night at the club has gone horribly awry and you really wished that you had stayed at home, playing with your copy of New Order's "Perfect Kiss." It is the story of a club night so bad that all you can do is laugh about it afterward.
I hear this song and flashback to December of 1997. It was a few days before my 21st birthday and my friends and I snuck into this party at the Opium Den. There was an open bar and we took full advantage of that fact. While at the party, we ran into another friend, upon whom I had bestowed an enormous crush, a fact that I announced in Midori Sour-slur-like fashion while we danced to Animotion. My friend laughed.
"That is so incestuous," he said.
I was not upset by his comment, but mortified that I actually said that I had a crush on him. So I turned around and ran off the dancefloor, right into a barstool. As the barstool fell from under me and I reached to grap the end of a table about two arms-length away, the snaps on my Mandarin dress popped and my completely utilitarian white bra-covered breast was now exposed to the entire club.
Before I could even think, my wonderful pal, Tony, had the sense to run over and shove a jacket over me until I could get into the bathroom and fix myself. We then decided that, before the rest of the night could get worse, we should leave and head towards Perversion.
Still drunk, I stumbled around the goth room at Perversion chatting with an acquaitance of mine who was fairly cute but shorter than me. I don't even know what I said but it must have been something pathetic because the guy, who I could have sworn was not into the ladies, just grabbed me and planted the sloppiest pity kiss ever on my lips.
"Tear You Apart" should have been the soundtrack for that night.