So Much To Say

Today on Instagram I got an ad for something called the DMB Gorge Shop. Rotating graphics blinked at me, alternating images of peace signs, song titles, and (of course) the Dave Matthews Band firedancer logo. It’s the firedancer that made me pause. A camera could have zoomed in on me, now suddenly wearing a fedora and taking a long drag on a cigarette, muttering “Firedancer? I haven’t seen her in 20 years…” 

It’s targeted ads like this that make me truly terrified of technology. Nothing I’ve typed, clicked, or even spoken out loud should have brought this ad in my direction. I live a very Dave Matthews Band-free life. Now, anyway. 

Except that isn’t completely true. I had been thinking about Dave Matthews recently. About a month ago I saw he was trending on Twitter and braced myself. My default assumption when any famous man trends is that he either died or was accused of sexual assault, and I was not ready for either headline. Turns out, he had put out a song in support of Ukrainian refugees, and people seemed to like it. There was a link to a video and my brain played the entire song before I even clicked on it. I imagined Dave’s soft falsetto over a gentle acoustic melody, a call to arms in the form of shared grief, a message of hope. Not as haunting as “Minarets,” not as growling as “Don’t Drink the Water,” I knew this particular protest song would be in the sweeter, intimate style of “Cry Freedom.” As soon as the song started, I smiled. Good old Dave. 

Still, DMB Gorge Shop?? I did not, for instance, get ads about donating to refugee centers or other political causes. No, the algorithm knew to unearth the part of me that, once upon a time, would not have hesitated to buy every Dave Matthews Band-related sticker and iron-on patch available. The former version of me who once defined myself by the hemp firedancer-embroidered bag I carried, the summer concerts I attended, the bootleg tapes I discussed with strangers in AOL chat rooms, and the real-life friendships that grew from a mutual love of #41. Maybe the almighty algorithm can see into our souls. That’s a thought I’ll ignore for now. 

When I first heard “What Would You Say” on the radio in 1994, I was ten years old and instantly loved it. Perhaps because it was unlike anything I'd heard on the radio before that, or maybe it was just because my older sister liked it. Before that, on any given day, I could have said my favorite artist was Paula Abdul, Pearl Jam, John Lennon, or Salt-N-Pepa, and every answer would have been correct. I hadn't put much thought into what "my" music was. I loved it all. By the time I got into grunge, Kurt Cobain was already dead and I was still a couple years away from the “alt girl” I became in junior high (with the help of Alanis and Ani). When Dave Matthews Band came into my life, I was on the verge of growing into who I thought was going to be a pretty cool person and, unbeknownst to me, I needed them to help me get to the other side of that transition. By 1995, with the release of "Ants Marching," it no longer mattered to me whether the cassette was brought into the house because of my sister or not. I got my own copy pretty soon after, and was set on my own path. Dave's songs had child-like senses of humor and a danceable horn section, but also had emotional, sexual, and political lyrics that helped me make sense of a self just starting to take shape.

But while I was going through all of that, the stereotype of a DMB fan as a preppy white guy hacky-sacking his way toward an MBA was already forming. And it was always guys associated with the band. Entitled frat boys, laid back stoners, and “cool dads” alike were all equally likely to shout TWO STEP! at Dave shows. Young girls like me were not considered when defining what a Dave Matthews fan looked like. The stereotype of a DMB fan did have some basis in reality, but I wouldn't become fully aware of that until much later when that image did eventually affect my enjoyment of them. In my tween and early teen years of the '90s, they still felt cool, different, and indie. (Highly recommend this 2013 article, "Life as a black Dave Matthews Band fan," by Suzette Hackney, by the way!)

Perhaps this is why, of all the bands I loved but no longer listen to, Dave Matthews Band lingers somewhere deep in my genetic makeup. They were a band who wasn't meant for me, never wrote songs with me in mind, and certainly never imagined me, as a ten-year-old, falling for them so completely so quickly. Or maybe the real reason they linger is because being their fan, and taking on everything that went with that label, was the last time I let myself feel guilty about liking something that had become very, very cool to mock.

This is where I will give a massive shout out and thank you to Greta Gerwig for defending “Crash Into Me” and, by proxy, young female DMB fans, in her movie, Lady Bird. We needed that. (Incidentally, “Crash Into Me” is not a very good song, but that’s hardly the point, is it?)

The last Dave Matthews Band album I bought was Busted Stuff in 2002, which has some good songs on it and was responsible for me changing my AOL screen name to BigEyedFish41 before I left for college that same year because it felt poignant. By 2004, my relationship with Dave Matthews Band was not unlike a relationship with any other ex, which is to say, formerly all-consuming and now virtually non-existent. Whether it was the new music, a new me, or both, I'm not sure. I just know that somewhere around that time, they became a guilty pleasure in the truest sense, a past I felt compelled to hide. On more than one occasion in my 20s, I can remember being at a bar and hearing the crack of Carter Beauford’s drum sticks announcing “Ants Marching,” or LeRoi Moore’s horns introducing “Tripping Billies,” and feeling like an open wound. This was when I was still immature enough to feel betrayed by the things I've outgrown, angry that something so deeply personal and integral to my growth has the audacity to keep existing after I no longer needed it. I’d feel a weight in my stomach, suddenly worried that whatever this song meant to me will somehow show on my face, exposing me for… something. I wasn’t even sure what. I just knew I was exposed. 

The band has put out four more studio albums since 2002, and I have no idea what’s on any of them, and I’m fine with that. I no longer begrudge them for existing without me, and my embarrassment at having ever been embarrassed by them has disappeared with age and confidence. Now I’m more likely to hear “Ants Marching” at a CVS than a bar (which says more about me than the song, really), and when I do, it's like seeing an old friend with whom I'm delighted to reminisce, briefly, before carrying on with my day. 

*I try to keep my newsletters on the shorter side (under 1,000 words) and editing this one was particularly difficult! The first draft was over 2,000 words. So much to say, indeed! 

FUN STUFF

What I'm Reading: The Woman in the Purple Skirt by Natsuko Imamura

What I'm Watching: Under the Banner of Heaven (absolutely haunting true crime drama on FX)

What I'm Listening To: The entirety of Under the Table and Dreaming for the first time in 20 years, obviously

What I'm Eating: Popcorn with truffle oil, salt, and nutritional yeast 

Sarah Writes Too is a monthly newsletter of short, personal essay-style anecdotes written by me (Sarah LaPolla). If you want to send me questions or comments about any of my posts, you can reply to this email or find me on Twitter at @sarahlapolla. This is a free newsletter. The best way to show support is to subscribe to have future editions sent directly to your inbox (never more than one a month!), or share on social media.