Nabil’s Feels

My 100 Best Shows of All Time

When I published my 99th Substack post a couple of weeks ago, I mentioned the pressure I felt to do something big for number 100. I joked about making a list of my 100 best shows, and once I typed it, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What started as a short list grew quickly, and soon that list turned into mini stories—mini memories—and I realized how…

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2 months ago · 7 likes · 4 comments · Nabil Ayers

We started where we had to: Nabil was at the OK Hotel the night Nirvana played “Smells Like Teen Spirit” for the first time. He was 19, had only ended up there because he’d been turned away from a Cameron Crowe casting call for Singles. He knew something had happened. He just didn’t know yet what.

From there, the conversation wound through the Seattle scene we both lived — the Crocodile, Sonic Boom, the Three Imaginary Girls-era bands — and out to the bigger stages: Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour as a Broadway production that the audience had memorized, arena rock roots neither of us is ashamed of, the Bryan Adams/Survivor show that was, weirdly, very loud and very good.

His pick for most GenX song of all time? “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” of course.

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Back in 2001 I had a big, bad, and short-lived crush on a local rockstar. He briefly made my knees all wobbly until I learned he was a local Lothario, and thanks to my low-key demisexual proclivities, I extricated myself unscathed. Years later, a frightening number of women would come out with sexual assault allegations against him.

But this was 23 years ago — before Seattle collectively realized what a creep this guy was — and he appeared, if not eager, at least interested enough in me to invite me to his show at the Crocodile Cafe. He was playing on a Tuesday night, and encouraged me to come out on a work night to watch him play.

“I’ll put you on the guest list,” he offered.

How could I say no? I was giddy from a misguided crush; of course I’d be there. I headed down Second Avenue, arrived at the club, told the doorman my name, and said I was on the guest list.

“That’ll be $15,” he said.

“But… I’m on the list?” I asked.

“Everyone pays tonight,” he replied.

Huh. My crush was Seattle-famous and was playing with another popular indie northwest band that night, the Minus Five. They were well-respected, but not crowd-pleasers in an “everyone pays on a Tuesday night” sort of way.

I shrugged and paid. I liked this guy and figured it was an oversight on his part. But then as I entered the club, I stopped dead in my tracks. The venue was packed. Capacity was around 500 people and I think maybe I was number 498, or possibly 501 (don’t tell the fire marshal). Puzzled, I scanned the room for clues as to why the Croc was at capacity, and also for a place to sit. I didn’t find the former, but managed to score a bar stool off to the side of the back room.

I didn’t yet know that the next month, I’d meet Imaginary Liz. In June the following year, we’d launch our music website, Three Imaginary Girls, and the Croc would come to feel like a second home. I’d go on to spend countless nights at the venue, sometimes by myself. I knew I’d always find a friend there, or make new ones. But on this night, on October 23, 2001, my Imaginary life was still eight months away, and sitting in a club alone felt a bit awkward.

I sipped my drink, watched the crowd, and awaited the show.

That’s me in the corner.

Consider this the hint of the century.

I’m choosing my confessions.

After awhile my ears perked up as I overheard the couple next to me at the bar. They kept saying “secret show.” Piqued, I asked them what they meant.

“You know who’s playing here tonight, don’t you?” the man closer to me asked, clearly excited both about the show, and about imparting his knowledge.

“Yeah, the Minus Five,” I answered.

“They’re the openers,” he said.

“The headliner is…” he paused dramatically, “R.E.M!!!”

My brain couldn’t quite process his words. “Wait, what??!” I asked in disbelief. I knew R.E.M. guitarist Peter Buck lived in Seattle and that he and his then-wife owned the Crocodile. But R.E.M. is an Athens, Georgia-based band. How could they be having a secret show here in Seatt…

WAIT.

Oh. My. God.

My brain remembered: R.E.M. had played a stadium show at Key Arena the night before. The band was in town. My heart raced a bit faster. Could this be true, I wondered? Was I really about to see one of my all-time favorite bands at an intimate rock venue??

I’d read stories about people being in the right place at the right time for the magical musical experience of a lifetime.

Perhaps tonight I was that person?

I came to R.E.M. a bit late, with their fourth album, 1985’s Life’s Rich Pageant. I credit this record with setting me on the path of musical righteousness, for taking me beyond the world of the stale AOR radio stations of my youth and opening me up to a world of musical possibilities, weirdness, and wonder. It’s still a desert-island disc for me, and I’m certain always will be.

If I’d managed to catch the band on the Life’s Rich Pageant tour, I’m sure the venue would’ve been smallish. But I didn’t. Then the next release was Document, which spawned the massive hit “The One I Love” and took R.E.M. from a college radio station mainstay to full-on mainstream radio stardom. I was happy for them — the song and the record are both extraordinary, as were their subsequent releases — but it meant I’d never have the chance to see them perform up-close and personal.

Except.

Except this strange, short-lived crush happened.

Except he happened to be in the opening band, and happened to want me there, not even knowing how much I happened to adore R.E.M.

Sometimes, magic happens.

I leapt out of my seat and into the band room. I wanted to stake my spot next to the stage, in case the rumors were true and I was about to see my longstanding musical crush in the performance of a lifetime.

They say one can’t recall the pain of childbirth and “they” are correct. One can only intellectually remember that it’s excruciating. But the pain itself is abstract; you can’t recall the sensation of pain into one’s body. Similarly, I can’t recall the elation I felt at this show as a muscle memory. I can only share that it was a nearly indescribable joy; even I, the writer who loves modifiers, lack words to describe the rush of it all.

I grew up feeling I was frequently just-too-late for things, arriving tardy so I didn’t experience joys till too late, or at least past the cultural moment I’d wanted to witness. This feeling was (and remains) especially true for music. I was a late adopter to many bands and even whole genres of my youth. R.E.M. wasn’t the only band I’d missed the chance to see in a small venue. Countless others I either never got to see, or I saw them from a stadium seat, because I’d missed the chance to see them when they were new and scrappy.

So when Michael Stipe took that stage from mere feet away — in my favorite rock show venue of all time — it was like time undone, a wrong, righted. I was transported back in time to a frenzied teenager, screaming with unabandoned joy at the power of music to enervate and delight.

I wish I had photos and videos to share with you. The beauty and tragedy of shows from 2001 is that you couldn’t easily document them. I had a flip phone and no camera. That meant my entire body and mind were present in the moment, attention undivided, which is beautiful. I wish I had photos and videos now, but they would’ve distracted me from the experience.

22.5 years later, here’s what lingers about the show…

• My crush played with R.E.M. The original four band members — frontman Michael Stipe, guitarist Peter Buck, bassist Mike Mills, and drummer Bill Berry — played with supporting musicians, including my rockstar crush. I didn’t realize till then that he was a touring musician for R.E.M. No wonder he wanted me at the show! I’m sure he had a bevvy of us there to watch him — but I’m pretty sure I was the most front and center of the bunch, and I defended my spot the entire night.

• My rockstar crush was the least of the special guests onstage. Eddie Vedder — yes, of Pearl Jam! — surprised us and sang with R.E.M. on multiple songs. A highlight was his duet on “Begin the Begin” from Life’s Rich Pageant; that song’s got a lot of lyrics and he nailed every one. Watching Stipe and local legend Vedder at spitting distance as they relished singing to such an elated crowd? A serious musical dream come true for me.

• They played great covers. This included Pearl Jam’s “Betterman” (with Stipe amusingly messing up some of the lyrics) and “Long Road,” as well as a final encore of Patti Smith’s “People Have the Power,” again sung with Vedder.

• The original band got back to basics. At one point, all the musical guest stars left the stage, leaving just the four original band members. I wish I could tell you which songs they performed, but nearly 25 years later and I can’t recall. I do remember the transformation that occurred. Energy emanated from the stage as those four who’d played countless club shows in their early days, before they knew what a lasting impact they’d make to music and to countless lives, returned to their roots and simply rocked out with all of us for the joy of it. It was perfection.

• I’m pretty sure Michael Stipe sweat on me. By then, I was drenched in my own, but I’m pretty sure a few of his molecules touched my skin because I was just that close.

I figured this show had disappeared into the annals of time, but no. The internet is miraculous. One quick search and I found the entire show on YouTube. Sadly, it’s just a still photo for the entire one hour, 47 minute, 22 second of video.

But still. It was rare. And I was there. Here’s auditory proof it all happened…

You can also find the full setlist over at setlist.fm.

It was delightful to find these artifacts after all these years, to remind me of how incredible that night was.

That was me, in the corner. And that was them, in the spotlight.

Oh no, have I said too much?

I haven’t said enough.

Greetings!

I’m Dana DuBois, a GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest with a whole lot of little words to share. I’m a founder and editor of three publications: Pink Hair & Pronouns, Three Imaginary Girls, and genXy. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and pop culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.

If this story resonated with you, why not buy me a coffee?
(Make mine an iced oat milk decaf mocha, please and thank you.)

We kicked things off with his controversial hill to die on: Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime” is actually an excellent Christmas song.

And honestly? He made the case.

Stewart broke it down: the synth-pop production, the monophonic analog weirdness, the cheerfully stoned energy of 1979 Paul messing with every button in his studio, and the utter lack of irony. We even learned the “creepy children’s choir” in the bridge is just Paul overdubbed and pitch-shifted — which somehow made it better (and yes, also a little weirder).

From there, we dove straight into:

🎶 Last Christmas — Wham!

Stewart: Thumbs up.
Dana: Enthusiastically yes — it’s karaoke canon.
Lawrence: Respectful appreciation.
We talked about the deceptively tricky melodic structure, Stuart’s commitment to the annual Whamageddon survival game, and the time Dana tried to karaoke it without knowing any of the verses. Spoiler: disaster.

🎶 “Happy Xmas (War Is Over)” — John & Yoko

Stuart does not like it.
Not because of the message — but because John Lennon wrote it in what Stuart believes was about 30 minutes. We learned:

Lennon’s solo catalog is… spotty. Yoko’s catalog is wildly underrated.

And Lawrence didn’t know the background vocals were literally singing “war is over.”
The things you learn at 55.

🎶 “All I Want for Christmas Is You” — Mariah Carey

The great divide.
Lawrence: loves it.
Stuart: respects the craft.
Dana: hates it.

We talked about the Phil Spector throwback structure, Mariah’s whistle register, and how Percy Jackson is now using it as a creature-banishing weapon. (Mariah, please don’t sue.)

🎶 “Christmas Wrapping” — The Waitresses

Dana’s all-time number one.
Stewart told us about his friendship with songwriter Chris Butler — and how he donates $500 in the first listener’s name each year when someone hears the song “out in the wild.” Dana melted.

🎶 “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” — Band Aid

A shared, conflicted yes.
Dana and Stewart both admit the truth: it’s a song you absolutely love while also knowing, line by line, it’s a colonialist fever dream (“Thank God it’s them instead of you” is… a choice). Stewart talked about how impressive the original Band Aid moment was, how much money it raised, and how it genuinely moved people at the time. Lawrence acknowledged the nostalgia factor while fully dragging the lyrical worldview.

Net take: problematic as hell, but historically undeniable — and still, somehow, a Christmas staple.

🎶 “Fairytale of New York” — The Pogues & Kirsty MacColl

Immediate, unanimous, full-body YES.

All three of us broke into collective GenX reverence for this one. Stewart gushed about Kirsty MacColl’s voice and phrasing, Dana swooned over the whole messy, gorgeous narrative, and Lawrence treated it like canon. It’s gritty, it’s mournful, it’s chaotic, it’s perfect — the anti–“Jingle Bells” anthem that somehow becomes more essential every year.

🎶 And yes — Wind Beneath My Wings

Not a Christmas song, but The Daily Whatever Show is nothing without side tangents. Today’s musical conversation devolved into a full-on breakdown of why the lyrics are objectively narcissistic, why Bette Midler is a goddess, and how Dana once tried to karaoke the entire thing. (Regrets.)

—

It was chaotic, nerdy, joyful, mildly unhinged, and exactly the palate cleanser we needed after a week of relentless political doom.

A perfect December episode — and yes, we are building a community Christmas playlist now.

Stay tuned.

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I live in the kind of neighborhood where the most popular local business is a giant two-story indie bookstore. Last December, I was in there buying books and notebooks and colored pencils and other gifts for my wife and the few other people I shop for. (And myself. I mean, I’m in a bookstore, I’m gonna buy books.)

I hadn’t been paying attention to the holiday music they were playing as I shopped, because it was the same things every other store plays from the day after Thanksgiving on. Let’s assume it was Mariah. When that faded out, a vintage synthesizer pinged out single notes that landed like raindrops until they coalesced into a sprightly little melody underpinned by sleigh bells. And then one of my favorite voices in the history of pop music cheerfully sang “The mood is right…”

And then the song stopped dead. Like, there should have been the sound of a needle being ripped across the vinyl. And three long seconds later, Stevie Wonder’s 1967 single “What Christmas Means To Me” started playing. “Well, thank god for that,” someone muttered a few feet away from me in the Art, Design, and Photography section. For a brief moment, I wanted to show him the true meaning of Christmas via a dope slap up the back of his knitted cap.

Because Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime” is one of the all-time great holiday songs, and I truly feel that not only do its haters miss its point, but that the Christmas season isn’t really complete without hearing it.

The song

For all its holiday cheer, Paul McCartney wasn’t in a particularly festive mood when he started recording “Wonderful Christmastime.” In fact, it was the middle of July 1979, and he was alone in his self-built DIY studio at High Park, his farm near Campbeltown, Scotland. He had been stung by poor reviews of the latest Wings album, Back To The Egg, and decided to get stuck into another project right away. Influenced by Tubeway Army’s synth-driven post-punk hit “Are Friends Electric?,” he pulled out and set up all of the various synthesizers he’d collected over the last few years and decided to write and record a few songs relying exclusively on them. (The results of these sessions came out in 1980 as the solo album McCartney II.)

The thing was, unusually for Scotland even in July, it was unbearably hot. Sweating in his un-air-conditioned studio in a former barn, he started giggling over the idea of recording a Christmas song in this decidedly non-wintry weather. Because this was Paul McCartney in 1979, there is every chance he was stoned off his tits at the time, but honestly, the idea was sound. Pop Christmas singles, recorded by everyone from Elton John through cross-generational duet partners David Bowie and Bing Crosby to his ex-bandmate John Lennon, were entirely common in that decade. (Always the iconoclast, George Harrison had recorded a celebratory single for New Year’s Day, 1974’s “Ding Dong, Ding Dong.” It’s not great.)

Building the track from a bed of sleigh bells and a bass synth track that I have previously described in print as “sounding like a giant robot farting underwater,” McCartney threw on every seasonal element he could think of before turning his mind to the lyrics. He later told an interviewer, “To me, Christmas is mainly all the parties, and the good humor everyone gets into suddenly for those few days a year. So the song’s basically about ‘The mood is right, the spirit’s up, we’re here tonight, and that’s enough.’ It’s very simple.”

McCartney came about that view of the holidays honestly: according to Mark Lewisohn’s fascinatingly exhaustive multi-volume Beatles biography, even after the Beatles were signed to Parlophone Records and had a single out, McCartney returned to his family home in Liverpool to be a bartender at the extended McCartney clan’s annual holiday bash. In addition to the joys of seeing, chatting with, and having a knees-up at the family piano with his beloved relatives, he’d also regularly make up to 20 pounds in tips while behind the bar, which in today’s dollars is close to five hundred bucks.

The initial reaction

Unfortunately, by that point, McCartney had long since become a favorite target of Britain’s generally obnoxious pop press, and “Wonderful Christmastime” got even worse reviews than Back To The Egg had, roundly slagged off as a cutesy novelty of little substance. Although it did okay on the British charts, peaking at no. 6 just after Christmas, it missed America’s Billboard chart entirely, reportedly endangering the job of Columbia Records president Walter Yetnikoff, who had spent millions to sign McCartney when his American deal with Capitol Records had ended the year before only to see his first album for the label and then his holiday single stiff.

I can believe that “Wonderful Christmastime” didn’t chart in the states until 1979, because honestly, I don’t think I heard the song until maybe Christmas 1981. (Christmas 1980, only weeks after the murder of John Lennon, radio programmers probably thought it was not in keeping with the mood of the season.) And for that first couple of years, I only heard it once or twice a year on the radio. It wasn’t until my first Christmas with MTV, in December 1983, that I found out a video had been produced for the song, with Paul and the final Wings lineup (Linda McCartney on keyboards and vocals, Denny Laine and Laurence Juber on guitars and Steve Holley on drums) performing the song as they stroll around a pub and a huge outdoor bonfire while computer animations that now look incredibly dated swirl around them.

Through the rest of the mid-’80s, I heard the song more regularly during the holidays, and the (mostly good-humored) snark toward the song increased as well. A lot of my friends in high school, who knew me primarily as the kid whose primary musical obsessions were with college radio and the import bins at the weird-smelling record stores near the Texas Tech campus were confused by my love of the song, not realizing how important The Beatles and McCartney’s Wings albums had been to my preteen musical development.

Why I love this song

Or, for that matter, with how important the song’s subject matter, as explained by McCartney in that quote and shown off in the playfully simple lyrics, has always been to me. As a lifelong agnostic, Christmas has never been religiously important to me or my family. Thanksgiving, a holiday without religious or nationalistic overtones, has always been the more personally important holiday for me. But like McCartney, I think of Christmas as a time of celebration and warmth — revelry, as it was called in medieval and renaissance times. A period of fun, food, fellowship (and often a bit of rebellion against whoever happened to be in charge either politically or spiritually) that fortifies us before the long hard slog through the rest of winter.

I love “Wonderful Christmastime” for its unabashed and complete uncoolness. I love the way it takes post-punk synthesizers — instruments that I love and that generally I do associate with cool (sometimes even austere and forbidding) music and aesthetics — and unashamedly makes them sound goofily celebratory. I love that the lyrics call out children’s choirs, which I normally find cringe-inducing, as worthy of admiration. Even though I don’t drink, I love that it’s about toasting friends and family. I love “Wonderful Christmastime” because, again, the synth bass sounds like a giant robot farting underwater.

I love “Wonderful Christmastime” because it’s unapologetically fun. And not nearly enough in our lives is fun.

*The bridge still sucks, though.

Michael Eugene Archer — the Richmond, Virginia preacher’s son who the world knew as D’Angelo — died on the morning of October 14, 2025 at the age of 51, following a private battle with pancreatic cancer.

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wrote a brilliant review, which is a perfect companion piece to my live video:

The TL;DR way we’ve both responded to this record?

Joy is important.

Taylor’s has been hard-won, and we’re thrilled for her.

She can tell us more about Travis’ “magic wand” anytime.

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I will meet you later in somebody’s office

I was sitting outside at a cafe yesterday, having lunch with one of my favorite coworkers, when I got a text from my lifelong best friend, .

I gasped.

My coworker asked what was wrong and I showed her my phone…

She just stared at me blankly.

“Oh shit,” I said, quoting Lawrence, though for an entirely different reason. “You have no idea who she is, do you?”

She shook her head.

I work with many people 20 or so years my junior, and my lunch date was no exception. I’ve long gotten over myself that I have culture touchpoints my colleagues don’t share. But this one, at that moment — well, that hit hard. It’s a bit devastating to hear one of your favorite artists, one who made a huge impact earlier in your life, has not only passed, but also had already passed out of relevance even before her death.

I didn’t want to believe that so I asked her, “Surely you’ve heard ‘Nothing Compares 2U?’ The Prince cover?”

Again, no.

“I know you’ve heard it. The video is the close up of her perfect face, with a shaved head, and she cries while staring into the camera? Women karaoke it all the time?”

My coworker promised to have a listen when we returned to our desks.

And I accepted what I already knew to be true: we GenX kids have our own unique set of influences — and they all either die tragically young (Elliot Smith, Jeff Buckley, Kurt Cobain), or end up with tragically reactionary views (Morrissey, Billy Corgan)*.

And the losses hit harder the older I get.

This one really, really hurt.

Soon I can give you my heart

This record. My god, the impact of this record on me — and so many of my friends, including Lawrence— can not be overstated.

We’d never heard (or seen) anything like it (or her).

Sinéad released her debut record The Lion & the Cobra during my senior year in high school. She was only a few years older than I was, but she possessed a preternatural talent, an emotional complexity, a raw rage and passion — and the voice to fully express it — that made her seem timeless, ageless, nearly otherworldly.

Songs on the album careen stylistically from sea shanty (“Jackie”) to danceable pop (“Mandika”) to seduction (“I Want Your Hands on Me”) to… I don’t even know how to describe “Troy,” with its bombastic orchestration, thunderous proclamations, hushed pauses, nearly banshee-like shrieks, and epic storytelling. It’s singular in its glory.

It’s not hyperbolic to say I’ve never heard another album like it, and I doubt I ever will.

I was no musical sophisticate at 17, and came to Sinéad via MTV with her first release off the record, the danceable “I Want Your Hands on Me.”

Watch her in this video; watch as she sings her frank lyrics of sexual yearning with such insouciance, such a lack of grace and hips to her moments, nearly indifferent to the camera and yet with such an intense gaze when she finally makes eye contact.

1987 Dana was both confused and intrigued. This song was my Sinéad gateway.

2023 Dana — watching this video for the first time in years, possibly decades — sees a fierce, frail wisp of a genius and aches to protect her. I want to warn her of what’s to come, knowing now the price she paid for her ferocity, the hardships she faced and the toll they took on her career and life. She wanted to live an uncompromised life, to live by her own policies; I don’t believe the 19-year-old in that video could’ve known the price of admission to that life.

Would telling her how it all ended have changed the way she chose to live?

At 19, she couldn’t see the flame…

I don’t know no shame.
I feel no pain,
I can’t.
I don’t know no shame,
I feel no pain,
I can’t see the flame.

Through their own words, they will be exposed

I remember somehow, improbably, watching the video for “The Emperors New Clothes” with my dad and stepmom when it first released in 1990. I have no idea how we came to be watching it — they were not music fans, and they certainly didn’t seek to know my interests, musical or otherwise — but I vividly recall sitting in their living room and watching it.

Sinéad softened her look a bit for this video, off her second release I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got. She grew a bit of hair, softened her make-up, and donned ever-so-slightly more feminine attire. But still, she’s barefoot, she’s unsmiling, her dance moves, they’re awkward at best. She’s undeniably gorgeous but also, undeniably indifferent to what you see in her.

My father was perplexed by her, making dismissive grunts and uttering things like, “What is this noise? What’s she wearing? These lyrics don’t make sense” throughout.

I can’t recall his exact admonishments, years later. I just remember he was outraged this young female singer wasn’t trying to catch his eye or his ear.

How I relished watching his discomfort. I felt so seen in his unease.

I wasn’t one of the pretty ones. I wanted to lead with my brains and talents, to sleep with a clear conscious, as Sinéad did. I understood her lyrics perfectly.

And most of all, I understood how off-putting her indifference was — to all men — via my sexist, irritable father.

Nothing can take away these blues

Her sophomore release also contained “Nothing Compares 2 U,” the Prince cover that catapulted her from alternative artist to chart topper. Suddenly Sinéad was a household name.

And she wasn’t going to be famous and not make it count.

She made that stand on live TV, on Saturday Night Live in 1992, the famous moment when she sang Bob Marley’s “War” a cappella, and then held up a photo of the Pope and tore it to pieces.

Watch her face. She was fearless.

I watched her perform that live.

I recall my jaw hitting the ground. I watched with my two grad school roommates, one Jewish, one Catholic. We all looked to each other in disbelief. I was in a deeply anti-religious phase then — one I’ve never fully exited, to be honest — and I applauded her.

But even then, what did my applause mean?

I finished school and grew up. New music kept coming through the 90s and onward, and I moved along with it. I’ve always loved Sinéad’s music, but didn’t keep up with her career much, other than to hear of her mental health struggles.

I think many of us did this, just as she needed more support. We grew up and musically moved on.

I am stretched on your grave

In 1988 we had no collective vocabulary for trauma, for self-care, for the sort of outspoken demonstrations that defined Sinéad’s career as much as her music did. The late 80s knew outrageous fashion and hairstyles, but we were still deeply normed, we young adults influenced by the heavy-handed morality of the Boomers who outnumbered and overpowered us.

We had no ability to defend the unyielding moral force that Sinéad was.

I’d say she was ahead of her time and surely there’s a nugget of truth there. But also, she transcended time. Her flavor of defiance and forthrightness would’ve made obsessive fans and enemies alike in any era.

And yet… I contemplate my young coworker. She messaged me once she watched the video for “Nothing Compares 2 U.”

“I have heard this song before. I am sure someone sang it on American Idol or something lol” she responded.

Sigh.

Sinead’s not even stretched on her grave yet and I’m certain she’d be rolling in it if she heard that as her legacy.

This coworker is young but an old soul, and a music fan. I consider sending her more, better Sinéad songs, and sharing her stories. But would either translate?

Or did you have to be young and hungry for authenticity in 1988 to first hear The Lion and the Cobra to feel its impact? I’m uncertain, but feel like the answer here may be yes. As timeless as I find the songs, I wonder if they’d get lost in generational translation.

This weekend I will play some Sinéad songs for my kids, and I usually have good instincts how new-to-them old music will hit. I’m unsure Sinéad will make the mark.

Her songs may simply be a unique GenX marker.

It’s just like you said it would be

And her stories? Here I’m more certain Sinéad was ahead of her time. Challenging the Pope for child abuse no longer seems radical, because hindsight shows that Sinéad was right. To people the same age as my coworkers or kids, this is old news. What was a collective, career-ending gasp in 1992 is a yawn in 2023.

This thought just makes me so sad.

Sinéad was right about so much, even if we all couldn’t — or wouldn’t — see it yet.

I was a fan of both Sinéad’s music and her political stances, and quietly cheered her on. I stood by, bemused a bit by her rage. I didn’t speak up. And really, speak up where? I had no platform in the 1990s, none of us did. I wonder, how would Sinéad’s rallying cries have resonated in a social media environment where everyone has a voice, versus the corporate news voices of the last century?

Sinéad might have gotten the support she clearly needed for her mental health if she’d been young and beautiful in 2023. Her directness probably would read as a form of neurodivergence now, and perhaps that’s what it was. Her history of trauma would have earned her sympathy. Her mental illness would be normalized, supported.

But as a young adult in the 1990s, she was a pariah for her views, her outbursts, her unprocessed trauma. And by the time the world caught up, she’d grown older and fatter, her formerly beautiful face, haggard. The press were merciless; fame came with no sympathies, and her strange behaviors and disappearances barely registered a blip on the news cycle.

Morrissey, as much as it pains me to say it, said it best.

The cruel playpen of fame gushes with praise for Sinéad today … with the usual moronic labels of “icon” and “legend”. You praise her now ONLY because it is too late. You hadn’t the guts to support her when she was alive and she was looking for you. The press will label artists as pests because of what they withhold … and they would call Sinéad sad, fat, shocking, insane … oh but not today! Music CEOs who had put on their most charming smile as they refused her for their roster are queuing-up to call her a “feminist icon….” when it was YOU who talked Sinéad into giving up … because she refused to be labelled, and she was degraded, as those few who move the world are always degraded.

It’s safe to feel sad now, to champion her legacy and lament her shortcomings, now that her final chapter is written.

I should’ve done better.

I should’ve kept up.

We all should have, all the alternative GenX kids who bought her two first absofuckinglutely brilliant album, now tucked away in an old CD case, or burned down to our hard drives. We remember her fondly but never bothered to sustain her career into the next few decades.

We all popped in The Lion and the Cobra again, but not till she was gone.

I grieve that for her and for all of us.

Everyone can see what’s going on

All that said, I’ve loved revisiting her early work this week. It’s been such a comfort.

I’m listening now as I type this.

“Whatever it may bring,
I will live by my own policies.
I will sleep with a clear conscience.
I will sleep in peace.”

Sleep in peace, Sinéad, and rest in power.

All of us who loved you, we’re immeasurably better off for having experienced the wonder of your music and the force of nature of your life.

Even if we never knew how to deserve you.

Maybe it sounds mean.

But I really don’t think so.

🖤

*Except for Robert Smith. He remains perfect.

Greetings!

I’m Dana DuBois, a GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest with a whole lot of little words to share. I’m a founder and editor of three publications: Pink Hair & Pronouns, Three Imaginary Girls, and genXy. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and pop culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.

If this story resonated with you, why not buy me a coffee?

(Make mine an iced oat milk decaf mocha, please and thank you.)

We moms like to celebrate firsts.

We dutifully note first smiles, first steps, first words. You know, the baby book standbys.

Me being me, I also take great pleasure in witnessing my daughters’ first live shows. And I say shows plural, not only because they each had their own first show, but also because I believe first shows exist on a continuum; we get to experience many “first” when it comes to live music.

Many of us experienced our first show when our parents took us. In the case of my eldest, that was Rufus Wainwright at the Triple Door, in my womb, before I even knew I was pregnant. I’m sure we both enjoyed his dulcet voice and that spectacular glass of champagne, my last one for many, many months to come. Her first live show as a sentient human outside of me was Goodness at the Mural Amphitheater, when she was just eight-months old. But since she can’t recall those shows, do they really count?

I have no memory of my parents taking me to see live music (I don’t come from a particularly musical family, believe it or not). But I know many of you were likely dragged to see something utterly ridiculous with yours. Do you need to claim this as your first show? I say you do… and also, you don’t.

Multiple first shows. That’s the thing.

You get to claim your first arena rock show, your first show in a rock venue, your first show in a mosh pit, your first music festival. And so on.

All that said: Girl in Red wasn’t technically a first show for either of my kids. For my eldest, the first show she remembers (and picked) was Katy Perry. For my youngest, it was First Aid Kit. Both amazing.

But last September, my kids experienced two musical milestones: their first rock venue show and their first mosh pit. As they learned that night, shows are completely different without assigned seats, with the ability to roam the room and rush the stage. And when they chose to rush the stage, they also learned what a mosh pit feels like.

And I got yet another mama lesson in letting go.

Teens to the front, moms to the playpen.

Girl in Red is an indie-pop artist from Norway, a Gen Z musical darling known for her indie-pop songs about queer love and mental health challenges. My kids first introduced me to Girl in Red and I immediately fell for her melodic lofi sensibilities, her vulnerability, and her clear prowess as a songwriter and storyteller. Girl can write some hooks, and knows how to effortlessly bring her songs — with all their sweetness and struggles — to life.

When she announced her Seattle show, I bought the three of us tickets, even as I had to pay third-party scalper prices (damn, that show sold out quick). I suspected this was our final opportunity to see Girl in Red play at an intimate club like the Showbox SoDo so I went for it.

I’m the mama who wants to ensure her kids have peak childhood musical experiences. I considered the show an investment in their futures; they’ll be able to say, “I saw her when…”

The night of the show my kids and I showed up with one of their best friends and her mom, ready to rock. The moms wanted bourbon. The teens wanted the freedom to roam without their moms close by. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement that the kids went to the stage, and the moms went in search of the bar.

So many shows I’ve gone to in the past corralled the all-ages kids off to the side and let those of us 21+ explore the room, with cocktail in hand. Not so at Girl in Red. My mama friend and I went in search of a drink and found ourselves cordoned off in the back bar, a tiny part of the overall room. We looked around us, bemused.

“Are we… in the playpen?” I asked.

She laughed and nodded.

Our children had run of house. We were in the playpen, with our bottles, I mean, bourbons.

We knew our place at this show. We were okay with it.

The question was: were our kids?

(Spoiler alert: yes, they definitely were.)

There’s a cool girl in the pit.

Please don’t think we abandoned our children for booze without regard for their safety. We moms took a look around at the crowd and decided of any show, this one would be reasonably safe to let our kids go free-range. Girl in Red is a young queer woman, and her audience echoed this. I’ve never felt a less masculine-energy crowd in my life. The room was teaming with young, feminine, and (I’m presuming) mostly queer folks, and the whole space had a super cool, welcoming feel.

So we bid our offspring adieu and settled into our playpen to watch the show with the few other 21+ folks who joined us.

And my god, what a show! I expected a folksy, fey sort of performance, based on her recordings. But, no. Marie Ulven Ringheim — that’s the Girl in Red — and her band absolutely destroyed. The show was loud, raucous, and her voice rang through the venue like a shot. Her whole vibe as she thrashed her long curly hair and shook her hips and dove into the screaming crowd reminded me of some sort of re-imagined young Robert Plant. It was strange to see this typically masculine, heavy rock energy channeled through her young femme form, but there we were, and I was so there for it all.

A highlight of the show happened in our boozy playpen. We were standing next to two women, a cute couple. When one went to go buy a t-shirt, the other turned to me and said, “I’ve checked the set list, and in two more songs she’s going to play ‘We Fell in Love in October.’ I’m planning to propose to my girlfriend during that song. Can you please record it?”

I love that song, and I love love! So of course I said yes, and of course, her girlfriend also said yes. Look how cute they are, freshly engaged!

Our drinks downed and the excitement of the engagement past, we figured it was time to wander the venue a bit. I found a slightly elevated spot just off stage left where I had a good vantage of the crowd. I tried to find our kiddos in the swarm of reveling bodies but alas, I couldn’t.

Then Girl in Red launched into “Dead Girl in the Pool,” a surprisingly upbeat, danceable song despite the dismal title. Performed live, the song was an absolute banger, and the crowd went wild.

The crowd, with my children in it.

It looked and sounded like this…

What a strange, unsettling feeling, to look at the undulating, screaming crowd and wonder where your children — your own heart, living inside those bodies — are. My youngest especially is very small for her age and doesn’t typically like crowds, or loud noise. Did I make the right call, letting them rush the front alone when they’d never been to a show like this before? Were they trapped in that throng??

For a moment, my eyes scanned the crowd frantically, trying in vain to find their heads as the stage spotlights panned back and forth.

Then I took a breath. I’ve been in countless crowds like this. I can read crowds like a psychic can read minds. I could see the crowd was rowdy, but it was buoyant, joyous. I’d have been able to see any ripple of conflict from my vantage point, and I saw none.

My children are fine, I thought to myself. I took a breath, and moved away from the view. I let it go, and was able to enjoy the rest of the set in that same crowd, albeit in the periphery.

Our children, in fact, were better than fine.

They were elated.

When the show ended, we moms met them up by front door with cold bottles of water, as moms do. They downed them eagerly, glowing with sweat and fevered, ecstatic post-show energy, gushing about the performance in-between gulps.

They loved it.

They spent the ride home raving about what they’d seen and heard in fits and spurts, sharing their experiences with each other and simultaneously posting to social media with photos and videos of the show, a gush of sheer giddiness.

As for me? It was a gift, to let them go just a little so they could immerse themselves in the rock and roll rush of it all.

Greetings!

I’m Dana DuBois, a GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest with a whole lot of little words to share. I’m a founder and editor of three publications: Pink Hair & Pronouns, Three Imaginary Girls, and genXy. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and pop culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.

If this story resonated with you, why not buy me a coffee?
(Make mine an iced oat milk decaf mocha, please and thank you.)

It’s hard to be proud to be an American right now.

The USA turns 249 today and to celebrate, our country’s leaders just passed a devastating piece of legislation—the so-called “One Big Beautiful Bill.” The bill will strip funding from Planned Parenthood if they continue to offer abortions. It will decimate Medicaid and rural hospitals. Most frightening, it’s funding ICE with over $100B, effectively founding our home homegrown Gestapo right here.

It’s terrifying. It’s bleak. It makes me wanna blow things up, but not in a celebratory way.

So yeah, it’s not the best of times to ask me to celebrate our country. I suspect many of you may feel the same.

However, I know one thing July 4th has always been good for: a rowdy karaoke night.

And karaoke is something I’m always excited to celebrate.

If those about to head out to sing this July 4th, I salute you.

As a former KJ and long-time karaoke enthusiast, allow me to suggest a few personal favorites to sing in the 247th anniversary of our independence.

10. Party in the U.S.A. by Miley Cyrus

Now that I know what an incredible vocalist Miley is, the production value on this song irritates me even more. And yes, this song is vapid AF. But it’s an infectious crowd pleaser and it’s super fun to sing. Just get over yourself and sing along. It’s the American way.

9. American by Lana Del Ray

I’d fall down if I ever saw this track at karaoke, and that’s probably for the best because no one call pull off Lana but Lana, vocally speaking. This song sounds so dreamy and ethereal but the lyrics are far from innocent; it’s an epic take-down of the toxic masculine American man.

8. Born in the U.S.A. by Bruce Springsteen

I do love an anthem that the wrong side of history doesn’t recognize as a protest song. This song is a master-class in deceiving the dopes into thinking it’s patriotism. If nothing else, the crowd should all chime in on the refrain (and likely no one will notice if you don’t know the rest of the lyrics).

7. America by Neil Diamond

No Independence Day playlist is complete without this absolutely iconic hit. It’s earnest, it’s bombastic, it’s low-key ridiculous, it’s the Jazz Singer Neil freaking Diamond, and every time that flag’s unfurled, THEY’RE COMING TO AMERICA. Maybe it’s my Jewish upbringing and being raised with my Mom’s adoration of Neil Diamond, but this song is a BANGER and I will fight anyone who says otherwise. Also, it’s an pro-immigration anthem, is it not?

6. Young Americans by David Bowie

This song is an utter classic and would rank higher on the list if it weren’t so hard to karaoke. It’s got a whole lotta lyrics and the melody in the verses isn’t predictable at all. If you wanna take this on — practice first, a lot. You’ve gotta do Bowie proud.

5. American Girl by Tom Petty

Fun fact: I’ve spent my entire adult life boring anyone at karaoke who would listen about how this song was written about a student at the University of Florida who jumped to her death from the top floor of student dorm Beatty Towers, onto “441, like the waves crashing on the beach.” I went to UF, so I hold it as a small source of pride that Tom and all the Heartbreakers were from Gainesville, Florida. Except I just looked it up and realized thanks to Snopes that I’ve been lying to everyone. God Bless America.

4. “This Is America” by Childish Gambino

You’ll need a pretty cool karaoke bar to have this option (I’ve never seen it). But damn I’d love to see someone get up and nail this one to celebrate the 4th. Dissent is patriotic!

3. Firework by Katy Perry

I nearly placed this song first, simply as it’s the only song I know of that name-checks the 4th of July. And it’s a great pop song — uplifting, anthemic, bombastic, rousing, it sounds much like the firework explosions it (metaphorically) describes. One of Perry’s best, and one I plan to play every July 4th from here on out. The two songs in the top spots just have a few decades head start in my heart (and ears)…

2. Kids in America by Kim Wilde

As a New Wave kid of the era, I will never not love this song. That said, there’s no such thing as “East California” and that lyric has always bothered me. Why not “New York ‘cross to California / There’s a New Wave comin’ I warn ya” instead? Did they intentionally omit the west coastline from experiencing New Wave?

1. Pink Houses by John Mellencamp

For as angry as I am about so many poor political changes impacting the US right now, I can’t help but love the easy-breezy middle-America vibe of this song. It remains my favorite song to commemorate this crazy holiday. I love how it’s a little bit cynical, a little bit hard truth, but mostly it’s wholesome and just hopeful enough to be plausible. Hey, ain’t that something to see?

So, how’d I do? Did I get your favorite?

If not, what’s on your karaoke set-list for tonight?

Greetings!

I’m Dana DuBois, a GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest with a whole lot of little words to share. I’m a founder and editor of three publications: Pink Hair & Pronouns, Three Imaginary Girls, and genXy. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and pop culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.

If this story resonated with you, why not buy me a coffee?
(Make mine an iced oat milk decaf mocha, please and thank you.)

What I love about songs and poetry is the different interpretations a listener or reader can get from them. The writer may intend a particular meaning, usually inspired by a personal experience. Depending on the person listening, or the time of their life, it can take on something entirely different.

On May 28th, I was a guest on GenXy, where we discussed GenX Pride. We talked about endearing nicknames for gay/straight best friends, use of terms like gay and queer, using humor to stave off depression, and of course, I promoted my Midwest Pride Tour, happening every Saturday in June.

The focus of the GenXy publication is the attributes of people born into Generation X (as the pub name implies) and issues affecting them. One of the questions

Dana DuBois

and ask at the end of each “Daily Whatever” episode is:

“What is the ultimate GenX song?”

Green Day has always been one of my favorite bands, so naturally, I had to go with one of their songs, “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life).”

Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road
Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go
So make the best of this test and don’t ask why
It’s not a question but a lesson learned in time

It’s something unpredictable, but in the end is right
I hope you had the time of your life

The song was often played at graduations in my area, which seems appropriate. Considering my experiences in high school, I was certainly ready to say good riddance to it.

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I was driving the other day when I heard Billie Joe Armstrong’s (Green Day’s lead singer) distinct voice on the radio. He was covering a song originally recorded in the 1960s. It gained even more popularity when it was covered in 1987.

It was originally written as a romantic ballad, but then was sped up and became more of a dance track, especially when Tiffany recorded it. But when I listened to Billie Joe singing it, the words hit me much differently.

If you can, try to imagine a closeted, gay, teenage boy growing up in the conservative Midwest as you read the words.

“Children, behave!”
That’s what they say when we’re together
“And watch how you play.”
They don’t understand
And so we’re

Running just as fast as we can…
I think we’re alone now.

Look at the way
We gotta hide what we're doing
'Cause what would they say,
If they ever knew?
And so we're
Running just as fast as we can…

Billie Joe’s rendition of “I Think We’re Alone Now” actually brought tears to my eyes as I listened with this new perspective. I guess I was basically feeling sorry for myself. I grieved for my lost adolescence, which was ruined by the fear of judgment.

Not many queer icons existed in Generation X; at least, very few who publicly admitted to it. Teenagers emulate trends they see from their idols. Since we saw almost no openly gay people, many of us stayed in the closet, too.

I was sheltered from “worldly” and “sinful” movies and music. Even if I’d been exposed to more icons like Elton John, Boy George, or Freddie Mercury, my family still made it impossible for me to be who I was.

I often wonder what it would’ve been like if I hadn’t needed—or at least felt the need—to hide my sexuality. I frequently say that I was born at the wrong time. Growing up queer in a rural area can still be challenging today, but it was much worse when I was a teen.

I didn’t physically leave home to get away from the judgment, condemnation, and overall homophobia. But in my mind, I was running just as fast as I could, and when I couldn’t escape the reality of my true feelings, I said, “I think I’m alone now,” because I knew I would receive no support from family or friends.

The song is about teenage rebellion, and two people who have to hide their relationship. So, the difference in my life was that I didn’t have another hand to hold or someone’s arms wrapped around me as I tumbled to the ground—repeatedly.

The good news is that today, I’m no longer running. I don’t think I’m alone now, and I’m trying to have the time of my life. To that lonely and sometimes traumatic past, I say, Good Riddance!

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Yesterday I got so old I felt like I could die

It’s 2008, and it’s 2am. I’m cradling my four-week old infant as she nurses for what must be the 17th time that night, but it’s hard to say as it’s like one prolonged session that never, ever ends.

Do you remember those “Rock-a-Bye Baby” CDs? They were popular in the early 2000s, a series of discs featuring top artists for parenting-aged people (think U2, Radiohead, Prince, Journey, you get the idea). Gen-X gold. Immensely popular at baby showers.

I was delighted when friends gifted me The Cure version at mine.

But on A Night Like This, I can’t remember much of anything. I’m high on breastfeeding endorphins and low on post-pregnancy hormonal dips, and deliriously exhausted from four weeks of no more than two consecutive hours of sleep.

In a blurry haze, I recognize the lullaby playing in the nursery is “In Between Days.”

My favorite Cure song.

My frazzled brain processes an inordinate number of timelines at once. I’m in a nightclub I’m at a show I’m falling in love I’m dancing with friends I’m crying I’m laughing I’m living my life — my life till this point — steeped in this soundtrack.

And in this timeline — the one with my voracious baby in my arms and on my boob—I begin to sob.

“Go on, go on, just walk away. Go on, go on, your choice is made.”

I chose this baby and this life and here I am, an infinite distance from my own memories and I fear I’ll never find my way back to myself.

“Go on, go on, and disappear.”

I’ve disappeared into the needs of this frantic little body that’s literally sucking her life force from me.

“Go on, go on, away from here.”

I cry for my nights past, spent spinning in dark wave nightclub circles to this glorious song, now reduced to the twinkle instrumental of a lullaby much as my prior existence has faded to indistinct whirls of memory.

“And I know I was wrong when I said it was true, that it couldn’t be me and be her in between without you.”

My sobs turn to heaves and then to just breaths. I sigh, relieved.

I’m still me, the same me of my memories.

Now I am her, the mom I’m becoming.

“Me” and “Her” are one and the same and we are both exhausted. But we’re going to be okay. And wherever we go from here, I think, looking down at my nursing baby’s head, I can’t be me or be her without you.

“Without you, without you.”

“Never without you,” I whisper to my infant daughter. “For always and ever are always for you.”

It was my In Between Days night, full of a whirlwind of memories of past, present, and future, and all set to the soundtrack of one singular band...

You make me feel like I am young again

It’s 1992, about 4am. I’m alone, sitting on the sidewalk in front of a record store in Dunedin, Florida, because it’s a Ticketmaster outlet a few hours outside of the University of Florida, where I am a senior. I drive here because any record store in Gainesville is going to be too mobbed with other college student fans to get good seats for a show. And tomorrow morning, tickets go on sale to see The Cure.

So I sit on the street, alone, all night.

(Adult me revisiting this memory is terrified for that 21-year-old woman and how vulnerable she was.)

But it’s the Wish tour. Kristina and I need good seats. I am resolute.

I’m in college and am accustomed to all-nighters. This is the best excuse I’ve ever had to pull one.

My drive, my wait, and my patience pay off — we get second row seats!

You’re such a strange girl, I think you come from another world

It’s 1991, it’s sometime between 9pm and 2am and because I’m finally 21, I’m in a dance club with Kristina, my college roommate and best friend.

Kristina is the influence I didn’t know I needed but most definitely did. Music, fashion, ambition, brains, and guts— Kristina has it all, and I’m just happy to be along for the ride.

We go clubbing, a lot.

She’s The Perfect Girl.

We dance to everything, but our favorite is Saturday night at Netherworld, where we dance to the all the classics of the Dark Wave era — New Order, Joy Division, Depeche Mode, and The Cure, always The Cure.

“Charlotte Sometimes” is our favorite song but really, anything off Head on the Door, Disintegration, or Staring at the Sea is perfection, at our apartment or on the dance floor.

Netherworld is our black fishnets and eyeliner collegiate Mecca.

It takes us some time to realize the club had been opened by Todd…

You, strange as angels

It’s 1988, I’m 17 years old and I’m in love for the first time.

I meet Todd my senior year at my local suburban record store, Q Records. I walk in and see the tall, skinny, pierced, black-haired boy behind the counter and I’ve never seen anyone so effortlessly cool in my life. I can’t believe he’s looking back at me, especially as I’m here with my best friend, Denise, to buy the Hair motion picture soundtrack, which is about the least cool way to impress the incredibly cool record store guy.

But now Todd is my boyfriend, and he’s as unpretentious and kind as he is — did I mention? — cool.

He makes me mixtapes. Swoon.

Through them I discover Bauhaus, Love & Rockets, XTC, Echo & the Bunnymen, and The Smiths.

But not The Cure. He plays me the whole Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me album instead. At first I kinda hate it, especially the vocals. Smith’s emotive tenor grates on my nerves.

“It’s the one that makes me scream (she said).”

Maybe I don’t quite want to scream, but his voice is so unsettling.

I listen again.

“I’m dancing, screaming, itching, squealing, fever feeling…”

I still don’t like it… but I must hear it again.

“It’s torture. But I’m almost there.”

Ugh, not this record. Except wait.. yes, this record. Play it again.

“It’s dancing in a deepest ocean, twisting in the water. It’s just like a dream.”

I’m not sure how, but I’m now obsessed. What once sounded abrasive now sounds Just Like Heaven.

That’s our song, mine and Todd’s.

Our relationship is short, but its impact, lifelong.

He was just like a dream.

All the night time leaves me, three imaginary boys

It’s 2002, and my show-going bestie Liz and my roommate and I are telling our friend Greg about the new website we want to launch.

We want to be a positive voice in Seattle’s indie music scene, to uplift all the local bands we’ve been seeing in small venues and build a sense of community with other music fans.

“You know, like we’re your friends who go out the shows and tell you all about them, so you know which bands to go see,” we explain.

“We just need a name.”

Our pal Greg thinks and says, “I’ve got it.”

He suggests we pay homage to the debut Cure album, Three Imaginary Boys.

“You could be called Three Imaginary Girls,” he says.

And just like that, our music website — and the greatest creative adventure of my life — is born.

You hit me again, you howl and hit me again

It’s 2016, and the Cure are playing in Richland, Washington, which is basically Portland, Oregon. A girl friend of mine offers me a last-minute ticket and ride to the show.

I’m jubilant.

I’m crazy in love or limerance or whatever with my newish boyfriend so I tell him I’m going. He scoffs at my enthusiasm. “The Cure are an oldies band,” he says, dismissive.

Am I going to see an oldies band? I mean, I am kinda old. But I’m excited? Aren’t I? I leave for the show, my glow dimmed by his derision.

I adore this man so much I can’t yet see that he sneers at everything I do or like or value. It takes a lot of emotional labor to figure this out and I have done none of this work yet. I take the three-hour road trip to see the show.

Which is amazing, of course.

This is the first faint whiff that perhaps my artsy-than-thou boyfriend isn’t a great arbiter of taste, because nothing about The Cure is past its prime. They sound fresh, alive, robust, fully current and exciting and relevant. I have a magical night of dancing with my friend.

I don’t yet know this, but my boyfriend leaves me for his best friend’s wife two months later.

The heartache of this loss, the humiliation, my poor judgment, breaks me for a longer time than it should.

Eventually I shake (dog) shake him off.

I think I’m falling, I’m falling, I’m falling in…

It’s 2003 and it’s Valentine’s Day and I’m at the Crocodile Cafe at a show, and also on a first date with a tall, dark, handsome man with long beautiful forearms.

We’ve just met, and he’s regaling me with tales of seeing The Cure headline the Lorelei festival in Germany when he was a scrawny young thing in the army. He’s a huge fan, and we bond over our shared love of this band, among many, many other things.

I don’t yet know he’s to be a great love — the one I will marry and make babies with — but I can already tell he comes from another world.

He’s shaking my heart around and around, and turned me all upside down.

“The Perfect Girl” was featured on our wedding CD giveaway for guests.

You can never get enough, enough of this stuff

It’s 2020 and my 12-year-old shares my obsession for music, if not all the same bands, of course.

Right now she’s blasting music from her Alexa, in the same room where I’d sobbed my eyes out to a Cure lullaby 12 years earlier.

She’s playing her usual melange of tween pop and darker sounds (Destroy Boys and Mother Mother, if memory serves) when six familiar guitar notes ring out, followed by three drum beats and the unmistakable, “I would say I’m sorry if I thought that it would change your mind.”

I poke my head in. “Wow, you like “Boys Don’t Cry?” I ask her.

“You know this song??” she answers, incredulous and simultaneously somehow both impressed and disdainful.

“Do I know The Cure?” I ask her, laughing on the inside as my heart sings.

Oh yes, I know The Cure. My sweet child, I have so many songs — and stories — to share with you.

However far away, I will always love you

It’s 2023 — June 1, to be specific — and I’m on a family adventure with my two kids and their Dad.

We’re at a Cure concert together.

Because Ticketmaster is a jerk, we’re seated a zillion miles from the stage and up so high, my knees get weak anytime I look down.

So I don’t look downward.

Instead I peer over at my daughter. She’s somehow that same babe I held in arms 15 years ago, now this Perfect Girl sitting beside me.

And next to her sits my youngest child, slightly awkward and adorable in goth regalia with their fingerless gloves and giant headphones. How Beautiful They Are.

The show is incredible. The band plays a 29-song set, nearly three hours long. Every note is pitch perfect. They play a surprising number of brand new songs, ones not yet recorded, and they’re gorgeous. Over 40 years together and this band still creates new music, and delights stadiums full of people. I’m in awe of their longevity, their enduring relationships as band mates, and their stamina. They save most of their best-known songs till the encores.

“In-Between Days” is second-to-last.

As it plays, my mind drifts back to that fateful, fretful night in the nursery, when I feared my baby represented an end to my authentic, creative, fun self.

“Now I know I was wrong when I said it was true.”

I’m so glad I had it so wrong. How could I have known of the joy, the color, the creativity, the immense love that fills my days — In Between and otherwise — with you two in my life?

I couldn’t be me and be her in between without you, A + N.

For always and ever, will always be for you.

And The Cure.

I’m Dana DuBois, a GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest with a whole lot of little words to share. I’m a founder and editor of three publications: Pink Hair & Pronouns, Three Imaginary Girls, and genXy. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and pop culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.

If this story resonated with you, why not buy me a coffee?
(Make mine an iced oat milk decaf mocha, please and thank you.)

I’m GenX, in my mid-50s.

I know I’m coming to an age when people about my age die.

And yesterday, indie singer-songwriter Jill Sobule died at 66 years old.

I never met Jill personally. But as a long-time music writer, many of my music-industry pals did. My social media exploded yesterday with the news of her untimely and horrific death in a house fire. And from all accounts, she was an incredibly cool, kind, generous, and utterly delightful human to know — in addition to a gifted singer-songwriter. “Groundbreaking” is the word I see repeated, and while musically she’s mostly known as a one-hit wonder, the adjective is apt.

Jill’s birth year may have made her a Boomer, but her musical influence hit GenX squarely in our young adulthood, and resonated in a manner unique to our generation.

Most famously, her 1995 hit “I Kissed a Girl” broke ground as the first openly queer song to crack the Billboard Top 20 — and with it, burst open the closeted silence so many queer young adults had endured their entire lives up until then.

Nothing about the song sounds politically charged. It’s a lively indie-pop-folk bop, full of hooks, utterly delightful in its earnestness, and deceptively playful as it challenged societal norms of its time.

And then there’s the music video. Set in a hyper-saturated, cartoonish 1950s neighborhood, it’s clearly nodding to a sense of how far we’d evolved as a culture— even as the song was so ahead of its time. Sure, the world had come a long way by 1995. But an MTV and radio hit that explored female bisexuality? Well, you had to be as clever and talented as Jill Sobule was to pull that off. And she totally did, with a winsome smile and tongue firmly in cheek — even casting Fabio as her cuckolded fiance.

Jill was the right messenger at the right time.

And the song was so infectious — and the singer, so charming — it was irresistible.

“Kissed a girl / won’t change the world / but I’m so glad / I kissed a girl,” she sings in the song’s outro.

But you know what? She was wrong.

She did change the world.

Jill kissed a girl so Chappel could dance on the stage in her heels at the Pink Pony Club.

And so Billie could eat that girl for lunch.

And so girl in red could fall in love in October.

One only needs to visit the YouTube comments for “I Kissed a Girl” to see the ways in which Jill changed so many worlds:

“This song was so important to me as a young gay woman in the 90’s. Rest in power, Jill. May your memory be a blessing to us all.”

“As a young bisexual woman, this song meant everything to me. RIP, Jill.”

“Growing up as a closeted lesbian teenager in the 90s- this song had such a profound impact on me. Rest in peace x”

“I’m now an adult lesbian. Shout out to her for leading the way in music. This is one of the first songs you come across as a baby gay”

“she made it easier for me to come out to my parents in Oct 1996!. she changed the world for me!”

She died way too young.

She died so senselessly, in a house fire.

How does one who changed the world for so many get taken from the world so cruelly?

I have no answers, of course. Sometimes really awful things happen to really good people. As the mid-50s GenX woman I am, I’ve seen this happen again and again. I know it will only happen with greater frequency as I age.

But for today, I need to pause and acknowledge how unreasonably saddened I am by this loss. It’s just so unjust. Why Jill?

The only way for me to take comfort is to listen to this song that’s delighted me for decades, and to acknowledge its cultural impact.

I’m so glad she kissed a girl.

I’m Dana DuBois, a GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest with a whole lot of little words to share. I’m a founder and editor of three publications: Pink Hair & Pronouns, Three Imaginary Girls, and genXy. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and pop culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.

If this story resonated with you, why not buy me a coffee?
(Make mine an iced oat milk decaf mocha, please and thank

A woman like me — who’s known multiple loves and lived many lives in my 53 years on this earth — needs constancy. And two of the greatest ones in my life have been my childhood best friend, , and nearly every song from the Magnetic Field’s 1999 opus, 69 Love Songs.

Lawrence and I met back in the fourth grade, in Mrs. Flynn’s gifted classroom, in an old sweaty portable in south Florida. Larry, as he was known then, was shy, brainy, the only fat kid in our class, his later-to-be-so-handsome face obscured by nerdy Coke-bottle thick glasses. Present-day me looks back on little Larry and sees how hard he tried to be invisible. He had no idea what a wonder of a man he’d grow up to be, and how much more accepting the world would grow to be of gay men.

Lawrence and I have a friendship that spans over 40 years and counting. When 69 Love Songs released back in 1999, we were both obsessed as only an indie-alt-pop loving fan-girl and a brainy queer single man could mutually be. I remember the Christmas Eve after we discovered it. We were both in Seattle — I can’t recall if it was my tiny vintage hardwood apartment or his — two agnostic pagan Jewish late-20-somethings, away from our families but happily together. We were undoubtedly full on a delicious meal Lawrence had made and inexpensive red wine, though the details are blurry now. We decided to crash midnight mass at St. James Cathedral. I’d never been to one before, and haven’t been since. I can still recall the heady thick scent of frankincense wafting to our standing-room-only spots, and the beautiful chanting of the choir. We took in the stunning initial procession but once the service began, we skipped out, giggling, and raced home to drink more wine and listen to 69 Love Songs, again.

So when I heard the band was celebrating the 25th anniversary of 69 Love Songs with a limited-city tour, where they’d perform every song on the three-volume set over two evenings, I immediately bought two tickets to the closest city to me on the tour list: San Francisco.

I knew exactly who to ask to join me.

The Magnetic Fields’ 69 Love Songs is as singular to me as my friendship with Lawrence is. Front man Stephin Merritt is the brain behind the album which contains, unsurprisingly, 69 songs about love. Merritt created this opus with the help of an ensemble cast of singers and multi-instrumentalists, and the collection of songs span musical genres, gender, and sexual orientation, and along the way encapsulate every which way love can delight, destroy, or deliver us. But it’s not a record for everyone. These songs are quirky little masterpieces, lo-fi, charming, and often ironic. Merritt is the master of “show, don’t tell,” and uses offbeat wordplay and imagery to paint his romantic musical pictures. Any record that pairs rhyming couplets like, “broke my virgin flesh” with “as if you were Ganesh” was not made for the masses.

It was made for those of us who find love in strange nooks, who appreciate peculiar nuance, who’ve known enough love and loss to appreciate the grandeur and the gutting they both can bring, and who enjoy a DIY aesthetic with a healthy dose of gender-bending lyrics and ukulele.

To have relished 69 Love Songs back in the day is to love it forever.

I did, and so did Lawrence, and so did everyone else who filled two nights at the Curran Theater. Entering each night felt like attending a reunion of sorts. Except instead of re-meeting the jocks and nerds from one’s high school, we all got acquainted as strangers with a collective shared past. I’d never been to that theater nor met anyone in attendance before, save Lawrence, as I live two states away. But I felt a sense of camaraderie in a way that made the venue feel like home.

Even the tiles in the women’s bathroom — perfectly matched to my hair, aesthetic, and sparkling rose — felt perfectly crafted for me and my indie-pop sensibilities.

It’s strange to write about shows like this one, where a beloved band recreates a beloved album onstage. The songs are known, the set list follows them, in order, from the record. I wasn’t there to hype a new band. Instead I hoped to share anecdotes and treasured memories of how this music has moved me over the past 2.5 decades and to tell how it felt to hear them performed live, with so many associated memories.

I loved every moment.

So much has remained. The band sounds and looks essentially the same — which is to say, wonderful — a few more wrinkles and signs of the years gone by notwithstanding. “Who knew Stephin was such a bear now?” Lawrence asked as the show began, beaming. They still play at a muted volume, due to Merritt’s hyperacusis, a disorder that makes him intolerant to loud sounds. Most of the original band members graced the stage.

But the third song in the set revealed a change, a sad one. It’s my favorite song; I adore it so much, I named my writing after it: “All My Little Words.” It’s the first song on the album that’s sung by LD Beghtol, his sweet tenor practically caressing each phrase, kind and true but mournful as he laments the futility of words to convince his beloved to love him in return. “Not if I could write for you, the sweetest song you ever heard / It doesn’t matter what I do, not for all my little words,” he sings on the chorus. Tragically, Beghtol died in 2020, and while the grief no longer seems raw, I heard an underlying hint of sadness in Merritt’s voice as he introduced the song with, “LD is no longer with us. So I’m going to try to do this one justice.”

He did, with his inimitable baritone filling each phrase with pathos. It was beautiful, but it wasn’t the same and I think he knew it, too.

Some things never can be.

When I asked Lawrence to come to the show the previous month, he also announced a big, sad change: his marriage to Max was over, he told me, and he was preparing to leave the west coast and move to the Midwest to be near family. Like Merritt, I could hear the hint of sadness in his voice, and also the resignation. Things wouldn’t be the same, with him no longer on the west coast, as we’d both been nearly our whole adult lives. He knew it, but he also knew he’d be able to carry on in his new home, in his own inimitable way.

And I’d support him. After over four decades of friendship, we both knew we could count on this. But he wasn’t sure he could swing this show, what with his life changes ahead.

“Come back to San Francisco,” I half-sang to him on the phone, track seven on disc one of 69 Love Songs. I asked him, what could be more Magnetic Fields than a heartbroken gay man and his super single woman best friend, spending the weekend in the gayest city in America, “…closing the clubs and haunting the cabarets, looking for what?”

“If you don’t cry, it isn’t love,” he continued, as only best friends and Magnetic Fields fans can do.

“If you don’t cry, then you just don’t feel it deep enough,” I replied.

“If You Don’t Cry.” Track eight, disc two.

There really is a Love Song for every scenario.

And of course, Lawrence decided to “come back to San Francisco” for the show.

Hearing “Come Back to San Francisco” sung live by Claudia Gonson — vocalist, piano player, and manager for the band, as well as Stephin Merritt’s best friend since high school — was glorious. It sounded pitch perfect to the record, with an additional enthusiasm layered in, performing the song in front of its namesake city.

Neither Lawrence nor I have ever lived here, but we relished the hometown pride of the moment nonetheless.

I’m not a religious person, nor a particularly spiritual one, not in any traditional sense. But sitting in that gorgeous theater for two nights, surrounded by strangers who shared a common love for this album, and celebrating that love by listening to the band perform it again, in its entirety? For me, that’s transcendence.

This show was my church.

I felt this vibe reverberating through the venue throughout the entire two-night performance. But then we reached “Papa Was a Rodeo,” song 17 from disc two, and for many — including me — the first song we ever heard from 69 Love Songs.

This song is storytelling at its finest, told from a world-weary traveler of a protagonist who’s encountered an intriguing romantic interest in a dive bar. The song opens with sparse, rhythmic instrumentation, poignant and plodding, evoking the narrator’s loneliness and the monotony of his life on the road. But also, a sense of yearning echoes throughout, one that’s underlined by Merritt’s iconic, bottom-of-register delivery.

The opening notes began, as we knew they would in that moment, and the shift in the room was palpable. By the time Merritt crooned those opening lines: “I like your twisted point of view, Mike. I like your questioning eyebrows…” we were all entranced, under the spell of this longing narrator and his gender-ambiguous love interest.

Our enjoyment shifted to reverence. We collectively moved from attentive to rapt.

This was our high sermon, preached in the imperfectly perfect baritone we’ve all known and loved so well these past 25 years.

Lawrence and I looked at each other, smiling the sort of knowing smile we can only share with those we’ve known and loved through time. How amazing, that our mid-50s include fun and travel and merriment like this. How astonishing, that now, as adults in 2024, being gay isn’t something to hide but something to celebrate and sing about. How lucky, that our friendship has endured and grown like this. Wordlessly, I knew we both got it all at once, in our ears and hearts and down to our bones. I wondered if Stephin and Claudia share this same bond, a sense of intimacy that comes from wordless knowing. I hope they do.

I wanted to express my joy by belting out the chorus, but would never disrespect the band or my fellow worshipers like that.

Lawrence leaned over. “It’s perfect, but I almost wish they were louder, because I really want to sing along,” he whispered in my ear.

Of course you do, Lawrence. Of course you do.

“Your papa was a rodeo, too.”

Greetings!

I’m Dana DuBois, a GenX word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest with a whole lot of little words to share. I’m a founder and editor of three publications: Pink Hair & Pronouns, Three Imaginary Girls, and genXy. I write across a variety of topics but parenting, music and pop culture, relationships, and feminism are my favorites. Em-dashes, Oxford commas, and well-placed semi-colons make my heart happy.

If this story resonated with you, why not buy me a coffee?
(Make mine an iced oat milk decaf mocha, please and thank