I attended Berklee College of Music in Boston from 1986-1988. I won't go into details but I'll just say there were things I liked about it and things I didn't. Boston, it's a beautiful city but the vibration in those days wasn't for me. Things were meaner in the 80's, or maybe my perception has simply changed.
I knew I was going to be in for a bit of a wild ride within an hour after my dad dropped me off at my apartment in September of '86. I was at a record store and was approached by a man who wanted me to be in one of his adult films. My little suburban self wasn't prepared for big city life but, I did manage to elbow him in the ribs out of instinct as he reached into my personal space and told him to get the (expletive) away from me. He did. I honor my inner animal.
After 2 years of good grades and having my guitarist ego crushed like a bug, I was having doubts as to whether music was something I really wanted to pursue. Plus, Berklee was quite literally, 85% boys. There were so few girls. Not cool for a 19 year old Jef and I don't just mean on some sex/romance level, I mean on simple variety. I didn't like the way women were treated, especially by some of the scuzzier jazzhole professors. I found myself drawn to my English class. My schoolmates resented the requirement, they only wanted to talk music and study scales and harmony and I was bored of that. I discovered I actually liked reading and writing. I started to wonder if school was actually damaging me: disconnecting me from so called normal folks. Would I make music that didn't connect with people? I did not want that. Simply put, it was too much music, not enough life. This was the institutional art school model of the 80's. It felt like a factory. I needed to be in a band.
But I stuck it out despite these feelings. I wanted to please my parents first and foremost, and I wanted to follow through. But something simply wasn't right. Boston was a rather segregated city with a heavy race vibe in those days. I felt the energy there was sending me elsewhere.
Yeah, this post is uncomfortable....race, religion, Othering one another, that's the heart of it.
I had a neighbor down the hall named Dylan. He was a smiley hair metal kid. I'd see him often in the morning. We'd always smile at one another and go about our business. One day I finally introduced myself and we had a few conversations. He was just a nice kid in my life story. At the end of the year he invited me to his party. There was a really cute blond gal that hung around his place so of course I said yes, but would have said yes anyway.
So I went to his party. Did something I hadn't done for a long time which is drink. And I drank way too much. These were metal kids. When in Rome.....There was some weed and mushrooms going around but I stuck to bourbon.
Those of you who know me, I'm what they call bi-racial. I don't like labels, I find them violent and they don't actually describe anyone. I get nervous at parties when I'm the only one like me there. Sometimes people feel free to toss a black joke around and I feel defenseless. They don't know who I really am and my skin happens to be pale so while they feel safe, I don't. I gained a reputation for leaving without saying goodbye. There is a reason for everything.
Back to Dylan's party. Yeah, the cute blond was there. I remember her being nice to me but of course, she fancied a metal dude. So I drank more. At one point I wondered what am I doing here at this party. So I stepped out with some mushroom tripping kids and went to their apartment. I took my camera with me. It was about 3am. I left their place around 5am and by this point my drunk was wearing off. I got back to my haunted building and decided to say goodnight to Dylan and thank him for the good times.
When I walked into his place there was a new guest sitting on the beer keg. An older man, a rough looking 40 something with greasy blond hair, blue eyes and a black leather jacket. He immediately took an interest in me. He started asking about my camera which he deemed a weapon. "I said don't point that machine gun at me!" He kept yammering away and yes, I was creeped out. I lived right up the hallway but didn't wish to go home, I did not want this guy to see where I lived. He kept talking about me being Turkish and that he didn't like that fact. He muttered some bible mumbo jumbo.....
Dylan, high as a Georgia Pine on mushrooms asked me if I wanted to go to the roof and watch the sunrise. I said yes, it was an opportunity to get away from this fair gentleman. I said goodnight to him and turned away.
And of course, he followed us up to the rooftop. What was I expecting? My new frenemy wanted to carry on his hatred of me and continue his creepy ass delusion that I'm a Muslim and he's a Viking defender of the faith.
So we arrive at the rooftop and Captain Klan mutters more Jesus stuff and American patriot stuff and ask my what my nationality is. I say "German Irish" to which he replies "Bullshit!" Then informs me that he's an American and nobody fucks Vikings over and that my Turkish ass will be going over the roof. He grabs me. Fortunately, I was cold sober by now and he was destroyed on whatever he was on. I managed to get away pretty easily, slide down the ladder to the roof and run to my apartment. Before that moment I looked at Dylan and his lady friend and just said 'help'. They were useless with this gaze on their faces and the saddest eyes I had ever seen. I was already dead apparently. Fear baby, fear.....
I locked my door and listened to this maniac run up and down the hallways shouting obscenities. Eventually the shouts stopped. I stood in my apartment and shook for what seemed like forever.
So Jef, cops? Did you call them? No, I didn't. I'm no longer baffled by that. It took another month for the denial to wear off. Attempted murder? Nah. That only happens elsewhere to other folks on the 11 O'clock news.
About an hour after the incident my roommate came home and I told him what had happened. He looked worse than me. He simply says "you think you had a bad night?" then proceeds to tell me that he got drunk at a bar and cheated on the love of his life (who was seeing at least 2 other dudes!) and she was going to be devastated. So I almost lose my life and he has a zesty session and his night was worse? Oh lordy, what is wrong with people?
So no, I don't blame Jesus for the actions of a maniac, but someone put those ideas in his head maybe 2000 or 3000 years ago. Our thinking is the result of thousands of years of propaganda, ancient books written by folks who didn't have clean drinking water so they drank wine and other fermented beverages and wrote down things to make men feel superior. Think about it. If we go about our lives declaring "I am an American, I am a Muslim, I am a Christian, I'm a Viking" or whatever, we will never move forward from monstrous acts like this guy tried or Isis does so well. The declaration of Othering is violent in itself.
Fast forward 12 years later. I'm on tour with Jackie O in 2000. We're in London and our drummer and I are sitting on the steps to the hotel and there are 3 little Pakistani kids playing with a ladder. We're smiling at them, they are smiling at us. One of them ask my drummer if she's a Christian. She says no. Then the kid, who can't be more than 8 says "That's good, Christians touch dogs and spread disease." It breaks the heart to hear such violence coming from a child. It breaks the heart cause like my dear bible verse quotingViking patriot American maniac, those ideas where put into their heads when they were innocent children by what we call adults. People we are supposed to trust. People who think they have our best interest.
So how does my Boston story end? My dad picked me up to take me home for the summer and I sublet my room to a kid from Silver Spring Maryland named Ben. I have no details but do know that Ben and Dylan became drinking buddies. I got a phone call from one of my Boston people, a friend of my ex, that she went to take the trash out and found Dylan in the dumpster. He had fallen off the rooftop. Dead. Rumor had it he a Ben were drinking together 6 stories up. Ben? Never heard from him again. He simply vanished and skipped out on the rent. So I decided that going back to my haunted (literally) apartment building in that city was a really bad idea. Best choice I could have made and I have no regrets. Sometimes the energy of this world simply acts this way. GET OUT! You know, like those horror movies where the family moves in and a voice says "Get out" or blood comes out of the faucet? Horror movies aren't far from the truth. It's best to simply admit "I'm not welcome here, I shall go where I am loved, Goodbye evil spirits!". Life is short, and I'm grateful that it wasn't for me only 19 years short! I'm grateful for that horrible racist even, for that was the brick that hit the camel in the head and altered the course of my life for the better.
JB
I knew I was going to be in for a bit of a wild ride within an hour after my dad dropped me off at my apartment in September of '86. I was at a record store and was approached by a man who wanted me to be in one of his adult films. My little suburban self wasn't prepared for big city life but, I did manage to elbow him in the ribs out of instinct as he reached into my personal space and told him to get the (expletive) away from me. He did. I honor my inner animal.
After 2 years of good grades and having my guitarist ego crushed like a bug, I was having doubts as to whether music was something I really wanted to pursue. Plus, Berklee was quite literally, 85% boys. There were so few girls. Not cool for a 19 year old Jef and I don't just mean on some sex/romance level, I mean on simple variety. I didn't like the way women were treated, especially by some of the scuzzier jazzhole professors. I found myself drawn to my English class. My schoolmates resented the requirement, they only wanted to talk music and study scales and harmony and I was bored of that. I discovered I actually liked reading and writing. I started to wonder if school was actually damaging me: disconnecting me from so called normal folks. Would I make music that didn't connect with people? I did not want that. Simply put, it was too much music, not enough life. This was the institutional art school model of the 80's. It felt like a factory. I needed to be in a band.
But I stuck it out despite these feelings. I wanted to please my parents first and foremost, and I wanted to follow through. But something simply wasn't right. Boston was a rather segregated city with a heavy race vibe in those days. I felt the energy there was sending me elsewhere.
Yeah, this post is uncomfortable....race, religion, Othering one another, that's the heart of it.
I had a neighbor down the hall named Dylan. He was a smiley hair metal kid. I'd see him often in the morning. We'd always smile at one another and go about our business. One day I finally introduced myself and we had a few conversations. He was just a nice kid in my life story. At the end of the year he invited me to his party. There was a really cute blond gal that hung around his place so of course I said yes, but would have said yes anyway.
So I went to his party. Did something I hadn't done for a long time which is drink. And I drank way too much. These were metal kids. When in Rome.....There was some weed and mushrooms going around but I stuck to bourbon.
Those of you who know me, I'm what they call bi-racial. I don't like labels, I find them violent and they don't actually describe anyone. I get nervous at parties when I'm the only one like me there. Sometimes people feel free to toss a black joke around and I feel defenseless. They don't know who I really am and my skin happens to be pale so while they feel safe, I don't. I gained a reputation for leaving without saying goodbye. There is a reason for everything.
Back to Dylan's party. Yeah, the cute blond was there. I remember her being nice to me but of course, she fancied a metal dude. So I drank more. At one point I wondered what am I doing here at this party. So I stepped out with some mushroom tripping kids and went to their apartment. I took my camera with me. It was about 3am. I left their place around 5am and by this point my drunk was wearing off. I got back to my haunted building and decided to say goodnight to Dylan and thank him for the good times.
When I walked into his place there was a new guest sitting on the beer keg. An older man, a rough looking 40 something with greasy blond hair, blue eyes and a black leather jacket. He immediately took an interest in me. He started asking about my camera which he deemed a weapon. "I said don't point that machine gun at me!" He kept yammering away and yes, I was creeped out. I lived right up the hallway but didn't wish to go home, I did not want this guy to see where I lived. He kept talking about me being Turkish and that he didn't like that fact. He muttered some bible mumbo jumbo.....
Dylan, high as a Georgia Pine on mushrooms asked me if I wanted to go to the roof and watch the sunrise. I said yes, it was an opportunity to get away from this fair gentleman. I said goodnight to him and turned away.
And of course, he followed us up to the rooftop. What was I expecting? My new frenemy wanted to carry on his hatred of me and continue his creepy ass delusion that I'm a Muslim and he's a Viking defender of the faith.
So we arrive at the rooftop and Captain Klan mutters more Jesus stuff and American patriot stuff and ask my what my nationality is. I say "German Irish" to which he replies "Bullshit!" Then informs me that he's an American and nobody fucks Vikings over and that my Turkish ass will be going over the roof. He grabs me. Fortunately, I was cold sober by now and he was destroyed on whatever he was on. I managed to get away pretty easily, slide down the ladder to the roof and run to my apartment. Before that moment I looked at Dylan and his lady friend and just said 'help'. They were useless with this gaze on their faces and the saddest eyes I had ever seen. I was already dead apparently. Fear baby, fear.....
I locked my door and listened to this maniac run up and down the hallways shouting obscenities. Eventually the shouts stopped. I stood in my apartment and shook for what seemed like forever.
So Jef, cops? Did you call them? No, I didn't. I'm no longer baffled by that. It took another month for the denial to wear off. Attempted murder? Nah. That only happens elsewhere to other folks on the 11 O'clock news.
About an hour after the incident my roommate came home and I told him what had happened. He looked worse than me. He simply says "you think you had a bad night?" then proceeds to tell me that he got drunk at a bar and cheated on the love of his life (who was seeing at least 2 other dudes!) and she was going to be devastated. So I almost lose my life and he has a zesty session and his night was worse? Oh lordy, what is wrong with people?
So no, I don't blame Jesus for the actions of a maniac, but someone put those ideas in his head maybe 2000 or 3000 years ago. Our thinking is the result of thousands of years of propaganda, ancient books written by folks who didn't have clean drinking water so they drank wine and other fermented beverages and wrote down things to make men feel superior. Think about it. If we go about our lives declaring "I am an American, I am a Muslim, I am a Christian, I'm a Viking" or whatever, we will never move forward from monstrous acts like this guy tried or Isis does so well. The declaration of Othering is violent in itself.
Fast forward 12 years later. I'm on tour with Jackie O in 2000. We're in London and our drummer and I are sitting on the steps to the hotel and there are 3 little Pakistani kids playing with a ladder. We're smiling at them, they are smiling at us. One of them ask my drummer if she's a Christian. She says no. Then the kid, who can't be more than 8 says "That's good, Christians touch dogs and spread disease." It breaks the heart to hear such violence coming from a child. It breaks the heart cause like my dear bible verse quotingViking patriot American maniac, those ideas where put into their heads when they were innocent children by what we call adults. People we are supposed to trust. People who think they have our best interest.
So how does my Boston story end? My dad picked me up to take me home for the summer and I sublet my room to a kid from Silver Spring Maryland named Ben. I have no details but do know that Ben and Dylan became drinking buddies. I got a phone call from one of my Boston people, a friend of my ex, that she went to take the trash out and found Dylan in the dumpster. He had fallen off the rooftop. Dead. Rumor had it he a Ben were drinking together 6 stories up. Ben? Never heard from him again. He simply vanished and skipped out on the rent. So I decided that going back to my haunted (literally) apartment building in that city was a really bad idea. Best choice I could have made and I have no regrets. Sometimes the energy of this world simply acts this way. GET OUT! You know, like those horror movies where the family moves in and a voice says "Get out" or blood comes out of the faucet? Horror movies aren't far from the truth. It's best to simply admit "I'm not welcome here, I shall go where I am loved, Goodbye evil spirits!". Life is short, and I'm grateful that it wasn't for me only 19 years short! I'm grateful for that horrible racist even, for that was the brick that hit the camel in the head and altered the course of my life for the better.
JB
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