The year 1979 marked the beginning of what I later called my Celebrated Blue Period. I was adjusting to a great many changes, the primary one being that I would spend my first summer in Tucson, a place that didn’t yet feel like home to me. It was at once exciting and frightening, a duality that I would experience again and again over the years. I was determined to be an adult, or at least act like one; wasn’t I now twenty years old, an ex-teenager? It was time to put away childish things. I wasn’t sure just which of my things were “childish,” or why I should suddenly divest myself of them. I had abandoned my major in astronomy (a science I had loved for about a decade, and the reason I had ventured to Arizona) after my disastrous grades in physics and differential equations had earned me Academic Probation, this less than two years after graduating in the top twenty of my high school class. I had changed my major to Creative Writing (with my parents’ approval, thankfully), and was going to add a second major in Russian Language. I would find an apartment and take summer classes.
What I didn’t know, and wouldn’t even guess (let alone be diagnosed) for another decade and a half, was that I was clinically depressed.
But this piece isn’t about my illness, or my later treatment. This is about a person whose art provided me with comfort and cushioning in those times when I was wrenchingly sad and didn’t know why.
In the spring of that year, when I was taking my first Russian course, Rickie Lee Jones released her eponymous debut album. I read about it in Newsweek–yes, that’s what I subscribed to–and even bought a copy of Rolling Stone where she was the cover story. I hadn’t actually heard any of her songs, because the radios in my car and Heathkit stereo were only AM, but I was impressed enough from what I read to buy the album one evening. (One of the first things I learned about Tucson was that record shops stayed open late, because if you purchased an LP before sunset, it would likely warp in your car on the way home.)
This must have been the fall of 1979. I had stayed the summer in an apartment that I remember had awful vinyl-coated furnishings and a neighbor who serenaded the courtyard every morning with “Carry On Wayward Son” at full blast. I was there as a placeholder in a friend-of-a-friend arrangement. (a story for another time). For a two-month stay I didn’t unpack my phonograph. Come August I took residence in a studio apartment about two blocks south of the university. I had no reservations whatever about living by myself.
Being a loner, however, did not preclude occasional times of loneliness. I did have my stereo, and my black-and-white TV, and what seemed at the time to be a lot of books (not even a hundred, as I recall; hardly the library I have now, though a good many are the same ones). I would go to movies, either on campus or at the local art house, which was within walking distance. I’d always go alone, with a book to read before the lights dimmed.
In the evening I might listen to music, often with the lights off. To this day, there are certain pieces that I always associate with late night: Steely Dan’s Aja is one, Rachmaninoff’s Symphony №3 is another. Rickie Lee Jones’ album I’d play at different times of the day. I noticed even then that my mood, or the hour, sometimes greatly affected my perception of one song or another. In one listening, “The Last Chance Texaco” might sound like a silly overextended metaphor, but the next time, it would be downright painful. “Coolsville” could be merely dark, or almost menacing.
I kept trying to make out the stories. “I and Braggart” would appear in songs that otherwise seemed to have no connection. And I wanted to know more about Sal saying goodbye to Angela, Perry and Mario.
“On Saturday Afternoons in 1963,” had not just a great title, but the ability to evoke things in my head that stayed long after the final chord. “After Hours” put me right there in the dark of midnight, assuming I wasn’t there already.
Then there’s “Company,” which provided my essay’s title. I would have denied at the time that I was lonely in that upstairs studio apartment, but this song made me feel every bit of it nonetheless. It was not a painful song; instead, it was a song full of pain. Rather than depress me to hear it, it helped me to sort out what I was already feeling. It’s still one of my favorite songs.
From what I had read, Ms. Jones was having turbulent times herself. I was fortunate enough to see her in concert at the University Main Auditorium (now Centennial Hall) at the time her second album was released. Maybe it was the strain of a tour, but something just didn’t look right with her. During one song, in a quiet moment, she turned to the audience and said, “Come on, people, wake up!” We all had been intently listening; I’m still not sure what else she had expected.
Rickie Lee Jones has continued on in the decades since, her style in continuous evolution. I admire people who can reinvent themselves and their art; maybe a better word is “re-explore.” I’m different in some ways as well, although the Guy from 1979 will remain a part of me, as it must. Without him, part of my inner core would be missing, and the rest of me would be a little hollow.
This is not a love note, or even a fan letter. If anything, it’s an acknowledgment of gratitude for the fact that a certain musician’s creation touched me at a time when it could do a lot of good. Ms. Jones will likely never see this, but I will always think of her as someone who helped me get through some times of confusion and hurt. What more could an artist be asked to do?
#RickieLeeJones #depression
Did someone’s music ever help me through a difficult time? I’ve never asked myself that question before. I’ll think on that. In the meantime, I hope Jones does see your essay, because I imagine artists dream of their work having so much meaning to someone they’ve never met.