THE PENNY PUB
Standing Up for My Creative Life Against Critical Voices
My mother’s voice and my own
In 1993, the legendary rock band Aerosmith released an album called Get a Grip. The cover featured a photo of a cow’s udder. A hoop piercing dangled from one teat — hopefully photoshopped — and the band’s signature wings were stamped on the cow’s thigh, as though to brand the animal — also hopefully photoshopped.
When the album could still be considered new, my best friend loaned me her Get a Grip cassette tape. I listened to it over and over, flipping the tape from one side to the other.
At first, I listened to all of the songs, then I quickly adopted the habit of fast-forwarding past the harder rock songs to where I estimated “Cryin,’” “Crazy,” and “Amazing” might start, then rewinding if I went too far. As you might imagine, if you’ve ever used cassette tapes, it was time-consuming.
I did this enough times to sear those favorites into my brain, permanent as real branding marks on cattle. I don’t listen to those songs anymore — almost never — but if I’m driving and they come on the radio, I recognize them in an instant.
I listened to the tape until, one day, my mother found it in my room. I’d left it on my desk, beside my cassette player. I never…
