gmanthesis - a selective history of rocknroll from a personal perspective.

“Echoes of reggae comin’ through my bedroom wall
havin’ party up next door but I’m sitting here all alone
two lovers in the bedroom and the other starts to shout
all I got is this blank stare and that don’t carry no clout at all”

The house shakes. Jonathan, up in his bedroom with the door closed, pounds his 36” Easton metal-bat electric guitar as he growls the lyrics with just the right inflections.

“Destination unknown, Ruby ruby ruby ruby soho!!!!!!!”

I’ve heard it a hundred times before. He loves Rancid. They have cred. Green Day sold out. The Ramones were the first punks, Jonathan says. No wait, he says in his animated I’ll-TELL you-the-way-it-IS manner, it was the Velvet Underground. Yeah, they were THE ones; raw, edgy, way cool. Dad says look at the Who. That they were Mod rocker tough-guys who followed the Beatles, but weren’t so nice and cute; smashed guitars, sang about being fucked-up kids- “hope I die ‘fore I get old. Talkin’ ‘bout my generation.”

That is a common scene in the Kennedy household – my brother upstairs listening to Rancid, pretending a baseball bat is a guitar. My dad downstairs, creating websites and blogs for the rest of the FAM while listening to Joni Mitchell, or maybe he’s in the mood for the softer, yet just as soulful, Miles Davis. I took a Jazz History course in college. Liked it, more so because it was easy, rather than because of my appreciation for jazz – that’s for old people – or sorry dad, older people. Or that’s what I used to think, but now I feel all genres are for everyone to enjoy. At the moment, I don’t enjoy jazz, but I’m coming around, expanding my horizons beyond the music I use to listen to. I thought college would expose me to more music – didn’t quite happen. I learned I must expose myself to the music. I’ve spent much of my free hours, not in class, listening to music and listening to music. That is my excuse for not getting a 4.0, and I have my father and brother to thank for that as they have turned me onto more and more music. I spent too much of my teenage years listening to pop-music, music all over MTV (in which today I found out stands for Music Television). During those years, I listened to music all the time, but wouldn’t say I had a love for it. But now I do, and would like to share with you how my musical interests have evolved. But first I’m going to listen to some music to get me in the mood, an excuse I have used often in order to postpone writing this thesis. I’ll be back to the keyboard after a couple tracks.

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Garbage

He smells like he hasn’t taken a shower for three weeks. He chucks more rubbish into the back of the garbage truck. He took a shower this morning, but hasn’t taken a college course in three years. The promise of going back for a degree, in whatever, is diminishing everyday. The $6.15 an hour for being a garbage man in New York City won’t pay tuition. He complains about the ridiculous price for education. But, it was free three years ago when his parents offered to pay for it all.

His name is Poindexter. Poindexter McKinley – Junior. Most of you know him. He wasn’t spoiled growing up; just fortunate. He hasn’t taken advantage of his opportunities though. In 2000, he attended NYU in Greenwich Village. Poindexter spent too much time quenching his thirst. He failed out. And to this day, four years later, he complains about the price of college.

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Night Game

Another Yankees season is coming to an end and I hadn’t been to a game yet in the 2003. So my brother, Jonathan, and I pick up a six-pack of Bud Heavies and hop on the four-train traveling toward the “House That Ruth Built”. I place a brewsky in a little brown paper bag to keep it real; Jonathan does the same.

“Who’s pitching today?” he asks. “I believe David Wells,” I retort (I say believe as if David Wells pitching is a strong belief of mine). “ Maybe he’s hungover and will pitch a no-hitter again.” My brother takes a sip, gains a bitter-beer face, but on the happy side remembers when he pitched a no-no. Those were the days. Little League Baseball – the second greatest sport there is, second only to D1 college b-ball. We were the Cardinals; Mom was our biggest fan. She probably cared whether we won or lost more than our whole team. My brother pitched as well as playing a Jeter role at shortstop. I, having to wait my turn to play short, acted like Bernie Williams in centerfield, who plays the guitar in his spare time. I have a guitar too, but it doesn’t get much playing time. Instead, I choose to write in my spare time. But back to the lecture at hand. Dad was our Joe Torre, except he smiled. Could Joe Torre smile once? Just once.

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New York City (Grand Central)

New York City is a place of – everything. I’m not going to list them all because I’m 21 and probably have 21 more years to go. But New York has everything. Think of something. What did you think of? Strip clubs. That’s the first thing you thought of. Well, NYCs got that and everything else your perverted mind thought of. So NYC is a place of everything – for example, writers and filmmakers. New York City is so rich in history and has so many different meanings to its 8 million people. So many writers and filmmakers have tried to capture everything NYC is about in writing and films, but this is impossible despite what the new Muhammad Ali advertisement claims. With that said, I think Grand Central is a great place that illustrates much of what NYC is about. Grand Central – Terminal, not Station because I read, “Grand Central is the place were the train lines originate and terminate” (NYC Tourist – Grand Central Terminal 1). Grand Central is the place where many New Yorkers or visitors begin and end their day. Over 150,000 people use the terminal a day (NYC Tourist – Grand Central Terminal 1) and over 500,000 visit the place (History Channel). Any type of person can be found there. All races – blacks, whites, Hispanics, Asians, whites who think they’re black (Vanilla Ice types) and blacks who think they’re white (Byrant Gumbel types). You can find Wall Street look-a-likes wearing their long pee jackets along with the New York Times reading, stinky smelling, headphone listening while acting the rapper, Fundraising impersonator and on the wrong train expressionator – that’s me and has been every new New Yorker. We will take a closer look at some of the types later, but first in case you don’t know – what is Grand Central?

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City native's vigils try to combat violence

At noon on the day after yet another homicide in Rochester, N.Y., former Meriden resident Bill Coffey, gathered with a group of citizens for a vigil to "re-hallow the ground where blood has been shed" and to console the family members of the deceased.

Coffey has long witnessed chronic violence and racism in Rochester, since race riots in the 1960s when he first moved to the city. Since 1999 he has organized vigils following each homicide. The high murder rate is a problem he intends to help solve.

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Brotherly love is what brings these two heroes together

Carl Drury had just graduated from Central Connecticut State University and hadn't made much money yet. But, nevertheless, Carl decided that he and his younger brother, Paul, needed a vacation — just the two of them. Paul, who was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis at 3 years old, had planned to complete his freshman year at the University of Connecticut, but experienced severe lung problems and missed most of the year. So away the brothers cruised to the Caribbean — all expenses paid by Carl.

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