Summer Lovin

I’ve often argued the advantages of a temperate climate over those of the friendlier weather systems. And summer is more than just a quarter of the argument. If San Diego is perpetually 80 and sunny, how can you truly appreciate the reminder of the last day of school, or recall what it’s like to drive through back roads with your windows down on the way to see your high school friends? If the weather is continually the same, even if it is perfect, there is no change in conditions to trigger the unlocking of all the memories associated with that time.

Summer is freedom. It is more than absence of homework or school. It is an air pleasantly lacking responsibilities and enabling appreciation of the purest joys, like a frosty sundae on a sweltering day. Summer reawakens the naivety and innocence that bills, car troubles and 40-hour weeks have previously put to bed. Our culture has instilled summer with an ease that we carry with us long after we graduate.

Because of the elated association most of us have with June, July, and August, summer is also the time to, sometimes bittersweetly, reminisce. First kisses, first jobs, first loves: the virginities of life are commonly connected with the season and their memory is ushered in every Memorial Day along with the fireflies and firecrackers.

My favorite summer will always be 1997. My second year working as a rides operator at an amusement park, I had the kind of job people quit their career to return to in the midst of a mid-life crisis. Turning 17 that July (summer birthdays make the season that much sweeter) my life was blooming with friendships of high school BFFs as well as a solid group of coworkers I had become close to that summer. The anticipation of senior year sparked energy those months and, if growing up is palpable, this is the time I can most accurately pinpoint.

There is not one event that caused me to realize myself and become comfortable, shedding teenage insecurities. As most things in life, it was the conglomeration of people and relationships, this time set to the tune of “push forward, then pull down to close your lap bars” and the aroma of roasted almonds and milk chocolate emanating from the nearby manufacturer.

Each year, as the air gets sticky and I slip on a tank top, I am reminded of the people I met there. Jon, the first boy I ever considered a best friend. Melanie, the girl I wanted to be, and later, realized how glad I was that I wasn’t. And Jeff, my questionable flirtation that, nine-years-later, I am still maddeningly in love with.

To me, these people and all the stories and sentiments that coexisted in that world are summer. My summer is driving thirty-minutes each way to a summer job, listening the Refreshments and laughing because “Everybody knows that the world is full of stupid people” was the mantra of anyone who had to pacify a parent who’s child was too small to ride a roller coaster.

And summer is more than memories. Even as adults, it is still the most celebrated season. It is a time for vacations and cookouts, sitting outside or laying by a pool. Even confining yourself to the rejuvenating arctic temperatures of a movie theater is a quintessential summer activity. Beaches and thunderstorms, butterflies and mosquitoes, they all come with the territory

It’s hard to be in a bad mood on a summer day, even in the boiling humidity. No matter the workload, the stress, or the kids, summer will always be a reminder of your own childhood, of the freedom it represented and the opportunities ahead. There is something tangible about summer because of its thick symbolism. No matter your position in life, as soon as the temperatures rise, there is an air of promising liberation and a welcoming unknown of what the next three months will bring. It is a meteorological time machine and the closest we will ever come to eternal youth.

Be nice to me or treat me mean, I'll make the most of it, I'm an Extraordinary Machine

A silhouetted figure does a lock-kneed skip to her seat at the piano. Her wispy shape is discernable through an illuminated sapphire dress. Her signature hair hangs straight, a sanctuary for her fine-boned face. Fiona Apple has taken the stage.

After the first bars of Get Him Back, her legendary neurosis is more than apparent. But what a beautiful neurosis it is. Her voice swings from passionate growls to harmonious sopranos as her hands pound out the notes that made her known. It seems as if the audience is an afterthought. Like we are privy to a breakthrough therapy session.

There is an old theory that the crazier the brain, the more brilliant the genius. And Fiona’s obsessive-compulsions are synonymous with her music. Her mentality is superceded only by her talent. Emotions bubble at her surface, enabling her to put them in a lyrical stronghold. It is her ability to so accurately and gorgeously capture the inner workings of dysfunctional female minds that has lead to her cult following, despite only releasing three albums in ten years.

As Fiona leaves the safety of her piano, venturing to the mic stand front and center, her twitches and ticks are increasingly evident. The movements manifest her spiraling rotation between sensitivity and aggression. She clenches a fist around the waistline of her dress. She swings the microphone cable from a wrenched wrist. She thrusts her knee to the side and cocks her heel beside her hip. Listening to her songs is no preparation for her performance. Her presentation seems more remedy than recital. Watching her work through these emotions is the entertainment. She leaves the stage, returning to the moments that sparked each song, her brain retreating to the raw sentiments of the lyrics, the passion of the melody. And we see the gyrations, the jerks of her angst and elation alike. Interpretive dance or otherworldly expression, she is the outer representation of internal conflict.

It is the deep lyrics and pounding harmonies that fuel the jolts and the vocal instability. During the stirring Used To Love, she shrinks into a feeble squat while belting “I’m either so sick in the head I need to be bled dry to quit” and hammers her palm against her skull. This motion is not uncommon. It is the same position from which she bellows, “You say love is a hell you cannot bare, I say give me mine back and then go there for all I care.” She then stands triumphantly, confidently, to croon the Sleep to Dream chorus with its melodic, lofty notes.

The dancing is jarring at first and, at times, uncomfortable. It gives the impression of a profoundly cathartic undertaking and we are not viewers, but voyeurs stealing unsolicited glimpses into a fragile psyche.

When she breaks into Paper Bag there is a delicate shift. The song acknowledges her psychosis. And while it is not her only self-deprecating, explanatory hymn, it is the first of the evening. It is a clarification that, yes, she’s a little bit crazy, she knows it and she's imprisoned by it. The chorus goes:

Hunger hurts and I want him so bad it kills
Cause I know I’m a mess he don’t wanna clean up
I’ve got to fold cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts but starving works
When it costs too much to love

She doesn’t want to risk falling in love, because she’ll be hurt by someone that doesn’t understand her and will only let her down. As she sings these lines, a weight is lifted in the acknowledgement. The audience breathes. The elephant in the room has not only been identified, it has been accepted. Let the dancing continue.

In admitting her mental state, she is validating every woman who has ever felt crazy over a guy. And that’s why we love her. She puts words to the emotions we are taught to suppress and ignore. It is rare that you will find a woman unable to relate to her finely-crafted lines. Going from a lover to friend is most definitely a cruel thing to pretend and a very cunning way to condescend, as her first hit, Shadowboxer, dictates. We’re all “tired of whys, choking on whys, just need a little because, because,” just like Fast As You Can says.

And that is why Fiona Apple is so widely adored and will continue to be relevant. As long as women are unstable, Fiona’s songs will be there to right their minds. She lets us know we’re not alone. And when she is overcome with those emotions, she can move however she wants. It’s beautiful.