Sympathy for the Devil & Bring Tha Noise

Everything about 9/11 was alarming, disturbing, disorienting, but there's this one minor aspect of that day I think gets overlooked: It all happened so damned early.

Especially so if, like me, you were living on the west coast. And even more so if, like me, you were unemployed, depressed, and sleeping past noon every day. At 6:30 a.m. I got a call from my mom who assured me that my father was safe. "Um, okay...?" He was in New York in business, she explained (this was news to me). There's been a terrorist attack, she explained (also news to me).

Amid the considerations of lives lost, of who the perpetrators were, of what would happen next, there came a minor but bewildering realization: this is easily going to be one of the most significant days of my life and it’s not even 7am yet. So many hours to fill. What to do?

Everyone, of course, has a vivid memory of that day, as if a recording device in your mind gets turned on. “Flashbulb memories” is the term for this, and I realize everyone has their 9/11 story, or their JFK assassination story, or perhaps their Paris attack story… or a dozen other stories. Days like that seem to be piling up, and it’s starting to feel less a matter of “this happened” and more a matter of “how bad was it this time?”

I don’t think my 9/11 story is particularly special, but I’m writing about it here because that evening, for me, featured a song pairing that has stuck with me. I can see no reason why this should mean anything to anyone except myself (unless you also happened to be drinking at Beulahland in Portland, Oregon that night), but I’m not too worried about alienating my readership as I'm pretty sure I do not have one.

I'm confident about my memories of that day, but I also have backup. Back then, I wrote everything down. By hand. Typically on yellow legal pads. The very idea of this now seems exhausting. Here’s a bit from that evening at Beulahland:

 A few things about this. First off, the jukebox at Beulahland in 2001 was no bullshit.

Moreover, there was something about seeing the silent images of that day and people picking out songs to play over it that felt apt. It wasn’t crass or ironic. It was more like: What else can there possibly be to say about this?

There’s a line in a Beastie Boys song that goes: I've been through many times in which I thought I might lose it. The only thing that saved me has always been music. On an average day, that sentiment seems simplistic if not downright corny. But on a non-average day, on a horrendous day, on a day that’ll spark a flashbulb memory… you tend not to give a shit if something is corny. I remember feeling grateful, that night, to have been in that bar, among strangers, and to have heard these songs, which from here on out are conjoined in my memory.