Raised in the depths of the musician’s graveyard, I embraced a lifelong commitment to being a punk rock snob. My mother coined a term that captures the irony of owning a brand-new leather jacket while complaining about being broke—a sentiment I relate to deeply as a college student.
The sound of my childhood apartment, perched on the hillsides of Los Angeles, was amplified by two massive, brown speakers covered in dust and adorned with random trinkets.
These speakers were powerful enough to shake picture frames off the walls, though their full noise was reserved for special occasions. One such occasion was to interrupt the filming of The Commish.
The film crew decided to set up shop right outside our apartment door, effectively barricading it. My mom, trapped inside with a newborn baby—me—was not impressed. At first, she approached them politely, pointing out they hadn’t asked for permission to film there and weren’t offering any compensation for the inconvenience. They brushed her off, claiming that “LA locals were ruining the film industry” and accusing her of “handing jobs to Canada.”
Wrong move.
In true punk fashion, my mom retaliated by cranking up Aluminum by the White Stripes—a relentless 1 minute and 49 seconds of guitar feedback and pounding drums. She played it on repeat. All day. Every time the poor director yelled “Action!” she turned the volume higher. By the end of the day, the crew packed up and left, having wasted an entire shoot.
It would’ve been much cheaper for them to buy her lunch.
You might wonder why my mom had speakers that could rival a concert hall.
My dad, a grumpy soundman clad in Levi’s, a chain wallet, and gel-slicked hair, and my mom, a music promoter, found their shared sensibility in music. It permeated everything—our home, our lives, even the closets, which were filled with band T-shirts. The house was never silent.
We were a “living room family,” and there were outlets that blew up from testing lights and power failures that took out half the building. This meant not every device could even be plugged in if you wanted it to be.
My dad would sit with his feet up on the couch while my mom and I practiced ballet stretches to the Rolling Stones. We had bookshelves full of records—two massive ones crammed with beaten-up vinyl and two smaller ones overflowing with CDs.
My parents never told me what to listen to, so half the time, I chose albums based on the cover art. I loved Zeppelin covers, so those were my first choices. They weren’t big on censorship, either. Sure, we had pin-up magnets on the refrigerator, but we still had proper Sunday dinners.
Did I get a phone early? No. Did I get an iPod before first grade? Yes. Were there cuss words in the songs? Absolutely. Was I allowed to watch The Dark Knight in fourth grade? No.
Music wasn’t confined to our home, either. My dad worked through birthdays, holidays—everything. His solution to spending time with me? Taking me to work.
After Catholic school, he’d pick me up and plop me behind the counter at a studio warehouse in Hollywood. It had six studios, a gear room, a ballroom, and a guitar room—my favorite. I even learned how to answer the phones.
Tour managers and producers never questioned me, a little girl behind the desk, calling the shots. I’d talk to them for exactly one second, find out who they needed, and yell for that person to get the phone.
In my opinion, it was the perfect use of child labor.
The guitar room was next to the counter, and I’d run in to admire the Gibsons and other instruments I couldn’t name.
But my favorite was a pink paisley guitar—one Courtney Love allegedly tried to steal. I cried for a month when she wanted to buy it, and I think my tears convinced my dad’s boss, Adolf, (yes Adolf) to get it back.
It was a hit with women and even made appearances in three music videos.
Growing up around musicians, you’d think I’d pick up an instrument. At my best, I learned four chords on a guitar.
Instead, I treated the studio like my playground. In my pigtail era, I ran around like I owned the place. I even turned the guitar room into an art project, covering it with random Post-it notes. (I was dyslexic, so the notes were riddled with misspellings and preschool humor. Somehow, they never took them down.)
I’d play hopscotch over subwoofers, leap onto monitors, and dart through parted cases. My pleather Mary Janes, decorated with Sharpie to cover the scrapes from my many falls (a pair my mother had already replaced multiple times that year), would catch the fluorescent light as I jumped. I could touch the ceiling while listening to whatever music floated out of the nearest studio.
For the most part, my dad was as good at watching me as any busy parent. He’d sneak me junk food I wasn’t allowed to tell Mom about, feed me dinner at home, and sometimes take me back to the studio at night.
Despite being immersed in music, my knowledge of artists’ names or song titles was spotty at best. I had the practical ability of an Italian grandmother—I knew who you were talking about, but the name would always be three degrees off.
And then there was the iPod.
It wasn’t just any iPod. It was loaded with the Holy Grail of music: a collection of unreleased tracks and albums stolen (borrowed?) by local sound engineers and studio staff.
They trusted it to my prepubescent hands.
I was listening to unreleased Nirvana tracks while desperately trying to befriend kids who liked Nirvana—which failed, of course. But at the same time, I was just a little girl who loved pink. I got autographs from Hannah Montana and even convinced my dad to get me into a private party with the Jonas Brothers.
And who lost this treasure trove of music? Not me. My dad ran it over by accident, but that’s a story for another time.
I’ve found I can’t live without music because my life has always been music in every sense. Every late afternoon, I search for a sound that brings a tremble to my ears—a sound that feels like home.