It was uncomfortably hot, August of 1999. Aaron and I streaked the windshield of my 88 Honda Accord with smoke from cigarettes pilfered from my grandmother on our way through Davenport, IA. I was on summer break during my third year at the University of Iowa, and had just limped through another sad semester which saw me fail a class in Zen Buddhism.
Aaron's girlfriend, a holdover from high school, was studying much more diligently at UW Madison. Our original plan was to go to my grandmother's house, and stay there while she was visiting relatives in Chicago. There was a jazz festival going on, the prospect of which seemed positively unexciting compared to Aaron's chance to spend an amorous night with Jess. We unzipped the Honda's leaky sunroof, and headed to Badger country.
Most of our discussions tended toward music, he and I being fans of similar stripes. The previous night, he had guested on my radio show, 89.7 KRUI, Iowa City's Sound Alternative, added his suggestions and commentary. At the station's behest, we played five new songs an hour, which I kept chronicled in a book during the three-hour shift. One of which was Waiting for Superman, off the Flaming Lips' newest, The Soft Bulletin.
Normally the newer tracks were obligatory, nothing more. I tended towards music of which I was familiar, stuff that I wanted to hear at 3am, whacked on coffee, looking nervously out the window of the tiny house that held the station. Newer music gave me opportunities for bathroom breaks, to call friends, and to pretend to study. Waiting for Superman was different, professional, calming, orchestral and sad without being maudlin.
In Madison, Aaron bought a copy of the album at a local record shop that, thankfully still exists. It was all we listened to on the way back to Iowa City. We laughed at Wayne's strained vocals and oddly straightforward, heartfelt lyrics. Looking back, I think it because we were young, sarcastic, and didn't know how to deal with such humanity in song. Our laughter was partly curious, too, and over the ensuing years, the album has been comforting and reassuring, quite unlike anything else I've ever heard from a rock band. The crux of the album is that it's okay to feel overwhelmed, and to lose your way. It's okay to have faith in heroes, and important to heal and throw on a crooked smile.
Recently the Soft Bulletin was re-released on vinyl, which, given that I sold my CD version of it years ago out of financial necessity, gave me the chance to revisit it. When the opener, Race for the Prize started, I got chills. Feeling Yourself Disintegrate brought me back to my apartment on Gilbert Street, lying on the floor in my living room, wondering when my depression would lift. Waiting for Superman made me cry. It's such an honest record, and it still breaks me up.
I never returned to U of Iowa as a student, although three years ago, my parents, alumni both, and I went as football fans. As we walked across the Iowa River, past the library and up the hill towards the stadium, my first dorm, and the radio station, my stomach tangled, and the last volunteer battled on.
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