When I moved to Los Angeles for the second time.

3rd February 2010

Text with 2 notes

shaking the tree

I was thinking about my childhood today, because it seems that whenever I am blue or particularly joyful I want to listen to Led Zeppelin. You see, I grew up in a household with two hard rock/metal loving older brothers who I think, owned every Led Zeppelin LP in the entire collection. I remember staring at the album cover for Houses of the Holy a lot when I was little.  I was fascinated by it.

There’s something in the masterful hands of Jimmy Page that makes my soul ache… or sing; so whenever I am driving or feeling especially ebullient, I just wanna rock.

I am looking at a polaroid of my youngest older brother Don, with the gorgeous wood Gibson that he still refuses to give me, despite the fact that it now sits in his garage gathering dust.  He is looks like a lion with his caramel mane and beard - so good looking and so talented.

My brothers had a “garage band” the likes of which today would be suddenly discovered and immediately signed to a multi-million dollar recording contract. I would sit, indian style and watch them practice. Plugging my ears when it got too loud, but too awed by how cool they were to leave. I believe my hearing loss might stem from those days. 

My brothers Dan and Don were both gorgeous and cool, and our house was THE place to be.   There were constantly 6 or 7 friends  always hanging about; some that lived with us at all times and many more that flocked to the front door for the parties that happened the minute my mother drove away in her bright orange hot rod.

My mother drove the kind of muscle car you now see tatooed hipsters driving down Silverlake Boulevard. She was a gorgeous, young sex-bomb. She ruled her bowling league, drank her friends under the table and owned a hip little beauty salon that we called “The Shop”.  We butchered its French name “Mon Ami Coiffures” by mispronouncing it: “Mon-Ameee -Coff-yooor-us.” The shampoo girls were my brothers pretty girlfriends and my babysitters: Penny, Boobs, Janet, Mary Ann and Dorothy.

Dorothy died of a drug overdose when I was ten. I saw a lot of drug related tragedy far too early in my life. 

Music was everywhere in our household.  We had guitars, a drum set, a fancy old Wurlitzer organ and piles of vinyl everywhere.  We had an amazing stereo complete with 8 track.  Music lessons were taken and Sunday evening sing alongs happened like clock work.   I think the majority of our family is musical, though few of us pursued a life in music, which puzzles me, as my Grandad was a successful big band leader back in the day.

I used to love watching my brothers play guitar.  I was mesmerized by the way their hands moved.  Beautiful, manly, often dirty hands; cars were big in our household too. All of the adults in my formative years had sweet, sweet rides.  My brothers drove and took apart muscle cars, and held court while a gang of boys from the block came to stand in the driveway and watch as they rebuilt an engine or fixed someone’s brakes. The smell of motor oil and cigarettes is so vivid in my memory that every time I walk into a mechanic and some dude is smoking I feel like I’m home.

My handsome talented, hard partying brothers defined what’s manly to me.  It was quite an education to watch them and adore them. My eldest brother Dan was like a father to me.  His platinum blonde hair and painfully blue eyes made him a girl magnet.  I thought him godlike as he rocked out steady, thumping bass beats. 

Girls flocked to my brothers and their friends, always.  I was their mascot - they babysat me, practiced their maternal instincts on me, took me shopping while my Mom was out conquering the world.  

Looking back I’m not sure my description comes close to doing it justice, but it was a pretty wonderful way to grow up.  

One night a beautiful stray Samoyed followed my brother Don home from  a party.  Don immediately named him Ralph.  

I awoke to a phone call from the girls next door who exclaimed: “When did you get a dog?” I ran to the window and saw the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on in our back yard. I gingerly tiptoed through my brothers’ basement lair; creeping over sleeping bodies and paraphernalia to make it out the back door and into dog nirvana.

We played with Ralph all day, got him the best dog food, and loved him as our own. He popped on of my balls with his massive jaws, but I was so in love with him I would have happily surrendered any of my toys for his enjoyment.

The next night we found Ralph’s owner and he went home. It was the only time I have ever seen my brother cry.   I will never forget how it felt to catch a glimpse of the vulnerability under his gruff exterior as I watched his huge heart split wide open.  

My memories of that time flash through my consciousness, washed in a 70’s glow - just like the Hipstamatic photo filter on my iPhone, but worlds away.