In response to my first blog entry, one of my oldest and dearest friends Judy posed this question, “What about Depeche Mode?!” I mentioned The Smiths in that entry, but the truth is that my first complete collection of tapes was that of Depeche Mode.
While most girls my age in middle school were dreaming about Axl Rose or Jordan Knight, my heart was set on one blonde, curly-haired genius known as
Martin L. Gore. I kept on the wall next to my bed a picture of Martin himself from a French music magazine, hair teased to perfection, beret in place, lips pursed in order to avoid showing those adorably crooked British teeth, pearl necklaces galore and overall stylishly fitted in a fishnet top and a skirt. The picture was carefully ripped out of the magazine, placed in a sheet protector and thumbtacked directly next to where I laid my head on the bed.
Unlike other preteens, at the age of 11 or 12, I had the ability to rationalize that there would not and never could be any kind of romantic relationship between Martin Gore and myself. In my dreams I never thought he would be that much older boyfriend who could sing ballads to me. I’ve never been one for that anyway. (At this point, all I want in a boyfriend is one who can hold his own while singing Tom Waits’s song “Old Shoes (and Picture Postcards)” with me.)
So how could Martin Gore factor in my life, if not by being inappropriate, imaginary boyfriend? I decided that he would be my second or adoptive father, not that my own real-life father wasn’t good enough, I love my God-given parents (see the next post) but it just didn’t make sense for me to have a boyfriend who wore a skirt. I preferred to have a father like that, I guess.
With that firmly in mind, I decided then that I would need to make a home for us. I spent weeks, maybe even my whole three years of middle school, designing a 3-story home for my adoptive family. Martin and I would live on the 2nd floor while the others, Dave Gahan, Alan Wilder and Andy Fletcher, would live on the 1st and 3rdfloors. We had rooms just for listening and just for singing. In my dreams, Martin would often take me along with him onto the Arsenio Hall show to sing songs from Black Celebration together.
When The Smiths came along, I was suddenly overwhelmed by this new figure Morrissey who captured my attention and vocal cords. I knew that I had to find a place for both of them (after all, Martin did have another 10 more or so good years in front of him). He would be Uncle Morrissey, and we would oftentimes have afternoon tea together, while talking much crap about Robert Smith and the Cure.
I’ve read that the peak of rock star idolization occurs around the ages of 10 – 11, that it is developmentally appropriate and healthy to some extent. I am happy to know that I was developmentally on track at one point but I am not sure how healthy it was.
I watched recently a video of Martin singing on stage with his
real daughter. I admit feeling a tinge of jealousy. I doubt her floorplans are as good as mine though.
Unlike other preteens, at the age of 11 or 12, I had the ability to rationalize that there would not and never could be any kind of romantic relationship between Martin Gore and myself. In my dreams I never thought he would be that much older boyfriend who could sing ballads to me. I’ve never been one for that anyway. (At this point, all I want in a boyfriend is one who can hold his own while singing Tom Waits’s song “Old Shoes (and Picture Postcards)” with me.)
So how could Martin Gore factor in my life, if not by being inappropriate, imaginary boyfriend? I decided that he would be my second or adoptive father, not that my own real-life father wasn’t good enough, I love my God-given parents (see the next post) but it just didn’t make sense for me to have a boyfriend who wore a skirt. I preferred to have a father like that, I guess.
With that firmly in mind, I decided then that I would need to make a home for us. I spent weeks, maybe even my whole three years of middle school, designing a 3-story home for my adoptive family. Martin and I would live on the 2nd floor while the others, Dave Gahan, Alan Wilder and Andy Fletcher, would live on the 1st and 3rdfloors. We had rooms just for listening and just for singing. In my dreams, Martin would often take me along with him onto the Arsenio Hall show to sing songs from Black Celebration together.
When The Smiths came along, I was suddenly overwhelmed by this new figure Morrissey who captured my attention and vocal cords. I knew that I had to find a place for both of them (after all, Martin did have another 10 more or so good years in front of him). He would be Uncle Morrissey, and we would oftentimes have afternoon tea together, while talking much crap about Robert Smith and the Cure.
I’ve read that the peak of rock star idolization occurs around the ages of 10 – 11, that it is developmentally appropriate and healthy to some extent. I am happy to know that I was developmentally on track at one point but I am not sure how healthy it was.
I watched recently a video of Martin singing on stage with his real daughter. I admit feeling a tinge of jealousy. I doubt her floorplans are as good as mine though.
