Andrew Knox

HUM 125 – Hip-Hop Theory and Culture

September 30th, 2010

Reflection Paper #1: Music Autobiography

Music didn't enter my consciousness until late in eighth grade. I was raised thinking that music

was just what my parents listened to: the Grateful Dead, the Beatles, Uncle Bonsai. My parents were

complete deadheads, from 1984 until about two years after my sister was born, in 1996. They dragged

me from womb to carriage to toddler tether to multiple Dead shows along the I-5 corridor from Mount

Vernon to Medford. I hated it. It was loud and screechy. The sun threw down malicious rays from

high noon. And it smelled like... “incense” everywhere.

So, with most of my early childhood memories associated with music being negative, I

wholeheartedly avoided music as long as I could. I only took Clarinet in fifth grade because of peer

pressure. But I was missing a lot. Most of my friends and classmates were listening to the bands that

were popular when we were in seventh grade back when we were in seventh grade, so I would endure

ridicule for being “so behind the curve” when I became obsessed with these same songs in tenth grade.

“Weird Al” Yankovic was my gateway drug. In seventh grade, when my friends were hatching

and maturing their musical tastes, moving away from the white Seattle kid starter kit of Nirvana and

Presidents of the United States of America towards more current chart-toppers, like Eminem, System of

a Down, Puddle of Mudd and Blink-182, I was becoming relatively certain that Running With Scissors

was the best album ever conceived, recorded, mixed, mastered, pressed, shrink-wrapped and sold to a

fat, lonely 12-year old protagonist. While free and illegal file sharing merely removed the financial

ceiling for many of America's apprentice teenagers in acquiring their favorite artist's discography,

Kazaa set me free.

One night, while scouring over the newest Kazaa search list for “Artist:Wierd Al,” I found a

song titled “Smells Like Nirvana.” I had no idea what it was, and I certainly had no clue what impact it

would have on my life. Twenty minutes later, it finished downloading off dial-up, and I turned up my
speakers. From the power chords used in license of parody through the kazoo solo and tuba bridge,

until the gargling with marbles, descent-into-madness finale, I was hooked. My mind was blown, and I

didn't even understand the jokes. I didn't know who Nirvana were, but I knew I had to hear the original

version of that song. And soon, my computer's Music library had two whole songs. Like the weird

little kid with undiagnosed ADHD that I was, I would often listen to “Smells Like Teen Spirit” and its

parody on loop for hours on end while using my computer for everything except tomorrow's

homework.

When I started High School the following fall, I was a castaway. All of my best friends chose

Ballard, Nathan Hale or The Center School, whereas I let my mom trick me into Ingraham's

International Baccalaureate program. While at the time I missed my old friends terribly, with six years

past since, I thank her for positioning me for the life I now live. Initially, I seemed to be one of the

brighter students in the lot when it came to in class discussions. But I was scared, trapped in a strange

land, forced into association with strange people whose only factor in common with me was the

number of rings on their trunks. Things started to turn worse halfway through second quarter of ninth

grade, as major assignments became due, and eventually past due. My parents were disappointed, my

teachers tried to forget me except for when they needed an example on why you should do your French

verb conjugation homework before you get to class, and I was a sad panda. I turned into the quiet kid,

my head and neck rescinded back into my shell.

As I didn't connect well with my classmates, I connected more with music. I wore an oversized

Dark Side of the Moon sweatshirt with the hood up and hair long enough to conceal the headphones

feeding me my soul dose of Nirvana, Sublime, System of a Down, Rage Against the Machine, Green

Day and Arctic Monkeys and blocking out the drone of trigonometry. I would've probably remained a

zombie in a stereo cable cocoon if my history teacher, Mr. Sciarrone, hadn't told me one day to take off

my headphones and participate in the ongoing class discussion about Chairman Mao and the Cultural

Revolution.
 While my other teachers had kind of dismissed me as just another poor student who would have

to be demoted to regular high school next year, Sciarrone apparently thought I had something going for

me. He encouraged me to go to the after-school writing program that he advised. After a couple

Fridays of him asking why I didn't stop by yesterday, I showed up one Thursday. Writing has since

become my heart's vocation, my worst enemy, and my psychiatrist. His class was sixth period, last

period. After the final bell rang on the last day of Freshman year, I sat on a rock outside of his

classroom while the rest of his students rushed off to their Sophomore friend's Camry to be shuttled

away to the after-party. Sciarrone, concerned that I was the last kid on campus, came out to check if I

had a ride or if I was homeless. We talked for a while before my step-mom wobbled our ancient

Corolla hatchback to a halt in front of us and I had to go, “shut up and drive!” before the kids in the

Sophomore's slightly newer car saw me. It wasn't until we were only a couple blocks from home did

my step-mom finally wrench the details of me and teach's conversation from my sealed lips.

He had offered to give me lunchtime guitar lessons next year. He was in a punk band that was

starting to tour the country and produce professional records during school breaks. In the end, neither

his, nor the music teacher's, nor the community center's guitar lessons were very helpful for me. My

fingertips were too big, my fingers were too poorly coordinated and any chord I played sounded more

atonal and percussive than any sound I ever intended to put in the air. While I later found a good fit

with bass guitar, atonal and percussive was destined to become my niche. I became a drummer during

the summer before Junior year. I don't know what I ever did with myself before I could drum my

fingertips on the edge of the desk. Me and rhythm have since become one.

Halfway through Sophomore year, I started hanging out with a new group of friends, especially

Brian. Brian was a very pale, tall and skinny white boy with powerful delusions of blackness. With the

sweatshirts he wore, the behavior he displayed, the nickname “DJ Snowman” and his perennial threat

to dread up his shoulder-length hair, he forged a reputation as a sterling wannabe Rastafarian. I knew

he was a pothead before I knew him, and found out he was as clean as an occasional bummed cigarette
for lunch and some beers with his cousin this one time. With Brian, I explored the uncharted territories

of Rap. We carved a swath through the catalogs of Wu-Tang Clan (especially Ol' Dirty Bastard and

Inspectah Deck), Cypress Hill, N.W.A., Public Enemy, Nas, Busta Rhymes and Geto Boys. I believe I

can still recite the first verse of the Wu's “Triumph” from memory.

Emboldened by Sciarrone's continued encouragement for my creative side, as well as Wu-

Tang's vulgar and violent lyrical allure, I wrote rhymes when taking breaks from writing my

screenplay. I downloaded a bunch of pre-made rap instrumentals and recorded my verses over them

with the computer's microphone. Since this was before I started learning drums, I had no concept of

how important being on beat was. I had recorded around ten or twelve songs with no correlation

between the lyrics and the beat before a musical ear more sophisticated than Brian or my parents

laughed me all the way out to the parking lot. Brian's friend who was a girl, Dannie, categorically

stripped my production's inadequacies bare.

Even though it was a terribly disappointing defeat, I didn't give up on Hip Hop. I stopped

making it, but I kept listening to it. In Senior year, my girlfriend gave me Blue Scholars and I gave her

Jurassic 5. Clare gave me Aesop Rock and Matt gave me Sage Francis, I gave them Digable Planets

and Del tha Funkee Homosapien. As I progressed in drums and took up bass, I decided to give making

music another chance. I took the Computer Music Production class at Seattle Central with Brian Kirk

and learned the ins-and-outs of my current master tool, a virtual synthesizer/sequencer/sampler studio

program called Reason. Although my newer pieces are about as well timed as my earlier works, at

least I feel like I know what I'm doing. My current favorite musicians are Aesop Rock (abstract

metaphorical storytelling rapper) and Clutch (blues-throwback hard rock with conspiracy theorist

lyrics). I just realized something I didn't quite grasp when I started writing this paper... that music has

always been a catalyst to my creative process. My music and my writing go hand in hand.