outsmarting the mean girls
when fiona apple's tidal awakens a mean girls sleeper cell.
High school has got to be one of the stranger experiences as humans we endure. When I look back on the timeline of events that has made us who we are today, high school stands out as an emotional accomplishment to look back on like a veteran, clutching onto my purple heart earned from the battlefield of social politics. It’s a hostile set-up, really, when you think about it. The idea of closing in hundreds of hormonal teenagers into one building where, in the plainest terms, we react off each other always felt more like a social experiment than a foundation for learning. Being tribal by nature, though, we find our ways. Guided by our preferred pop culture icons and music that led us to our hairstyles and clothes before pairing us off into appropriate groups. In my school, we had the goths, the theatre kids, the Phish heads, the indie weirdo-punks (hi), the ravers, the skaters, the lipgloss wannabes, the AP kids. There were cross-overs in these groups where the Phish heads and the skaters socialized over a bong hit. The goths could find things in common like Anne Rice novels and black lipstick with the theater kids. Us indie punks had vinyl in common with the ravers. And the lipgloss wannabes gave out handjobs like Razzles so, the paths eventually crossed. The one group that stayed confined to its own hubris, a lion’s den of sorts, were the mean girls. An odd blend of insecurity and arrogance, the mean girl has spanned history and pop culture. It dates back to Cleopatra, who thwarted her own sister Arsinoë’s uprising with icy confidence, and stretches to modern examples of girl squads who mass unfollow frenemies and ex-lovers. The game hasn’t changed. Just the fashion.
Luckily in high school, I was in my own bubble. Headphones on, I worked weekends at my family’s Italian market in Manhattan, thus protecting me from suburban politics. If they made fun of me and my ever-changing hair colors and thrift store threads, I honestly didn’t notice. To me, utmost importance was getting an early Beck record, hanging out in record shops, or nerding out in the Pavement AOL chat room with, like, Jake from Squirt TV.
It wasn’t until 1997, when a Fiona Apple song placed in their crosshairs, waking a mean girl sleeper cell. It had been years since I thought of this artist mostly because I’d been avoiding her music. But seeing the vinyl reissue of her debut album Tidal at Barnes & Noble over the holidays stirred memories I wasn’t ready to recall, remembering the battle of the wits with the snarkiest girls on the Gold Coast of Long Island.
To preface, in high school, I didn’t do Top 40. Savage Garden was pure torture (still is.) That Natalie Imbruglia song made me laugh because I thought she sang “lying naked under the stove”. And don’t get me fucking started on Matchbox 20. But every so often a top recording artist snuck past the bouncer guarding my ears. There was something about Fiona Apple that was so damn authentic that made her hard to resist. So, why had I abandoned such a 90s classic? Well, it started in a high school drama class.
Drama class was the last place you’d find me, but I needed an elective and figured it’d be an easy A. I’m in there with the showtune loyalists and wild hand-wavers, plus the 9th grade mean girls. Think Tiffany necklaces, tiny Kate Spade bags, frosted MAC lipstick, snarky stares. Since I was in 11th grade, I figured we lived outside of each other’s social ecosystem, which I made the mistake of believing would make us immune to each other. But from across the room, I noticed them mostly because the ringleader of the group was the daughter of a famous shock jock. So, there was that. But otherwise their presence had little impact on me.
Weeks passed with improv and games, making the forty-two minutes breeze by, until our first real assignment: a performance to push us out of our comfort zone, something embarrassing we could own. My classmates mused on their perfect picks from plays to movie monologues like Trainspotting’s ‘Choose Life’, with my teacher drawing the line at scenes from Titanic.
I then thought of music and turned to what I was listening to at the time: Sleater-Kinney’s Call the Doctor, The PeeChees’ Do the Math, Stereolab’s Dots and Loops, Helium’s The Magic City, maybe some Apples in Stereo, and definitely Fiona Apple’s Tidal. Out of there, Fiona made the most sense for a performance piece. Although I do wonder what a Stereolab interpretive dance piece could look like. After seeing her performance on PBS’s Sessions on West 54th, the wheels got turning. What if I did my own take, jazz it up with my mom’s scarves from the ‘70s to try and convey her desperate furor that the song commands while still somehow making it my own? A tall order for a 16-year-old, sure, but was it out of my comfort zone? Check. Was it embarrassing? Double check. Was it something I could make my own? Sure.
I spent the next week preparing in my room. The day of the performance, I’d borrowed a mic stand from the band room, got creative with the scarves around my waist and in my hair, and found an instrumental version of the song so, yes, I could sing along to it (gawd). I rehearsed the shit out of it in the hopes of forgetting I was a 16-year-old with baby cheeks, braces and Ginger Spice highlights and was a tortured poet with man trouble.
Minutes before the performance, I reminded myself that I was supposed to feel uncomfortable in order to channel my hidden creative energy. I took a deep breath knowing I understood the assignment and went for it. Like, really went for it. The moves, the twists, the anguish. The class clapped, my teacher seemed pleased, and I figured I’d nabbed an A to boost my GPA.
Great.
As I collected my things, picking a stray scarf that had come undone in the heat of the moment, I heard snickering. Like, actually snickering. When I looked to the back of the room, I saw the 9th grade mean girls who looked at me like I had just taken a shit in front of the class with their side-eyes making me feel like the butt end of their joke. The liberation I’d felt quickly vanished into shame for having taken the assignment seriously. (For context, they all did scenes and sang songs from the play Rent.)
I’d forgotten the whole thing by Monday and remember not even venting to my friends because who cared what these people thought? Fast forward two months later when my band The Saturn Peaches was scheduled to perform at our school’s annual Cultural Luncheon. The program posted in the main lobby had reignited their interest in me as they surrounded me in the hall wanting to know exactly what time I’d be performing. Seeing the evil glint in their eyes, I knew their intentions were far from supportive as they thought I was stupid enough to reprise the Fiona Apple performance in front of the entire school.
“11:30 in the cafeteria,” I told them, remaining indifferent to their sneers.
“Are you going to do ‘Criminal’?” the runt of the group asked as she glanced at the shock jock’s daughter for approval.
“Not sure,” I toyed with them. “Do you think I should?”
“Oh, my God, yes.” Her eyes widened with hunger. “You totally should.”
“Are you going to wear the scarves?” another asked.
“Maybe.”
“It’s going to be amazing,” another said, still smirking at each other while mistaking my detachment for stupidity.
The weeks leading up to the Luncheon, I practiced my guitar until my fingers crusted over in hard-earned calluses from songs that were fun and within my vocal range. The day of the show I wore a plain, white T-shirt, slim pants and these blue suede platform sandals with astronauts that I found in a thrift shop on Lafayette Street (I still have them). My band at the time included me on vocals and rhythm guitar, my best friend Michelle on drums and back-up vocals, and Joey Vincenzi, a guitarist whom we borrowed from a metal band who wore short-sleeved metallic button down shirts.
With someone’s Gibson around my neck, I looked out into the packed cafeteria and felt a spike of nervousness. I had never performed in front of people before and could feel my fingers quiver and my palms sweat. Of course, seated in the front row were the 9th grade mean girls who’d arrived at 11:20 sharp ready to feast on my failure. They all waved at me in faux-support, in which my best friend shot a pair of confused eyes at me from over the drum kit.
“It’s nothing,” I said, blowing it off before giving her a nod that I was ready as Joey began to shred in what I had to assume was a Slayer (pronounced Slayah in these parts of Long Island) song.
“Wrong band, Joey!” Michelle said into the mic, pounding her kick drum to get his attention.
“Oh, right.” His mound of chin-length frizzy hair bounced along in response.
I took one last look at the crowd, seeing the school faculty and classmates, seeming also nervous as to what was about to happen. For reference, up until then all of the school’s cover bands were fronted by guys who liked wah wah pedals and played Black Crowes and Zeppelin covers. So, seeing a girl holding a guitar with another behind the drums in a high school in 1997 was an anomaly that everyone wanted to check out. With a click of the sticks, we busted into our set, kicking it off with Sleater-Kinney’s aptly-titled “The Drama You’ve Been Craving”. We then went into “Vibrations” by Helium, “Heat Lightning” by Tuscadero, “Reject All American” by Bikini Kill and others that had that indie pop/rock sound. The set was tight, and well-rehearsed with songs purposefully chosen that I could perform with ease with Joe adding impressive fills, as well as headbangs we’d told him not to do. Seriously, who head bangs to Helium? Joey Vincenzi. That’s who.
It was punk rock. It was in the cafeteria. It was perfect.
Our set was met with applause, in which I admit, we benefited from extremely low expectations. The look of delighted surprise from my fellow-classmates was satisfying but nothing could top the 9th mean girls in the front row who looked defeated. Defeated, I tell you. With their shit-eating grins wiped clean, I had outwitted them and the disappointment on their long faces told me they knew it too.
A lesson to all: Don’t fuck with girls who quote The Princess Bride.
This incident won me immunity for the rest of the year with them never underestimating me again. But the incident stayed with me long after high school where I’d cringe hearing just the name Fiona Apple, thinking back on my 16-year-old self. I’d avoided her and her music for decades because of the association with these girls. It reminded me of bad faith. It reminded me that for some people it was easier to make fun of someone than try to understand them. It reminded me, plain and simple, that people can be assholes. I sometimes even felt embarrassed for taking the assignment seriously; a strange post-high school anxiety that sobriety eventually cured.
As I stood in the book store’s, now in my early 40s, clutching the reissued vinyl, I hated that all of those icky feelings had returned like an ex I still regret. But I then realized these girls didn’t deserve Fiona or to be associated with this fantastic debut album. I figured in order to exorcise the memory of them elbowing each other at my expense, I had to confront it.
Dropping the needle and hearing it now at 40-something, it was more beautiful than I had remembered. The nuances that eluded a 16-year-old, lacking life and love experience now resonated deeply for someone who had more stories to tell. I admit, I briefly thought of those girls, but the urge to reflect on the music and how my life had evolved since that time proved much stronger. All of the things I’ve seen and done; the places I’ve gone to and moved to; the people I’ve met; the moments shared. I felt vindicated that this album wasn’t supposed to come with me into my 20s as it would have been too much of a direct reference to my then-reality.
As I reacquaint myself with the album, singing along to every single lyric I remember like a fond memory, I smile, looking back on that dorky 16-year-old who took risks knowing now that I wouldn’t be where I am today without her.
Album highlights: “The Child is Gone”, “Carrion”, “Shadowboxer” and of course, “Criminal.”
And speaking of places lived, I want to acknowledge with a sad heart the fires currently taking place in Los Angeles. My heart hurts thinking of all affected from the animals in the forests to the residents enduring what dear friends and family there have reported as purely apocalyptic. I love you, California and always will.
In honor of my favorite city (yes, L.A. is and has always been my favorite city), here are two snapshots I took when I first moved there in 2003 using a black and white disposable camera.
