This sequence has been applied to the omnipresent break-up by Darci Gilbert, as referenced on Wikipedia via eHow (Gilbert, Darci. [www.ehow.com/how-does_4674267_stages-grief-apply-breakups.html "How Do the Stages of Grief Apply to Breakups?"] . eHow. Retrieved 13 April 2013.). If it's alternative/indie rock that helps you through, then like an awful pun involving bananas, the following selection may have appeal.
Denial
“The person getting
broken up with is unable to admit that the relationship is really over. They
may try to continue to call the person when that person wants to be left alone.”
“Yeah! Oh, Yeah!” by The Magnetic Fields
“By Your Side,” by CocoRosie
"Start Again," by Teenage Fanclub
Anger
"When the reality sets
in that the relationship is over, it is common to demand to know why they are
being broken up with. This phase can make them feel like they are being treated
unfairly and it may cause them to become angry at people close to them who want
to help aid the situation."
“Waiting for the Winter,” by The Popguns
"The One I Love," by REM
“You Oughta Know," by Alanis Morrissette
Bargaining
"After the anger stage, one will try to plead with their former partner by
promising that whatever caused the breakup will never happen again. Example: 'I
can change. Please give me a chance'."
“I Apologize,” by Husker Du
“Please Do Not Go,” by Violent Femmes
“Good Woman,” by Cat Power
Depression
"Next the person might feel discouraged that their bargaining plea did not
convince their former partner to change their mind. This will send the person
into the depression stage and can cause a lack of sleep, eating and even
disrupt daily life tasks such as bowel movements."
“I Know It’s Over,” by The Smiths
“It’s Okay,” by Land of Talk
“Katy Song,” by Red House Painters
Acceptance
"Moving on from the
situation and person is the last stage. The person accepts that the
relationship is over and begins to move forward with their life. The person might
not be completely over the situation but they are done going back and forth to
the point where they can accept the reality of the situation."
“Here’s Where the Story Ends,” by The Sundays
"Sheela-Na-Gig," by PJ Harvey
“This Time There's No Happy Ending," by Television Personalities
A recent, lengthy walk to the edges of Bensonhurst led me to a folksy-looking bric-a-brac shop. Inside, below racks and rows of delicate
teacups, porcelain figurines and various other pieces of precariously-cluttered
daintiness, there beamed a beautiful, flame-colored electric guitar. The mock Fender's presence seemed like a deliberate artistic statement: a discordant bit of loudness among the myriad quiet,
fragile, civilized things displayed.
I expressed interest. “Fifty dollars,” said the jovial, Eastern European
shopkeeper, “but for you, forty-five.” When I turned-down the offer, he said,
good-humoredly, “I hope it doesn’t end-up with one of those bands that smash
their instruments at the end!” He repeatedly smashed an air guitar and laughed
to himself.
On the walk home, I decided that I had made a mistake. I thought about the guitar constantly. I even decided to give it a name: "Jocylin." Several more days of rumination passed before I returned.
Jocylin was still there, smiling her big, fierce guitar-grin. I walked over. A
small boy, perhaps the store owner’s son, seemed to mirror my enthusiasm. He
wanted me to play.
“You gotta do it,” encouraged the boy, “lose your fingers!”
“Lose your fingers?”
“Yeah!” said the kid, “you gotta lose your fingers!” That extra “L” struck me as a perfect metaphor. I
held Jocylin for him and began alternating between C- and G-Major as he pawed the strings with his fingertips. The two of us spent a minute "losing our
fingers" on the guitar, smiling widely all the while.
I bought the guitar and high-fived the kid as I left.
Once outside, I defrocked Jocilyn from the plastic bag that the shopkeeper ridiculously wrapped her body in: the world should see her. At first, I carried Jocilyn by the neck – like a dead, flame-colored phoenix, ready to burn and reemerge, electric and anew – but because holding Jocilyn in this way felt somehow disrespectful, I instead began carrying
her like an assault rifle. As I forged ahead through the streets, as high on adrenaline as a successful revolutionary, it occurred to me that
I was wielding a far more powerful weapon: all an assault rifle can do is kill a
man.
Jocilyn turned heads. Once, a group of kids, away from their
mother’s tether, saw the guitar, stopped what they were doing, and lined-up
against a wall: staring awe-eyed, as though for a newly-coronated king in his
first royal ride down High Street.
For the amp, I went inside a local music store, where I
gravitated towards the black hole in the center letter of “VOX.” I was sold once the owner mentioned the “wah wah” sound effect option, hearkening me back to that bizarre advertisement/track on Pebbles Box of Trash:
As my pre-post internet search for "nostalgic songs" would suggest, nostalgia is a very personal thing. Every similar list I came across was radically different from the last, in terms of genre, time-period, etc. Therefore, perhaps most of what follows is only relevant to my own, narrow experiences, but hopefully there's something here to which you can relate. ***
"Losing Haringey," by The Clientele
Remember those long, contemplative walks? Remember that feeling of 1982-ness: dizzy, illogical, as if none of the intervening disasters and wrong turns had happened yet?
"Slide," by Goo Goo Dolls
Remember consolations?
"I Will Remember You," by Sarah McLachlan
Remember the last time we saw each other? I've long associated this one with graduation day...
"Fast Car," by Tracy Chapman
Remember forgetting it all to wild exhilaration?
"You Get What You Give," by New Radicals
Remember the 1990s: Beck, Hanson, Courtney Love, Marilyn Manson? Remember what the Staten Island Mall looked like back then?
"Green and Grey," by New Model Army
Remember the one who got out, sold out?
"Drops of Jupiter," by Train
Remember your best friend always stickin' up for you? The best soy latte that you ever had?
"Late Night, Maudlin Street," by Morrissey
Remember moving away from the street you grew up on?
"Post World War Two Blues," by Al Stewart
Remember your youthful idealism? Which way did the 60's go?
"Talent Show," The Replacements
Remember how cool we all thought we were in our younger, dumber years? (Hon. nostalgic Placemats mention: "When it Began," of course)
To celebrate the return of my favorite childhood confectionery - hot cinnamon tic tacs - there follows a list of all-purpose, ebullient tunes. This should recompense for a previous entry suiting quite the opposite set of moods. Enjoy!
***
"Sweet Jane," by The Velvet Underground
I'd call this classic, but then again, I call everything by The Velvet Underground classic.
"All Around You (Intro)," by The Brian Jonestown Massacre
The warm, friendly bit of psychedelic trippiness that kicks-off The Satanic Majesties' Second Request.
"Punk Rock Girl," by The Dead Milkmen
I can't listen to this one without grinning widely. Everything about this is hilarious. Three cheers for the Philadelphian accent!
"Certain People I Know," by Morrissey
Miserablist my arsenal: a song for those days when you can take just about anything with a grain of salt... or sand.
"The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy)," by Simon and Garfunkel
I listened to this frequently when I first returned to dear old Glasgow. Continuing my education in the city I loved most meant the constant need to stifle spontaneous smiling. "What the fuck is he so happy about?"
"Can't Hardly Wait," by The Replacements
Nervous anticipation, when, after far too long, we finally know for certain that it's all going to turn out wonderfully.
"Change," by The Lightning Seeds
"Oh, you fool, you've got me started..."
"I Kissed a Girl," by Jill Sobule
A convincing little love song for the list.
"The Big Sky," by Kate Bush
"That cloud... that cloud... looks like Ireland!" I likewise tend to spot geopolitical entities in the sky.
"Waiting for the Great Leap Forward," by Billy Bragg
Takes you down before taking you way, way up. This is for all of you dispirited lefties out there: if no one out there understands, start your own revolution and cut out the middle-man!
"Tom Hark," by Elias and his Zig Zag Jive Flutes
Pennywhistle playfulness from South Africa, 1956. Stewart Lee must be a fan.
By odd coincidence (or maybe because he read the book), much like Charlie in The Perks of Being a
Wallflower, I was introduced to The
Smiths when a junior high school teacher made me a mix tape of their works.“In order to be an eighties
fan,” said my teacher, for lamentably, I once claimed that title, “you’ve got to like The
Smiths.”
Hesitantly, I put the tape in my portable tape player, pressed play, and at “There is a Light that
Never Goes Out,” I felt some switch deep within me click. Thus, at age twelve, with my interest in music piqued (having lain dormant with the worsening state of popular music at the start of the millennium), a lifelong adventure
ensued.
All of my indie flames taken into account, my lengthiest musical love affair
has been with Morrissey and The Smiths (the band he once led). The iconic singer has long provided the theme music to my life. In High School, Viva
Hate and Strangeways, Here We Come
spun round and round on my turntable. In College, I mourned to “I Know it’s
Over,” celebrated with “A Swallow on my Neck” and wandered around Boston to “Late
Night, Maudlin Street,” wondering about the whereabouts of loved ones lost. More
recently, I spent my 24th birthday – still shell-shocked from losing
Glasgow – ambling around Manhattan to “Why Don’t You Find Out for Yourself?”
In addition to all of his erudite lyricism, often tailored to empathize with his listeners, Morrissey made
me feel less lonely about my decision to abstain from meat. I became vegetarian
at age nine. When I discovered that Morrissey had similar anti-meat
reservations – enough to write a song about it and even entitle an album “Meat is
Murder” – I felt infinitely grateful.
***
While browsing his songs on YouTube, I discovered that
Morrissey would soon be performing at the very place in which I ushered. I yelped around my apartment. This
was simply surreal: I had the opportunity to watch my musical amore perform, and
I would get paid for doing so.
Immediately, I sent an e-mail to the head usher, wondering how long in advance
I should request that shift. I was told to wait a month. These things take time. When it became time to sign-up, I mistakenly sent my request to the wrong e-mail address. I did not discover that I had done this until a week before the
gig. Fortunately, remembering how I felt about the man (she knows I’d love to see
him), my manager added my name to the shift. Cue Natalie Merchant:
On the day of the gig, I felt an unbearable mixture of
excitement and anxiety, as if my shift were some mixture between a hot date and the interview for the perfect job. I spent hours preparing: showering, grooming, making
sure I smelled alright, double-checking that my black ushering clothes did not magically disappear, etc. Once aboard the subway, my muscles and viscera started seizing-up: taut as steel
knots. “Panic” indeed.
I arrived fifty minutes before call, so I decided to pass the time by talking distractedly to fellow ushers. Eventually, the sign-in sheet was brought out, naming our stations. Mine was far up in the balcony: our theater's nosebleed section. What difference does that make? It makes none.
During our pre-show usher meeting, I found myself grinning in blithe disbelief throughout the head usher's introduction to the show.
No attempts at composure would hide my happiness as she ran-down the details. She was presumably unfamiliar with Morrissey and bemused by the unusual protocols surrounding the show:
In case we weren't aware, Morrissey has a highly-devoted fan base. Despite being a ticketed event, and
despite being sold-out, some of the people in the lobby had been there for over
three hours, just happy to be in the same building as their musical hero. On a related note, this would be a high-security gig and extra measures would be taken to keep order.
Morrissey is a vegan (has he gone vegan?) who is "into PETA,"
hence the PETA stall in the lobby and the absence of meat on the first floor.
However, should a patron ask for meat, there were turkey sandwiches available in
the mezzanine café.
It is not unusual for people to leap on stage and try to
hug Morrissey. Four guards would patrol the stage to keep people
from doing this.
The water bottle incident was mentioned. Patrons would be
discouraged from bringing capped bottled into the theatre. However, as the ushers
reasoned, this was a difficult rule to enforce, and damage could be done with an
uncapped water bottle if thrown correctly. The head usher agreed, adding that slips from water spillage were more of
a priority anyway.
Kristeen Young was the opening act. She would perform for
the first thirty minutes. There would be a thirty minute intermission in which an
anti-meat film would be screened (this did not actually happen: music videos –
including those starring Nico, the New York Dolls, The Sparks, David Bowie and a couple of sixties/seventies European pop musicians – were instead shown during the break).
Morrissey would come on stage at around nine and play until ten thirty, “but
Kelsey, the devoted fan in our midst, would probably like to see him play until midnight." You guessed it, Ms. Manager!
The first hour was chaotic. People entered and exited at
their will during the opening act, which meant that I had to guide rushes of people to their seats, in darkness, on the steep inclines of the
balcony level. I also had to remind people to keep their tickets with them as they
left for concessions.
Soon, the intermission ended, and the screen on which the aforementioned music videos were projected went dark. A disembodied voice had started reading from a list
(was it a list of 20th century new events?) and a light show commenced. People were still trickling in. I was
momentarily worried that I wouldn’t find a position from which to enjoy the
show before it started, but the announcer's bizarre list droned on. Thankfully, with the trickle quickly slowing, I took my place, and as I rested on a post between two
emergency doors, Morrissey and his band emerged from stage left. Even that far up, I recognized him: the stage lights caught the contours of his face.
My job during the show was reduced to shining my flashlight at the floor, helping patrons see whenever they ascended/descended the stairs. That, in addition to keeping an eye out for the special instructions of floor managers (which I did by glancing over my shoulder every few minutes), I was able to enjoy the performance.
Morrissey began the show with “Action is My
Middle Name,” a newer song that he's been performing a lot lately. He
followed with “Everyday is Like Sunday,” which resonated through my bones like
a religious affirmation. I shouted the lyrics along with my comrades in the
audience in spite of myself. I was only singing.
At first, I tried to keep a mental playlist, but my memory
has not held up. Instead, I’ll run through some highlights:
“How Soon is Now?” finished with killer drumming from a most splendid drum set.
There was one apparel casualty: a pink shirt was sacrificed following a
magical performance of “Let Me Kiss You.” Morrissey tore it off and threw it to the ravenously crowd. Three shirts were worn
overall.
I regard Vauxhall and
I as a flawless album – his best solo work, even if Viva Hate has personal significance tome – and so I was thrilled by his stunning performance of “Speedway.”
In between songs, Morrissey brought out a sealed envelope. "...And 'the best musician award' goes to..." This was how he introduced his band: "Boz Boorer on guitar..." etc. "...And the winner is," said the singer, opening the envelope to the sound of the audience chanting his name, "Taylor Swift?" He flicked the envelope into the audience. Trash.
During “November Spawned a Monster,” the first person
to successfully jump up on stage embraced Morrissey at the lyric when the Mozzer
requested to be hugged. I found this incredibly touching (much more so than the
couple next to whom I was standing, who seem to have found romance in this song about a disabled child).
A female audience member was able to climb
up on stage and hug Morrissey. I get the impression that this is rather rare. Usually the men do the
hugging.
“Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want” was performed like a prayer, answered in the end.
The show finished with “Meat is Murder,” in which Morrissey
gesticulated to graphic factory farm footage, asking “Do you care? Do you care? Do
you care?” Some of the lines were changed, most memorably: "K. F. C. ...MURDER." The song concluded with Moz kneeling in front of the screen as the guitars shrieked like screaming knives.
At the end of "Meat is Murder," Morrissey bowed with his band members and left the stage. The audience and I applauded wildly until they agreed
to perform an
encore. He chose “Still Ill,” a favorite of mine. Here the audience went wild. Several who got on stage
were thrown violently back into the crowd by
the security guards, who were now lurking behind Morrissey like failed back-up
dancers.
Then Morrissey and his band left the stage permanently, and no amount of applause would bring them back.
***
With our love-drenched feelings mutual, I enjoyed my interactions with Morrissey fans. Noting my status as an usher – an enforcer of theatre house rules – a bearded gent jovially grabbed my arm, albeit unexpectedly, and informed me that he wouldn't stop dancing even if I told him to do so. After all, this was a concert. Smiling, I told him that
I wouldn’t stop him unless my superior said I should. He wasn’t in the aisle, so this wouldn't have been a problem.
After the show, a different fellow shook my hand, noting that he had seen me clearly enjoying myself in the corner. He expressed happiness that I did, being that there were probably
several shows that I had to see and didn’t like (this isn’t really the case; my venue puts on amazing gigs). I awkwardly shook his hand for the second time and thanked him for his positive regard.
As the crowd emptied, a woman who had enjoyed the show asked me whether I knew much about Morrissey. I confessed
my enthusiasm, which I hope paralleled her own.
I would have liked to talk to other patrons about Morrissey, but alas, I had to hop a subway and head back to the old house. A fellow usher was seated next to me on the subway. I found myself speaking loudly to her about the show (which wasn't her thing), hoping to catch the attention of a rather attractive concert attendee
seated across from me. It didn't work. The said concert-goer had earphones in and alighted only a few stops down.
Regardless, after finally witnessing the splendor of Morrissey
in concert, Now My Heart is Full.
