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October 14th, Two Thousand One: Last night, we went to see Mike Scott and The Waterboys at First Avenue. This is now the third time
I have seen him/them live, and there is more than one reason for
this.
The esoteric, grownuppish reason is that he's an unbelievable
musician, lyricist and performer. He has incredible presence live.
The feeling of a thick bass pounding through the soles of my feet,
while my head is made dizzy by strains of untamed Celtic fiddle,
my body full of a lush male voice which ranges from the gentlest
ballad to outright raunch -- these things are unrivaled by most
others. I grew up with music as my first love -- both in listening
and performing -- and my favorite escape. More than anything else,
the right music, especially when I am completely surrounded by
it, and can feel it resound in every muscle and bone, makes me
primitive, takes me out of my brain and into my sensory self.
The other reason is that this man, Mike Scott, is one of the most
beautiful men I have ever laid my eyes on (and you've no idea
how much it saddens me not to be able to say I have laid my hands
on). The first time I saw him live, my ex very generously (and
in truly good spirit) wiped the drool off of my cheek as I watched
him, and handed me an empty cup should I have more salivating
to do. It isn't just physical: genius, especially artistic genius,
is my biggest aphrodisiac. I've thought for years that Scott really
is our modern-day Yeats, and I'm always astounded by his talent
and the sincerity and ease he seems to have with it.
But it is also physical and sexual, and in thinking about it this
morning, I realized that I can trace the chronology of this sort
of attraction -- really, what it is in men that drives me utterly
wild -- all the way back to my childhood.
I took a trip to the vapid annals of one of the worst chronicles
of mainstream culture, People Magazine, because I knew they did
as showing of who they found to be most beautiful in the world
every year. Now, given -- this is a pretty limited group, since
apparently one has to be a celebrity to also be most beautiful.
But in looking at the men (Heather & Her Women is another entry), I found myself crinkling my nose at every
one of them (you know the crew, Tom Cruise, George Clooney, Mel
Gibson, some football-player-or-another, ad nauseum), tapping
off on my fingers as I went: "No, no, oh sweet Jesus no, oh get real, no, no..." |
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| In fact, I found myself making this face, familiar to likely every
American reared in the last 30 years or so. That's right: what
is found generally attractive when it comes to men in western
culture turns me into Mr. Yuk. |
Bo-ring. Out with these clean-scrubbed, homogenized folks. Bring on the
lithe, gangly-limbed, pale-faced, scruffy-haired, big-eyed, wide-lipped,
strutting, slouching boys. They often seem to hail from England
or Ireland, but that isn't a qualification, though the accent
sure doesn't hurt. Bring me the boys who are rough around the
edges, but sweet as sugar inside, the boys who paint or play guitar
or write with a powerful voice but speak low and softly. Hand
over those luscious specimens who are almost what'd be called
"pretty boys," if they shaved a little more often, or cut their
hair now and then, or didn't know they were bloody perfect in
all their gorgeous disorder. Bring me these boys first thing in
the morning, when they wake, their eyes full of sleep and their
hair a rat's nest. Bring them before they've showered, not after.
Bring them with holes in the knees of their jeans and sweaters
from the Salvation Army. Bring them to me when they smell a little
like last night's beer or tobacco, a little hungover and a little
dazed. Always keep them a little hungry, a little seeking, a little
dissatisfied, a little restless. Let them stay both innocent and
cynical; idealistic but impatient. And deliver them all to me.
I'll take VERY good care of them, I promise.
It doesn't matter if they're 18 or 40, these boys and men all
at once just get better with time. They get sweeter in the middle
and sharper on the outside and every year on them makes my knees
a little weaker, my thighs a little warmer and my appetite a little
larger.
Inevitably, they usually cut the straggly hair, or nature does
away with a lot of it on her own. Inevitably, their art gets more
subtle, and their speaking voice just the weest bit louder. Inevitably,
they aren't as sweet on the inside as they seemed, or as swaggering
on the outside. And that's part of the beauty of the thing. |
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I grew up not only with musicians in our family -- especially
by my father, who had his own brief glimpse of musical fame once,
and hung out regularly with some of the better-known San Francisco
crew in the 60's -- regarded as gods, but with images of scruffy
boys with guitars all around me, in my ears and in my eyes. And,
though I really am just now realizing this, my father, who has
never figured out why women find him the least bit appealing,
had his own stake in my tastes. My father was, and still is, as
may not be a big surprise, gangly-limbed and slouching, rough
on the edges and sweet as sugar inside. I get my wide mouth (called
"Mick Jagger Lips" by some of my nastier schoolmates as a child,
who clearly didn't realize I took it as a compliment, not an insult),
my wild hair and the sharper bits of my features from my paternal
side. It is certainly where my walk came from.
I grew into mad, sweaty crushes on Roger Daltrey, Jim Morrison,
Jimi Hendrix, Tim Buckley -- and most revered -- Mick Jagger:
all boys with loud guitars and rough exteriors, who embraced their
sexuality and let us all (gods bless them) enjoy it. I have no
shame in confessing that some of my first masturbatory sessions
took place with one hand down my own pants and the other inside
the little zipper on the cover of Sticky Fingers. I've not a clue if the irony was lost on me, I'd bet it was.
My first real-life crushes and adventures in romance were with
pouting, gangly boys, though most of them are gangly before puberty
hits anyhow. Perhaps this may explain why I was so seemingly precocious
when it came to dating and coupling with boys: how couldn't I
be when I was so surrounded by the epitome of my male desire?
Truth be told, despite being bisexual, this is probably why most
of my partners have been male: this, archetype, if you will, is
really what I find most arousing, and it seems to come in XX-flavor
most often. In terms of my own reaction and fixation, this archetype
may be male-gendered, period.
It all flips forward, my history with these boys, almost like
a parody of what I find appealing, especially since I rarely saw
the commonality of all my partners in the moment. While I often
have a hard time remembering all of my partners and affairs through
my teens and twenties, or their names, I have no trouble whatsoever
remembering ANY of the names of the man-boys who fell into this
category of what I worship in men the most (I think). Really,
check me out: Michael, Jimmy, Steven, Billy, Tim, Blake, Paul, Aidan, Terry,
Courtney (oh, Beautiful Courtney of The Hair and The Boots and
the French Accent, you made me sick as a dog, but you were one
of the best Christmas presents I ever got) Matthew, two Daves,
Aaron, Christian, James, Jez, Frank, Rob, Jamie, Eddie, Jim, Cal,
Joe, Michael, B, Dan and... well, B. Again, several times. And still. Meow. I'll have
you know I just rattled those off in less than two minutes, a
feat that if you aren't impressed by, shows that you don't know
me very well yet to know how truly impressive that is, given my
history. And for those of you still out there among us, I adore
you all. I did then, and I still do know, even though a few of
you were outright assholes. You still make me weak remembering,
even knowing how shitty some of you turned out to be. Bet your
sweet ass I'd take you all up again, even in hindsight.
I don't intend to generalize or get too clichéd, but from my personal
experience I must say that how a man plays an instrument is often
highly indicative of how they execute themselves in the bedroom
(or the kitchen, or pressed up against a van in an alley, or...
well, wherever they can, sugar). And those boys -- those boys
whose hands fly over the strings of a guitar or a bass or a fiddle
or a cello -- see, I'm getting all caught up in myself again (I
kid you not, it's getting very warm over here, and it's October
in Minnesota). You've no inkling how terribly difficult it is
getting to write this, especially because one of these boys is
just in the other room, all mine whenever I want him. The point
is, I get beside myself watching them because I know what they're
showing me, physically, mentally, emotionally, in those beautiful,
strong but delicate faces and bodies that house those beautiful,
strong but delicate souls, hearts and minds.
It should also be no great surprise that I ended up with one of
these in something that lasted far longer than a fleeting set
of evenings. In fact, it's likely safe to say that anything less
wouldn't hold my sexual interest for very long. And when I think
about possibly rearing children in the future, in my heart of
hearts I know I'm wishing that any boys I have fit this mold:
that I could watch them grow into these black swans and smile
to myself knowing that there will be boys and girls out there
just like me who'll have trouble speaking coherently in their
presence, and will, several times, emphatically thank the mother
who bore them while wiping the sweat from their upper lip. |
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If I write any more of this right now, it's going to be Sticky
Fingers all over again, I swear. So, I'll leave this (for now)
with a thank you note to Mike Scott. Thank you for an evening
where I could feel incredible sound pouring through my body, moving
in a crowd sharing that wild sonic caress. Thank you for an evening
of your astounding poetry, of your rich guitar, of your rough
but gentle voice, of your subtle but effusive spirit. And gods
bless you, man, for giving me the truly delectable treat of having
you in my eyes and my feet while I danced and pressed against
my very own wide-lipped, big-eyed, sharp-cheeked, gangly-limbed
Pan, and got to take him home and thank him right-properly for
giving me something to feast my eyes and hands on every day.
Bring 'em all in, bring'em all in, bring 'em all in,
bring 'em all in, bring 'em all into my heart
Bring 'em all in, bring 'em all in, bring 'em all in
bring 'em all in, bring 'em all into my heart
Bring the little fishes
bring the sharks
bring 'em from the brightness
bring 'em from the dark
Bring 'em from the caverns
bring 'em from the heights
bring 'em from the shadows
stand 'em in the light
Bring 'em out of purdah
bring 'em out of store
bring 'em out of hiding
lay them at my door
Bring the unforgiven
bring the unredeemed
bring the lost, the nameless
let 'em all be seen
bring 'em out of exile
bring 'em out of sleep
bring 'em to the portal
lay them at my feet
Bring 'em all in, bring 'em all in, bring 'em all in,
bring 'em all in, bring 'em all into my heart
Bring 'em all in, bring 'em all in, bring 'em all in
bring 'em all in, bring 'em all in to my heart
Mike Scott, Minton House, Findhorn April 1994 |
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