First Love, Flaming Lips, Vinyl Rips, and an Origin Story
Ah, memories.
The first time I ever fell in love was at a Flaming Lips show in Boston when I was a fuzzy 17 years of age I believe. Layla. Her parents named her after the Clapton track. Seemed like most of her upbringing was a montage of Clapton songs. Like, they will come on at various benchmarks in her life.
She seemed to be the daughter of the needle to the record. The one unprotected night they had grinding into each other. As if the grizzly ol’ Brit were trying to will her into existence using vinyl for the spell. It worked.
I was a big fan of vinyl rips at the time, hell, I still am. Keep a lot on my iPod. My pal and I pulled up to the Pavilion parking lot for the Lips while cranking a vinyl rip of the Chi-Lites “Stoned Out of My Mind” playing out of my classic white ipod.
Horn hits crackling away with the needle sound, the selection was meant to lighten us up before Deerhoof’s fire filled opening set. We had no idea what to expect from them. I thought about bringing my copy of Friend Opportunity on vinyl. If I couldn’t get it signed, perhaps it would be useful as a shield from crowd slung projectiles.
Little did I know that Deerhoof, set in progress, were my playful soundtrack for the walk that found a since unforgotten face waiting.
She was sitting in my seat, with blonde dreadlocks too young to be host to insect life, her friend one seat over. Moving over, they sat next to me, with the Lips setting up on stage. I spent the time running tests on myself to see if I was dreaming, muttering and pinching my arm flab, expecting to wake up in Ms. Freedman’s math class with drool on my face.
Settling in to this too-good-to-be true situation, my friend Benjamin (now long since lost to corporate life) and I asked to share a joint with her and her partner in crime.
She smiled and drew a rolling paper out of her cleavage.
Emil & Friends – Prescriptions
Then things became washed out, as pot did to the best and worst of teenage years, sadly and thankfully. I felt something between her and I, but I was uncertain. That certainty is found instead in reflection years later in writings like this.
Swaying to the beat, I started to inch closer. Wayne blew up my spot though, because he did his “everyone turn to the person next to you and tell them you love them” thing, in the middle of “Do You Realize.” That was awkward.
If you weren’t my childhood hero Wayne, I would dare say you are a cockblocker deluxe.
Washing away all my insecurities, she clutched my hand during the pensive buildup of the pre chorus, looked at me, and said, “I turned 16 today, and I have never been more happy in my life,” the notorious floating balloons were out of focus in the crowd behind her, fans jumping at the chance to volley.
The scene framed this next statement as I will always remember. “My name,” she mouthed over the rising roar “is Layla” (“…beautiful face…” belted Wayne behind her, mid song.)
I raised my eyebrows, she laughed. I had a muscle twitch that was stabilizing in my right thumb, ever get those? Weird right? Benjamin sneezed, making Layla’s friend uncomfortable and making teenage wingman a harder game than before. Enough difficulties as is. Stoned out, staring to my left at Ben, mid thought, all these things, everything went quiet, and Layla whispered into my right ear, ” I. am. so. stoned.”
Pop. A ballon ate shit and fizzled out among the thousand happy heads of our new age hippy convention. (FINALLY the punks are taking acid!)
Time shifted, and all of a sudden Droz was not on stage and I was confused. As confused as the bland Boston crowd was that Deerhoof was the opening act. As for the concert, it was over. We were all people again. A DJ quickly started up turntables at the corner of the stage, giving us a low volume exit tune, Common’s “The Light” as an interesting change of pace from the evening’s pysch out sounds.
Everyone scuttled off to the homework huts via the worried mothers in station wagons hovering by the gates. Shoulder to shoulder walking towards the outside night, I defended Deerhoof with a drawn sword, ready to insult the music taste of any trashtalker. Light years beyond them, lyrics like “beep beep beep BEEP BEEP” touched my soul, but tested their patience. I bought a copy of At War with The Mystics on vinyl as we passed the Merch booth, in a desperate attempt to remember the evening.
Then it happened. Outside the gates, the moon’s cold breath hit us, and cars started to honk, and I found Layla standing right in front of me, with her friends ahead of her, and mine behind me, tearing us away from the euphoric ant farm that is musical puppy love. ” I have to go” she said.
I felt a kick in my stomach and a scratch in my throat, which I concealed with the heavily worn smile of the evening, which had lost none of its potency and comfort, as she returned it. I looked around, and Wayne was nowhere to be found to sing us together when we needed it. Just a freight train, clammering away, seeming to eavesdrop.
“I know,” I mouthed.
That was the last time I saw her. Wayne is the only one who can unite us again. And he does, whenever shuffle mode decides to let him.
A few minutes later I was in my friends car, our chariot, borrowed so argumentatively from his sainted, but inquisitive, mother. “Howd ja like it” he asked, with a tone like his mother would use on him concerning his whereabouts. “You know,” I said, sliding on my sunglasses and scruffing up my hair in the visor mirror, “I think I need to write songs…”.
“Sure man, like rap?”
—Emil Hewitt
Emil & Friends’ debut album, Lo & Behold in stores October 11th on Cantora Records. (Additional Production from Passion Pit’s Ayad, Jake Aron and Mike MacAllister.) Mastered by Greg Calbi at Sterling Sound.
