How a testoterone-induced, jealous rage became Jello-o ‘s first song
The phenomenon of puberty, as we all know, is a challenging period for the human biped, both male and female. It comes with weird and sometimes inexplicable physical feelings, emotions that run all over the map, hair sprouting all over our young, heretofore smooth bodies, menstruation (for half of us), and the emergence of the libido.
It was this pesky libido of mine, along with a few of my fellow Old Orchard Elementary School cronies, that we dealt with in a way common to all of that age.
On a weekend night (heaven forbid, never on a school night!) we would gather at someone’s house (as I recall, it was either Marc B’s or Penny W’s) and seek shelter in the basement of that house. It was always couples, boyfriends and girlfriends, usually about 10 of us. No reason for single stragglers for this party, and way before the presence of any openly LGBTQ+ folk.
We all would find our way to the basement (avoiding any parental confrontation) and almost like lab rats, the girls would gather in one corner and the boys in another. There was music, provided by a record player (yes, but who changed the 45s when everyone got down with the gettin’ down?), and mostly mushy ballads to set the mood. I particularly remember a song by The Outsiders, Girl In Love.
Just a thought: make-out parties in the 21st Century! No more gettin’ up to put on a new record!! Now there’s Spotify, AppleMusic, et al. AND! Who’s gonna get the lights when everybody’s assumed the position? “Hey Alexa, TURN OFF THE LIGHTS!!!” Damn, I was born too soon.
At some point, about a half hour into the gathering, one brazen, cocksure guy (usually Marc B) would break from the dudes, walk over to the girls, in particular his girl, talk for a minute, take her hand, walk to a designated spot, lay down with her, and start making out. Simple as that. Not long after, the other guys would follow suit. My girl’s name was Linda. I had a very hard time initiating my first kiss – but that’s another story.
We called these sessions “make out parties.” Everyone knew what was gonna happen, and everyone knew the “rules.” As far as I know, it was just kissing – well, French-kissing, of course, but no groping, no dry-humping, no moaning, no orgasmic activity. Just kissing. Upwards of two hours! Lotta chapped lips!
Anyway, it was right before one of these gatherings that yours truly did something that got me grounded (I’m sure it was nothing!), and with all my newly implanted testosterone, I went off!! Knowing that my girl would be at this party without me made me berserk. I went down to the family basement, shouting and yelling, and with one empowered thrust, punched a hole in the wall (in all fairness, it was old drywall, this was no Herculean feat, just pure rage.)
The “grounders” (my parents) stayed upstairs and let me rant, whilst I screamed and yelled downstairs (see the aforementioned unexplainable physical feelings and emotions). My three brothers must’ve wondered what the hell my problem was.
After I’d settled a bit, but still thinking it was the end of my world, sure that Linda would think me a mommy’s boy, I picked up a guitar. When I think about it now, I wonder if that wasn’t the birth of my Muse. As is so often the case, and in a ‘solution’ as old as man, I channeled my feelings through music.
After doodling about for who knows how long, a melody started to evolve, borne of a simple two chord progression (A-G), and a melody humbly befitting a musically untrained, untalented eighth-grader. Still it didn’t match the rage I was feeling; it was soft and quiet, as though I hoped it would appease my girlfriend, and make amends for my absence at Lip Fest.
The first lines that eventually came out were “Gotta get out tonight/We gotta go/Gotta get out tonight/and watch that little girl go . . .” Apropos, no?
Gotta Get Out Tonight (duh) was learned and performed by Jell-o, my band at the time. It was our first original composition. We even recorded it on a primitive wire recording machine that my grandfather Laspisa owned. Grampa took it a step further and pressed a few copies of a 45 (the B-side was a group jam “original,” a rip-off of Paul Revere & The Raiders’ Steppin’ Out, that we called The Green Blues).
Sadly, and to my great dismay, there are no copies of those 45s anywhere to be found on this planet. What I wouldn’t give to have a copy!
There is something about bringing a song into the world that is magical, mysterious and invokes a sense of pride like nothing else. My visual art gives me a similar exultation, but not quite the same. It’s almost like having children that I brought into this world, showing them off when I perform them. The conjuring of a mixture of notes, melodies and words, all expressing what can be very personal feelings or opinions.
This brings to mind the concept of the Muse (yes capitalized!). Where does it all come from? Is it a higher power? Where in the brain does it occur? What makes a song/piece of art/what-have-you go in one direction and not another?
Since Gotta Get Out Tonight, I have written many songs, performed them and even released a few CDs (see below). Some I’m quite proud of while others suck (you’ll have that).
And so it was that primal lust as inspiration, in all of its raw, sloppy, directionless, pubescent form, morphed into yet another example of all that which makes rock n’ roll the great beast that it is.
A word about the music below:
C’mon was born from a car ride with my two sons. We’d go back and forth swapping multiple simile references to love. This version was recorded by The Coosters. The video was a high school art project, directed by Yasmin Naylor, starring her sister, Sierra Naylor.
