is dedicated to the enjoyment of audio and visual stimuli. Please visit our archives where we have uncovered the true importance of nearly everything. Should you want to reach us, e-mail alex dot carnevale at gmail dot com, but don't tell the spam robots. Consider contacting us if you wish to use This Recording in your classroom or club setting. We have given several talks at local Rotarys that we feel went really well.
Oh man, do you remember the pre-Napster-nabbing days of youth, when buying music was still an active verb that entailed getting your family to drive you 15 minutes to the Sam Goody? I would say halcyon days of youth, but who am I kidding?
The financial constraints of your bimonthly babysitting income necessitated that Dad accompany you inside the store, wearing his Trust Me...I'm a [Real Estate] Lawyer t-shirt and joking with the teenage cashier, "Do you listen to this crap too?" This was only the humiliating foreplay to family dinner at the Ground Round where parents shoved kids up to the age of 13 onto a giant scale in the restaurant lobby — reminiscent of that terror-inspiring clock in Safety Last! — for the “Penny Per Pound” Sunday special.
I mean, THIRTEEN! Is there anything more inhumane to do to a thirteen year old? Okay, hmmm, after quick consideration, let me specify: to a thirteen year old overfed upper middle class suburban American?
Do you perhaps know what this felt like? It was 1994, I was 12, and I remember praying "Lord let me cost less than $1.45" and then emotionally scarfing down a grilled cheese. This is what I endured just to get my hands on a copy of Dookie. Thanks Dad, for buying me that.
Of course, I totally deserved Dookie. I never gave my parents anything to object to. I was a "big boned," paler-than-a-feta-crumble 7th grader who had nothing to do but finish all my homework on time and get a super duper headstart on my SAT prep. I spent most nights on my daybed head-banging along to middling mid-90s mall punk like Rancid and The Offspring, albums about the drugs and sex I wouldn’t actually experience for, like, ten years, save for some senior year dry humping.
Also, there was this boy! I had a crush on him. Once he told me that he was excited for high school because killing frogs would finally be sanctioned, at least in biology, a reveal that struck terror into my heart, but maybe also pubescent arousal. He had Dookie, and so I wanted it, nay, needed it like I wanted, nay, needed him to love me even as his little man hands were tearing apart a frog carcass. Because: teens, suffering, fantasy, oh, you know, if you've watched any My So-Called Life.
And God, Dookie was good. I don’t think I understood a large portion of it at first. In fact, I remember being very confused at the pronoun usage in "Basketcase": I went to a whore/he said my life’s a bore/ so quit my whining cuz it’s bringing her down.
Like did Billy Joe see a male whore? If so, WHO is this woman he’s bringing down? Is this or is this not a PSAT prep riddle like he: gay appropriation by eye-linered Cali darlings as Britney-Madonna lip on lip: performative heterolesbianism? I still do not know! But I could headbang on my daybed to the music and, more importantly, relate to the larger sense of insanity, the anthemic angst, permeating the entire album — "giving myself the creeps", for example, was a strong and present phenomenon for an overweight 12 year teacher's pet pursuing a frog murderer as a romantic interest. Because: love, suffering, murder, oh, you know, if you’ve watched any Dexter.
Incidentally, there was one thing I never got straight about Dookie. Somewhere along the line I came under the impression that Dookie was a totally cool code word for "joint." I listened to the CD with this in mind (that is, until I injured my neck head-banging right before my Bat Mitzvah and my parents replaced all my alt-punk with Indigo Girls). And I somehow missed the clear signifier of the monkey throwing "dookie" on the album cover. In college I said things such as, "Pass the dookie." "Anyone got a dookie?" and "DOOKIE!"
Sure, not often, because I'm not a total fucking retard, but, um, WHERE WERE MY FRIENDS? Why did no one correct me? I have lived 15 long years thinking Dookie to be something it is not, something known to the rest of the world as a DOOBIE, only discovering yesterday, by virtue of a conversation about Green Day, what Dookie really means. That's crazy, right?
I mean, yes, when you think about the fact that 20 years from now Heidi will probably be on a Cougar reality show, and that sexting is the new terrorism, or even that Bush was re-elected, it's not that crazy. But in my very small, self-centered world, which for the past 6 hours has been a quarantined mattress in front of a near-godlike A/C window unit, it seems like downright insanity. I mean, fuck, I think it's time I leave my house now.
Lauren Bans is the senior contributor to This Recording. She last wrote in these pages about Captain America.She is a writer living in Brooklyn. She twitters here. You can find an archive of her writing at GQ here. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here.
"Why Does It Always Rain On Me (Travis cover)" - Green Day (mp3)
"I Fought the Law (The Clash cover)" - Green Day (mp3)
When I first saw My So-Called Life, I was a kid. My basketball team practice clashed with the show and I would rush home to catch what I could of the episodes. I wanted to be Angela Chase, to be shy and emotional, to try to grow beyond people's expectations by hanging out with the school's bad girl and dying my hair red. My best friend dyed her hair red. I got a ridiculous crush on Jared Leto as Jordan Catalano, finding him - with his floppy hair, those big blue eyes, and his fraying shirt collar - to be the sexiest thing in the world. I thought about what it would be like to make out in the boiler room, what it would be like to make out with anybody.
By watching and sort of understanding My So-Called Life, I knew what it was going to be like to be a teenager, and it would, hopefully, be awesome. I empathized with Angela Chase. I cried when Claire Danes cried. I knew that Rayanne betrayed her by hooking up with Jordan, that her former best friend Sharon the good girl sort of hated her, and that Jordan was endlessly frustrating. I knew dear, sweet Ricky Vasquez was the sort of friend you wanted to have. The fact that he was gay was mostly theoretical - I didn't really know what it meant. Sometimes I related to Brian Krakow, the severely frustrated brain. Angela's parents were so boring. I got really confused during that Juliana Hatfield-as-Christmas angel episode, but I still bought the official My So-Called Life soundtrack and heard The Afghan Whigs for the first time. "Fountain and Fairfax" reminded me of the desperation and lust that Jordan Catalano had to have somewhere, pulsing inside of him.
It was an intense affair, over too quickly. I was sad when the show died but I got over it by forgetting about it. Angela faded. Like a friend that I had at one point who moved, and we lost touch. But every episode, every scene, was written in my heart. I had an elephant's memory for that show, since it was such a good and absorbing story about a girl.
My So-Called Life should be mentioned in the pantheon of coming-of-age classics next to The Catcher in the Rye and just before Freaks and Geeks. Part of the reason that the show worked is because it was specifically about a girl - as simple as that - just one average 15-year-old girl, feeling so many feelings in a dingy Pittsburgh suburb. The week by week stories on the show dealt with guns in school, a substitute teacher, drugs, alcohol, teen homelessness, and maybe losing your virginity to the hot bad boy, typical 90s hot button subjects, but Winnie Holzman, the creator of the show, was so specific about Angela Chase and her multitude of emotions that the audience was right there with her.
I recently decided to rewatch My So-Called Life with my boyfriend. It felt like I was introducing him to a secret teenage me. I worried about what he would think - because if he hated it, there was a chance that he maybe hated some part of me that existed at some point. But there was no need to worry. Even as a grown-ass woman, My So-Called Life holds up, a work of art that bent and changed with the time and with the ways that I had changed.
What makes it work - even if the clothes are so 90s and dated, plaid on plaid on plaid, even if the tendency for the episode of the week to be about subjects like guns in school or the cool substitute teacher - is the voice. TV shows are rarely so specifically from one character’s idosyncratic perspective. Creator Winnie Holzman wrote Angela as a very particular girl with likes and dislikes, a girl who was a passable student but not extraordinary, occasionally luminous but still awkward, who loved Jordan Catalano even though she was aware that he was a pretty face and a bit of a dolt.
She wasn't imagined as "the smart one" or "the pretty one." Her diary-like constant voice over provided a specific counterpoint to the action, whether quippy or earnest. It’s no coincidence that some of the show’s most quotable lines came from the voice over - "My parents keep asking how school was. It's like saying, "How was that drive-by shooting?" You don't care how it *was*, you're lucky to get out alive," The recurring thing in Angela's voiceover, and the dialogue as a whole, is that it was riddled with verbal insecurities, "likes," and "I don't knows" and "or something," and that was accepted as the way they talk. It's never used to point out that the characters are stupid, which a lesser show would do.
My So-Called Life was one of the few teenage girl shows with the luxury to be utterly mundane, plot-wise. The show starts off with Angela Chase, a nice girl, trying on a little bit of rebellion at fifteen years old. She ditched her old, boring best friend Sharon Cherski for the “wild” Rayanne Graff and her sidekick, Ricky Vasquez, and the trio skips class to hang out in the girls’ bathroom.
Angela has a hopeless rush on bad boy Jordan Catalano, and life gives her a chance with him that ends up with some making out in the school's boiler room and one of those frustratingly sexy non-relationships with no definition, like a precursor to "hooking up." She has an annoying relationship with her neighbor and school brain Brian Krakow. Her parents, Patty and Graham, are similarly trying to make something of themselves - Patty cuts her hair, tries to reboot her relationship, and Graham chafes at the bit, maybe starting a restaurant with that horrible Hallie person.
It was funny to see how ten years on, the fairly nuanced nerd with a hopeless crush, Brian Krakow, grew in overall creepiness. His sadsack high school nice guy loser persona had its charms, sort of, in its earnestness when I first watched it, but as a woman, no way. He had a sense of entitlement and treated women (particularly the lovely - and chubby - Delia from the world happiness dance) like crap, with a one-track mind focused on Angela. It didn't make sense, really - why should Krakow be sad? In ten years, every Judd Apatow movie will be about the trials and travails of a Krakow-like character.
Jordan Catalano, well, it was more obvious that he was a pretty face and had his limitations. He's such a sneering boy when Angela refuses to have sex with him (because in the 90s, virginity is tantamount to goodness - which is why Rayanne was "bad" - and being the star of a show, and losing it was the making of a very special episode). His dream to "make snow," like one of those guys in the mountains, is just further proof that he's not really a long-term prospect.
If there had been another season or two, Catalano probably would've become a Tim Riggins on Friday Night Lights, a loveable fuck-up, but we didn't have that much time with him. Despite all those 90s clothing choices, Jared Leto, at that point, still radiated some palpable sexual heat. It's the reason why you can say the name Jordan Catalano to a generation of women and elicit a palpable sigh, why My So-Called Life on YouTube is basically a collection of Angela and Jordan moments, namely the one where he finally acknowledges that he likes her, publicly, by grabbing her hand in the hallway:
I was really struck by the way that Ricky and Rayanne, played magnificently by Wilson Cruz and A.J. Langer, stole my heart as an adult. I wonder, sometimes, if both Cruz and Langer so embodied those characters that they had trouble getting other roles of a similar caliber. Ricky's coming out story was a TV milestone, sensitive and lived-in with palpable emotion.
As Raya's sidekick, Ricky appeared confident in himself, wearing eyeliner and hanging out in the girls' bathroom, but when the world struck back at him, his vulnerability just ripped through the screen. It hurt to see Ricky kicked out of his house by his family. To see him homeless, unsure of where he was going to be at night. To know that all of this hate came down on him just because he liked boys. Rayanne was a tricky character as well, the type of manic pixie life force that'd become a caricature in a couple of years. The schtick was hiding serious addiction problems. Angela seemed so privileged in comparison to these two kids, who had a raw deal from the world. (You can see that influence in Friday Night Lights, helmed by former My So-Called Life staffer Jason Katims.)
It was still Angela's show, but the richness of seeing it as an adult comes from the specific details surround Angela's world. The kids went to a crappy looking school that was falling apart. They wore the same clothes over and over again. The episode about a substitute teacher is a fairly uncanny parody of an after-school special that veers left. Angela's parents are people with their own foibles, worries, and insecurities. It's painfully obvious that their marriage is on the fritz because it is filled with passive aggressive sniping. Angela's sister is still a ghost, unjustly - and hilariously - ignored.
The storyline that had Angela ditching her former best friend Sharon Cherski is a minor note, but still sad - and despite the fact that they're not best friends anymore, Sharon's still a fantastic character, an archetypical good girl who enjoys having sex with her lunkhead footballer boyfriend. Sharon and Rayanne end up bonding, even though they don't mean to, over the fact that they both like having sex. It's more nuanced than the white swan-black swan binary, filled with real people mistakes and clumsy grasps, like, when Rayanne has sex with Jordan - a betrayal that was the driving force for the last few episodes, and hinted at the richer show beyond the first season, one that would feature a true ensemble of characters.
But we never got that second season. The hints of greatness in My So-Called Life as an ensemble, as a richer canvas than just a very specific story about one girl, feel a little like a loss. Yet on the other hand, it took only one season of TV to get to know Angela Chase, Rayanne Graff, Ricky Vasquez, Jordan Catalano, and their names still resonate. They still feel like friends that I knew once. They were there for me when I was figuring out the ultimate idea: how a person should be in the world. And as an adult, I feel no shame in admitting that a particular part of my worldview was shaped by the story of Angela Chase. She taught me how to feel. She taught me empathy.
Elisabeth Donnelly is the senior contributor to This Recording. She tumbls here and twitters here. She last wrote in these pages about Joe Wright's Hanna.
Oh man, do you remember the pre-Napster-nabbing days of youth, when buying music was still an active verb that entailed getting your family to drive you 15 minutes to the Sam Goody? I would say halcyon days of youth, but who am I kidding? The financial constraints of your bimonthly babysitting income necessitated that Dad accompany you inside the store, wearing his Trust Me...I'm a [Real Estate] Lawyer t-shirt and joking with the teenage cashier, "Do you listen to this crap too?" This was only the humiliating foreplay to family dinner at the Ground Round where parents shoved kids up to the age of 13 onto a giant scale in the restaurant lobby — reminiscent of that terror-inspiring clock in Safety Last — for the “Penny Per Pound” Sunday special.
I mean, THIRTEEN! Is there anything more inhumane to do to a thirteen year old? Okay, hmmm, after quick consideration, let me specify: to a thirteen year old overfed upper middle class suburban American? Do you perhaps know what this felt like? It was 1994, I was 12, and I remember praying "Lord let me cost less than $1.45" and then emotionally scarfing down a grilled cheese. This is what I endured just to get my hands on a copy of Dookie. Thanks Dad, for buying me that.
Of course, I totally deserved Dookie. I never gave my parents anything to object to. I was a "big boned," paler-than-a-feta-crumble 7th grader who had nothing to do but finish all my homework on time and get a super duper headstart on my SAT prep. I spent most nights on my daybed head-banging along to middling mid-90s mall punk like Rancid and The Offspring, albums about the drugs and sex I wouldn’t actually experience for, like, ten years, save for some senior year dry humping.
Also, there was this boy! I had a crush on him. Once he told me that he was excited for high school because killing frogs would finally be sanctioned, at least in biology, a reveal that struck terror into my heart, but maybe also pubescent arousal. He had Dookie, and so I wanted it, nay, needed it like I wanted, nay, needed him to love me even as his little man hands were tearing apart a frog carcass. Because: teens, suffering, fantasy, oh, you know, if you've watched any My So-Called Life.
And God, Dookie was good. I don’t think I understood a large portion of it at first. In fact, I remember being very confused at the pronoun usage in "Basketcase": I went to a whore/he said my life’s a bore/ so quit my whining cuz it’s bringing her down.
Like did Billy Joe see a male whore? If so, WHO is this woman he’s bringing down? Is this or is this not a PSAT prep riddle like he: gay appropriation by eye-linered Cali darlings as Britney-Madonna lip on lip: performative heterolesbianism? I still do not know! But I could headbang on my daybed to the music and, more importantly, relate to the larger sense of insanity, the anthemic angst, permeating the entire album—"giving myself the creeps", for example, was a strong and present phenomenon for an overweight 12 year teacher's pet pursuing a frog murderer as a romantic interest. Because: love, suffering, murder, oh, you know, if you’ve watched any Dexter.
Incidentally, there was one thing I never got straight about Dookie. Somewhere along the line I came under the impression that Dookie was a totally cool code word for "joint." I listened to the CD with this in mind (that is, until I injured my neck head-banging right before my Bat Mitzvah and my parents replaced all my alt-punk with Indigo Girls). And I somehow missed the clear signifier of the monkey throwing "dookie" on the album cover. In college I said things such as, "Pass the dookie." "Anyone got a dookie?" and "DOOKIE!"
Sure, not often, because I'm not a total fucking retard, but, um, WHERE WERE MY FRIENDS? Why did no one correct me? I have lived 15 long years thinking Dookie to be something it is not, something known to the rest of the world as a DOOBIE, only discovering yesterday, by virtue of a conversation about Green Day, what Dookie really means. That's crazy, right? I mean, yes, when you think about the fact that 20 years from now Heidi will probably be on a Cougar reality show, and that sexting is the new terrorism, or even that Bush was re-elected, it's not that crazy. But in my very small, self-centered world, which for the past 6 hours has been a quarantined mattress in front of a near-godlike A/C window unit, it seems like downright insanity. I mean, fuck, I think it's time I leave my house now.
Lauren Bans is the senior contributor to This Recording. She tumbls here.
MUSIC 
