The Exposition Song (Early Days)

Part One of Two.

Buffy Summers, 20th Century Fox

Sometimes you're just born at the right time, and sometimes not - like that quote I seem to cite too often about being too old for the sexual revolution. For me, it was more a case of international broadcasting rights delaying the UK terrestrial première of Buffy The Vampire Slayer just long enough to be relevant. Hard to believe it's fourteen years since Buffy débuted on BBC2 on December 30th 1998, when the US was already midway through Season 3. Yet, if it had been just two years earlier I don't think it would have resonated with me. It would be reasonable to assume age would have no bearing on the enjoyment of a fantasy-action show about a blonde Californian girl slaying vampires, but the subtext of the entire show was about being a teenager going through high school and I was in my first year of secondary school. Some people watched it for neither the pretext nor the subtext, but just to see Sarah Michelle Gellar. I didn't, because that's what Cruel Intentions was for. I actually missed the first two episodes, however after seeing the third episode on the 13th of January it became a religious part of my Wednesday nights. Sometimes I pity the teenagers today living in a world of abstinent, sparkling vampires that don't believe in sex before marriage. The great thing about inexpensive and compact home video (anything since VHS tape) is that a large part of the history of broadcast entertainment is available to the modern viewer. So someone please tie them down and break out the Buffy boxset.

You Spin Me Right Round

Rear cover art (G, Garbage, 1995)

The final track of the album fades out. The laser assembly returns to its starting position with a whir and the disc slows to a halt. All that remains is the faint hum of the speakers. The disc ejects and you place it back in the case, glancing at the artwork before slotting it back into the rack.

The older generations oft pine for the crackle of vinyl and the large elaborate cover art, and I sympathise as someone who has undergone the rite of digging through parents' vinyl collection. Our attitudes to distribution media are more tied up with memory and nostalgia than any qualitative superiority as some audio enthusiasts are always attempting to prove. Whilst technological progress enables me to carry one and a half thousand songs on my old 8GB iPod Nano, which is a hell of a lot more than the 8 track decks my Dad remembers, my own musical experiences in the 90s bind me to the compact disc.

Into The Nineties and Beyond

Around this time eight years ago I was sitting my Higher English exam (first of two tries). For the writing segment you're given a booklet with roughly a dozen topic sentences to pick from. I can't remember what topic led me to write an embarrassing China Syndrome knock-off - in fact I'd like to forget it entirely. I disliked it enough that I put an apology at the end. However, in the preliminary exam a few months before, I wrote an A+ story I really wish I had gotten photocopied - it was probably one of the best things I had then written. The topic I chose in that exam was "Write about a time you went to hospital". When I saw it I immediately thought of the time I broke my arm in primary school, but I realised that the topic did not necessarily mean 'write about a time you were admitted to hospital' allowing me some room for genuine on-the-spot creative writing. Soon after I intended to rewrite it from memory (it was a single page at most) for my old website, but I never got round to it and the following is therefore an extremely loose reconstruction. I also can't remember how it ends.

Imprint After

unidentified compact disc, Janesdead, 2005

I hate being subjected to Radio 1. Either my tastes have evolved considerably, or pop music's standards have dropped considerably. Yes I know, I'm twenty-three so that probably puts even me far outside its tweeny demographic; but I swear we've witnessed the idea of the musical composition known as a 'song' eaten from the inside out by the refrain. The refrain - often called the chorus - has always been the catchy part of a song, often where the hook resides. Naturally, it was only a matter of time before the chorus came to form an entire song whereupon the hook ceases to be a means to catch the listener's ear and instead acts more like the little slots on a cheese grater. Coupled with a gratuitous looped sample being shouted over, the whole concoction shreds my eardrum over the course of three minutes.

Because Maybe

Tucked in bed in my soft lit room
Time slows down.

The little radio on the desk
Quietly plays Wonderwall.

Peacefully drifting off
On a school night.