Origins, Continued

Although I was still a small child and didn't listen to much of it until I was older, I maintain an unironic love for the music of the early to mid-80's. If I had a soundtrack for my life, it would most certainly include some post-punk gems like Blondie and Elvis Costello. The sad parts would unfold to Joy Division (or maybe New Order) and The Smiths. Moments of triumph would go to Dexy's Midnight Runners and the falling-in-love montage would be be set to the Go-Go's.

To me that music speaks to one of my fondest childhood longings: the carefree excitement of young adulthood. My family are good people, but I was more than a little stifled and sheltered, and I longed for the opportunity to prove that I could handle a little freedom. And the music inspired me because it was the music my older cousin worshipped. Her bedroom walls were a collage of Fine Young Cannibals, Echo and the Bunnymen and Depeche Mode posters and album covers. When I heard it, I imagined living like I imagined the singers did: in the city, surrounded by friends, being incredibly hip and interesting. I wanted to be that way, too.

Much could be said here about the erotic possibilities of Depeche Mode. But I didn't see much of them on MTV, which was what I watched religiously once my family finally figured out that we were already paying for cable but needed a decent set to get more than 13 channels.

One of the videos that popped up frequently, though, was this one:



Those clean-cut preppies hanging out in exotic locations like proverbial White Hunters were just so attractive. And the location called to mind another 80s icon that has already had some screen time on my blog: the indomitable Dr. Jones. In fact, those of you who love him as much as I do might remember that those scenes in the cafe in Cairo, where Indiana sits with Belloq and have delicious arch-enemy dialoge. Belloq, a lovely villain almost as much fun as Indy himself, utters a line I absolutely LOVE to imitate: "Ah am a shahdowy reflahction of yooo!"

I can't say I identified much with the statuesque lady in war paint in the video. But it fueled my fantasies for years.

And then there's Sting, back before he became an insufferable twit:



In this one it's all about the lyrics, although a sweaty, black-and-white Sting making love with his guitar sure didn't hurt. I wanted someone to look at me like that and sing a song about putting barbed wire around my heart - metaphorical barbed wire, of course. I don't do blood.