I was the oldest, and I've never thought that to be any fun. Every child finds something to lament about their rank in the birth line; for me it was never having anyone ahead of me to guide me and show me cool stuff. Music and comic books and other trappings of youth culture have depended on older brothers and cousins since time immemorial. In this area, I was on my own.
Two friends were instrumental in helping me to develop my tastes in music and other things. The first was a fellow military brat I spent a lot of time with while living on base in California when I was 14. He hipped me to the Pixies and the Dead Kennedys and fostered an enduring appreciation of Batman comics. But most of what he tried to show me I used to pretend that I knew things I didn't know and was above things I had almost no real contact with.
The second was one of the few male friends I had in college. His name was Matt, and he and I shared a gleefully cynical view of human nature and a love of world history that transcended all the ways we were polar opposites (He: left-wing atheist who loved hockey and baseball; I: right-wing Catholic who could take or leave sports). And while it would be a stretch to say that he schooled me in music (he would smirk and roll his eyes at most of the stuff I listen to), he did teach me a lot; most of all by having an encyclopedic knowledge of all the stuff I'd missed out on growing up. This was a guy who blew me away in the misdst of my Rolling Stones period by throwing down "Bring it On Home" from Led Zeppelin II (Yeah, I made it all the way to college without hearing Zeppelin. It was that bad), who could hold forth on the merits of every Radiohead album, who owned Kula Shaker EP's.
If there's a single reason I own as many CD's as I do, it's because when I was 20 years old I used to hang out in Matt's apartment and just flip through his gigantic book of discs. This was back in the 90's, when CD's were decorated like album art, and I seemed to absorb their spirit without hearing them, as by some kind of visual osmosis. I never asked him to play anything, because he usually had on whatever he was going to listen to, but I just loved the idea of having that much music at my disposal whenever I wanted to; of being able to say "Yeah, that's the only Jagger solo album worth having."
So on Matt's recommendation, sometime around my first great indulgence in CD-buying, I picked up Surrealistic Pillow. I must have kind of wanted to, because I distinctly recall sitting in Astronomy for Non-Scientist Majors during Junior Year and finding myself doodling the lyrics to "White Rabbit" in the margin of my notebook. I was in the full flower of my Rolling Stones period, and psychedelic rock appealed to me (I probably bought Their Satanic Majesties Request and Piper at the Gates of Dawn around the same time).
Well, if I was expecting psychedelia, I was a bit disappointed, because aside from "White Rabbit" and "Somebody to Love," this is mostly a well-done, imaginative late-60's folk-rock record. And there's nothing wrong with that. "She Has Funny Cars" has a fine, bluesy punch. "My Best Friend" is pure pop cheese. "Today" is as melancholy as any Death Cab tune. "How Do You Feel" shows that the Mamas and the Poppas weren't the only mixed-sex group that could sing in harmony.
If I had to choose a favorite, it would probably be a tie between "3/5 of a Mile in 10 Seconds" and "Plastic Fantastic Lover." The first song manages to combine folky harmonies and straight-ahead rock in the music, while mixing a snarky misanthropy ("do away with people") with earnest declarations of love. Nothing could be more period-appropriate.
"Plastic Fantastic," on the other hand, cribs its folk-rap from Dylan's "It's All Right Ma (I'm only bleeding)." Unless, of course, they really stole it from "Subterranean Homesick Blues." I feel like Paul Simon ripped this song off for "Big Bright Green Pleasure Machine," but that's just the great big 60's Influence Incest at work. For all I know they were all riffing off Blind Lemon Jefferson or someone else I've heard of but never listened to.
And perhaps I'm lying when I say these are my favorites. Maybe my real favorite is "Embryonic Journey," the gentle yet fussy instrumental that precedes "White Rabbit." I like how it goes nowhere, but takes its time, and steps on every stone along the way. It's not about anything, which makes it unique on a record that's heavy and sad and bursting with freedom and about to give it all away for somebody to love.
And maybe that's why I like this record and don't see myself ever parting with it, but don't use it for much besides collecting dust. Almost every song sits well with me on its own, but taken all at once they induce a kind of strange nausea of the mind. I feel empty and off-kilter, like I'm missing something but don't know what it is. I remember digging through my growing stack of discs in the years after college, and somehow never being in the mood to hear this. But I like it. At least, I'm pretty sure I do.
Grade: L(?)
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