But you can never leave, Revisiting the Spring scene

by Nina-Noelle Hall

I hate this city.

Plugged into my iPod as if for life support, the mournful twang of measured guitar acoustics floods my ears and soul, thankfully drowning away my delighted parents’ enthusiastic chatter. My father conservatively abides I-25’s speed limit south from DIA, where he and my mother have come to gather and return home their youngest—me. Perched in the Subaru’s front seat is my mom, recounting precious grandmother moments that I’ve missed while away for so long. They’re predictably elated. But I swallow bubbling curses that would crassly convey that I just don’t care. I can’t care. I’m consumed by the fear and hate I feel for Colorado Springs.

I turn up the volume, crunching the ear buds further down fragile canals: “On a dark desert highway/Cool wind in my hair…” Resting my heavy head against the back seat’s frosted window, Glenn Frey’s desperate vocals tease at my loaded emotions, lulling me to tears. “With her mission bell/And I was thinking to myself/This could be heaven/Or this could be hell.”

I’m not sure how the Eagles ended up on my iPod, but “Hotel California”s anguished lyrics are all too poignant right now. Ironically, Colorado Springs—the evangelist’s capitol and my home—is also my hell. I left this dreadful place seven years ago, middle fingers proudly erect, with the intention never to return. Yet, here I am, returning home. As we penetrate city limits, I watch the purple crags of Pikes Peak close in, and I feel defeated like a cornered alley cat. “Welcome to the Hotel California/Such a lovely place/Such a lovely face.”

My watery vision brims and overflows, silent tears streaking my cheeks. “Welcome home!” my mom coos as we park the car.

Rewind 10 years:

I’m 16, and it’s just another summer night in the Springs. My best friend adjusts the bass in my first car, a sexy chic truck, so that the deep thuds burn the speakers. I recklessly navigate the Rockrimmon neighborhood, speeding through stop signs, hitting speed bumps like derby jumps and four-wheeling sidewalks and the occasional front yard. We’re invincible and, with windows rolled down and volume bumping, we want everyone to know: “A lot of people think/That I worship the devil/That I do all types of/Retarded shit/Look, I can’t change the way I think/And I can’t change the way I am/But if I offended you?/Good/‘Cause I still don’t give a fuck.”

In punctuated gasps, Eminem spews forth perfect lyrics from The Slim Shady LP (1999) that capture and articulate our restless rebellion. Recall that this was long before Marshall Mathers sold out and tanked with his Encore album (2004). But in the late ’90s, my friends and I breathed and lived his lyrics. What can I say? We were spoiled white kids, bored and living in the cautious suburbs of a city shrouded in evangelist repression. That was my opinion, at any rate.

To me, Colorado Springs hid like a coward behind the guise of Christian morals. These “ethics” lurked like the Berlin Wall, an edifice concealing the community’s rooted problems while condoning pretentious judgments and finger-pointing. As James Dobson encouraged Family Focus, five friends of mine died inside a two-year period to gang violence, suicide and overdoses. While Ted Haggard cultivated megachurches, I mourned with girlfriends who, one after another, confided that they had been the victim of another sexual assault. I experienced ostracism for not attending the right youth group. I witnessed extreme racism, sexism, xenophobia and homophobia, all excused and justified in the name of their god. In a town that, according to its own preaching, could do no evil, no one was safe.

Immersed in this evangelist propaganda like a forced baptism, we, as agitated teenagers, did everything possible to escape our repressed reality. The most legal of which was to get lost in rhythms, rhymes and riffs. So, ironically, I owe thanks to my arch nemeses, because it was their hypocrisy that triggered my devotion to music. That passion has since carried me to successful music journalism and a job at MTV, as well as providing a sort of grounding spirituality in and of itself.

Ten years ago, however, my music enthusiasm didn’t always manifest healthfully, as witnessed by my irresponsible lifestyle lived at deafening volumes. But let me be very clear: at the time, there wasn’t a music scene in which to let footloose and mosh out all those pent-up frustrations. No, our music scene had been thoroughly exorcized. Well, that’s not entirely true. There was a family band called Pastor Charlie and His Angels. Remember the megachurch scene from Borat? Yup. Otherwise, our live scene consisted of stealing CDs from the newest big-box store on Academy Blvd. Which is exactly where my best friend and I just handily picked up this Eminem album that we’re blaring from my speeding car.

Since those tumultuous days, I’ve stopped stealing music. But I’ve never stopped relying on it, no matter what foreign situation or location I’ve found myself-—Rio de Janeiro, New York, the islands of Thailand, the offroads of Kenya’s Masai Mara or even the minefields of Croatia. And when things get rough, as they are right now being back in Colorado Springs, I desperately plug into my playlists for life support, as if the melodies provide mechanical respiration.

I hate this city. I hate this city. I hate this city.

Despite an uninterrupted stream of tunes, my sick mantra has lapped spirals around my mind for the two weeks I’ve been back. But tonight, I’m headed out. I’ve mustered the effort and courage to meet my childhood friend, Ty, downtown at Jose Muldoon’s. I agree because I haven’t seen him in nearly ten years. I agree to downtown because he adamantly refuses to drive to Denver. And I agree because Ty smoothly cajoled with an indisputable offer to pay for tonight’s dinner and drinks. Sigh.

Hopping up into the sun-stained seat of my same sexy truck, I still bump my music, even though the sound is buzzed and tenored—I never replaced the speakers.

“Little Miss Opportunity…/She slides over right next to me/Looking so lovely/I know, I know she likes to/She tries to catch my eyes/What a surprise!/Little Miss Opportunity.” In sassy staccato arias, this is “Little Miss Opportunity” by Denver’s own Aloft in the Sundry. The band’s 2008 album Modestine is cached in my player, and tonight I’m trying to embrace a new mantra: opportunity. Clearly, I have some issues to reconcile with this city, so I’m going to take this next while that I’m stuck here in the Springs to do exactly that. Plus, Ty has persistently assured me that things have changed. For the better, he emphasizes. So, I tentatively navigate south, exiting at Bijou.

I’m horrified.

“For the better?!” I argue with Ty across mediocre margaritas. “Cowboys moved downtown, and you’re telling me this is for the better?!

OK, I freaked about that one, and fairly so. But, Ty was right: Colorado Springs is on the up-and-up. The firm clutch that Focus on the Family et al., held on this beautiful city in the ’90s has finally slacked, forced loose by a troubled society and, I like to think, education. Further more, the restless spirit that initially splintered the evangelist stronghold is also progressing and propagating into a vibrant scene. This is the inevitable repercussion of repression—the pendulum returns to a Renaissance-like revolt where intellectual and liberal movements, now liberated, express the protests and frustrations once burdened. It is a necessary societal critique that occurs before once again moderating. As always, these rebellious expressions cultivate history’s best inspiring music. And that is what sparks my interest here.

As I rediscover the Springs, I find a community dotted with legitimate venues: the Rocket Room, Meadow Muffins, Adam’s Mountain Cafe, Nosh, Southside Johnny’s and, of course, the Black Sheep. Hell, for giggles I’ll even include the Thirsty Parrot, only because they brought Billy Bob Thornton and the Boxmasters. And while his music might be overrated, it was still a notable show as it’s probably the closest I’ll ever to get Angelina Jolie. That, in itself, was worth suffering the T.P.

Truly, though, I’m impressed. The rising music scene owns some appealing sounds. Poesis is edgy enough that I even enthusiastically stopped like a celebrity the chic rocker, Zamphi, one night. An alternative rock band named Aria Tari wails some heart-pounding ballads that possess serious talent, even though the style might be ten years too late. I haven’t yet witnessed him, but I’ve only heard raves of Black Pegasus, a local, Afro-Mexican military-brat-turned-rapper who is gaining national attention. Everything about this up-and-coming scene, particularly exemplified by Black Pegasus, proves to me that, yes, Colorado Springs is changing for the better. Sure, the Springs’ music scene still has a 14er-like trek ahead, but the spirit is there. And people are bobbing heads.

I, too, am swaying while attending a live music night in Nosh’s courtyard. On stage stands Well Strung, a startlingly talented local guitar duo. Their fingers expertly battle to perform an astonishing composition in classical Mexican style. Accelerating to a hummingbird’s pace, the song climaxes on an eerie and familiar note. One that then begins the next song: a rendition of “Hotel California.”

“Welcome to the Hotel California/Such a lovely place/Such a lovely face/Livin’ it up at the Hotel California/What a nice surprise/Bring your alibis.” And suddenly, the song, the city and the past all assume a new and reconciled meaning.