Break My Heart

Love's a pain: young and warped Valentines

American Idiot, Green Day

Do you have the time to listen to me whine
About nothing and everything all at once?
I am one of those
Melodramatic fools
Neurotic to the bone
No doubt about it

On the radio Green Day echoed through the corridors of surf-wear. I was working surf retail and folding t-shirts as I did every day. Sleeve-sleeve-torso to neck-stack-repeat- good training for doing my children’s laundry someday. I sang along to the song Basketcase in a pseudo pop-punk British accent even though Billie Armstrong is from Oakland California. Eventually, from beyond hills of Billabong cotton I heard a sultry woman’s voice harmonizing with me.

Sometimes I give myself the creeps
Sometimes my mind plays tricks on me
It all keeps adding up
I think I'm cracking up
Am I just paranoid?
Or am I just stoned?

We fell for each other immediately and began dating. That summer we landed tickets to the Vans Warped Tour and didn’t see Green Day, but caught Blink 182, The Mighty Mighty Bosstones, 311 and Beck which made up for it. There was a mobile rock climbing wall as part of the entertainment at the festival, and I thought maybe I could impress my new girlfriend with my climbing skills. As I approached the wall there was a short, tattooed muscular guy with bushy sideburns running the program. It was one of my rock-climbing hero’s- Kurt “ The General” Smith. His bold ascents in Yosemite, Joshua tree, Colorado and Mexico are legendary starting in the 1980s to present day.

The legendary Kurt Smith in the late 80’s

“Woah! you’re Kurt Smith! what in the world are you doing here?”

I don’t remember what he said, but probably something like “Climbing doesn’t pay the bills, man” or something similar. Kurt approached his climbing much like the music we were there to see: with a bold, punk attitude and everything he did was ALL IN. I was transfixed on that life and wondered how to live it: the mix of counter culture, freedom and frugality was a siren song.

Kurt could sense that drooling desire and said “we could use some help on the road. Want to roll with us?” And that is how I ended up on the Vans Warped Tour for the summer of 1996. Every night the musicians and vendors would share hotel rooms to take turns getting showers. I felt so out of place: I was an immensely sheltered kid from the heartland. The tour was the first time I had been offered booze, drugs and a peek into the world outside of the fundamentalist bubble I was raised in. Much to Kurts delight, a young woman came up to the rock wall covered only in body paint and glitter asking to climb. “Jeremy will help you” Kurt snickered, knowing how uncomfortable I would be. My hand trembled as I outfitted her with a harness. He snapped a shot of the moment and STILL enjoys sending it to me on occasion (aka blackmail).

I got to hang with all the bands and my girlfriend would come and go as she could, meeting us on the road. It was a dream I didn’t know I had- sharing music, travel and adventure mixed up with a sprinkle of romance.Kurt encouraged me to draw portraits on the tour to add to my income. People would climb the wall and get their likeness done while they waited. I had officially joined the circus.

We celebrated together at the final tour stop in Panama City, Florida. Sunburnt and skinny, we danced and laughed in the blissful cloud of youthful ignorance. As the last chords echoed in our ears, the bus departed and the rock wall came down for the last time. The ride was over, however Kurt became a friend and mentor for the rest of my career. We worked on numerous projects together in the outdoor space supporting the Access Fund, Evolv, and Meridian Line.

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After the tour wrapped up, my girlfriend left the US to visit her grandmother in South Africa for a couple months. I was so enamored with her but figured taking a breather wouldn’t hurt. We were in love with each other and music. Communication was tough back then: No texting and no apps so the long distance thing was a real struggle. She might as well have gone to the moon. Crackly phone calls became increasingly awkward until she finally admitted after a month away she had connected with someone along her travels and was pregnant.

My 19 year old heart was shattered and I ran away to the desert to escape on the Sonoran island that is Tucson, Arizona. There under the saguaros I tried to recover. Eventually I went and visited my lost love–I wanted to hear it directly from the horse’s mouth. She was sorry but needed to move onto what was next for her. That hurt even worse but I had to do it and I never saw her again after that day.

Years later when I became a parent myself, I certainly unlocked multiple new unknown fears. Of course there was injury or sickness for my kids, but up there at the top of the list I was worried for the inevitable heartbreak life would serve them. I wanted to protect them from it, but the truth is- pain can be a gift. How do we learn to survive without it? I can tell you the stove-top is hot but the only way to know is to get burned.

Heartbreak and music is a pain and salve we can all have in common. Any time someone is going through a soul shattering experience one of my first questions is “what music are you listening to?” Heartbroken? Devastated? Discombobulated? Music can fix it. I’m no scientist but I wonder if we could inject music directly into the bloodstream what calamities it could cure.

Valentine’s Day has never meant much to me. It feels like a consumer driven holiday more than most, and the obligation can be a minefield. First it was just a small card, then candy, then flowers. Now its an hour wait at any good restaurant which sours the mood. I want to share my love when I’m inspired to, not when it’s easy in the checkout line and everyone else is doing it. And when everything hurts… I just want music.

Happy Valentines Day to all your broken and mended and whole hearts.

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