I’ve always been very fond of my own company. Throughout my childhood I learnt that spending hours in my bedroom surrounded by music, not only kept me out of trouble but it was also an effective way of drowning my parents’ fights. I played Madonna, Michael Jackson, The Beatles, Prince, Abba, Bon Jovi, even Paul Simon. Then, as I reached my teens, I went through an intense yet short-lived New Kids On The Block phase, until I discovered Nirvana and Courtney Love. Yes, hardly a defined taste.
As an introverted girl, these private music sessions suited me. I lived in the south of Spain and went to catholic school up until the age of fourteen, with books and folders covered in Blond Ambition Tour pictures. I had unruly brown hair, thick eyebrows, a huge dog, a vast music collection and problems at home. Prettier girls easily pulled the boy I liked or, alternatively, made me the somehow boring topic of their cruel gossiping.
At high school, I was never the “cool teenager”. I practically blended into the stained beige walls we had as background. I dreamt of cool clothes that I didn’t have, trendy curly hair that would never be mine, a certain brand of fitted jeans I couldn’t afford, and of flying out of Cordoba into a more vibrant life. I studied moderately hard and received good grades.
Me in my Keep The Faith Bon Jovi tee, supermarket trainers for teen chic. My little sis plays the cute card
On weekends I stuck to my all-female group of friends, went to the minuscule bowling alley in the town centre and spent my pocket money on video games and drinks. I wore turtle-neck jumpers I “borrowed” from my mum – I also wore her boots, which weren’t even my size, and did the same with her Wonderbra. I caked my face in a powdered monotone peach shade, finishing it off with layer after layer of brown Revlon lipstick. I simply copied what my girlfriends did, never considering who I really was and what my looks said about me. Self-expression was confined to the words in my diary, safely written within by my four bedroom walls.
As a teen in the mid 90s, Britpop fever hit me hard, making me realise how great my native country was, with very few around me as enthusiastic as me. A few of my friends listened to Blur and Suede, which was fun, but then they moved on to Take That. I tried to get my dad to play Oasis in the car, but after the first guitar rifts in Roll With It, he would complain about the loud music and change the tape. Most of my boyfriends were more interested in The Offspring, Metallica, and Spanish rock singers trying really hard to be like Jim Morrison. My attempts to play DJ at parties lasted for less than a couple of songs before my choice of music was labelled “not fun” and swapped to some local band that regurgitated international sounds into something more simplistic, yet unsurprisingly popular.
It was during 1995 that I heard a song on a TV show that focused on international music charts, including the UK. I liked it so much, the second time I saw the video I recorded it on a videotape. I learned the lyrics, practised the moves, and that’s how I fell in love with a guy from Sheffield: the wonder that is Jarvis Cocker. My older brother was spending his summer holidays in England, so I asked him to bring me a copy of the song: Pulp’s Common People.
Whenever I listened to the CD single, every hair in my body would somehow feel electrified – thankfully bushy eyebrows seemed unaffected. Each guitar, keyboard, drum, and the ridiculous amount of instruments on that song made me want to break into a dance every time the song started.
Through Common People, Disco 2000, later This Is Hardcore and its fascinating album cover, I began to understand who I wanted to be, and learnt how to express that outside of my diary. I read Smash Hits for the sole reason to hear about what was going on outside the charming little town I lived in. I bought a cheap silver faux-silk shirt in C&A and begged one of my aunts to cut all the stitches and sew it up again, to make it hug my skin. I cut one of my mother’s denim skirts to make it shorter and more rugged. I saved up to ask a pompous and rather terrible hairdresser to cut my hair like Justine Frischmann.
Outfit picture posing already happened in the 90s. Me age 15, with the silver shirt
It turns out, I ended up renting a flat above a shop, I cut my own hair, I got a job. I realised my dream of moving back to England, got a couple of extra gigs to pay for my studies, went to lectures smelling of fried food, to later go out “and dance and drink and…” you know how the song goes.
I now listen to Pulp’s Common People, and it is still, quite possibly, my favourite song ever. It was an anthem of what I was about to live, the people I was to meet just a few years later, the cheap clothes, the badly paid jobs, the debt I got myself into, the dodgy things we smoke, the awfully tasting alcoholic concoctions, the regrets the morning after… the life that was waiting for me.
I don’t have that silk shirt anymore, but I’m still an introvert. I still enjoy listening to everything from rap to folk music, by myself or with anyone that doesn’t mind me going into full music-nerd mode. There is still no one quite like Jarvis. I still have that CD.
Pictures: Fashion Limbo, Island
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