Django

Where were you when you first heard Django?

I was at Bob Hartman's house back in dear old Pleasanton, that sea of suburban sameness and conformity. I was the new girl and I didn't conform. I was too loud, too big, too opinionated, I had moved too often, already had a closet full of skeletons. Why Bob took pity on me is a mystery, but he did, allowing the new girl to moon around in the afternoon while he and his friends hung out.

I was at Bob's one afternoon when Paul Mehling came by, the best looking boy in school. We were in choir together Paul and I, but he didn't really know who I was. I knew who he was, of course. Beautiful man, beautiful voice, incredible guitarist; half the girls in school were in love with him. I've always been a sucker for a musician. Anyway, there was beautiful Paul talking his usual beautiful bullshit (which I ate up with a spoon) and then he put the Hot Club of France on the stereo. And for a few minutes I forgot about Paul, Bob, all the boys and all the girls trying to attract their attention. I forgot to be self conscious, I forgot to run my mouth. I just listened.

Ah Django; every note told a story. Even as a teenager I could hear that the music came from his soul. The deep, melancholy, almost world-weary flavors balanced with passion, avidity, joy. Every note leapt off the recording, ran up my spine and raised the hair on the back of my arms. It was strong meat for a teenage girl.

So many miles on so many roads, only to find myself back here again, listening to Django.