“Scars”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-20)

Memories.

The evocation of distant spirits may come from nearly anywhere. A combination of forces not fully understood by mortal minds. An intersection of animal logic and cerebral inspiration.

Or, in modern terms, the pairing of Miller beer and Doritos.

Tonight, such conjuring happened while looking through my page on the social network of Facebook. A friend from France had posted about the Australian Rock group ‘Rose Tattoo.’ Something that I reckoned most of my friends would receive with a wrinkled brow and a grin, when thinking of Gary Stephen ‘Angry’ Anderson. A frontman short-of-stature but gifted with much personality. But for myself, the band spoke in a voice that echoed from the early 1980’s, when my fleeting life as a video star in New York had collapsed, and I returned home to Ohio. A story I first composed on my Royal typewriter from the 1940’s.

This recording awakened part of myself that had been dormant for many years. A window unopened since that distant era had ceased to exist. One untouched by a sacred kiss of sunlight since the last century:

“I grew up fast on a working class street

First thing I learned was life don’t come cheap

Technical school, it was a waste of time

Makin’ robots for some factory line

Got my first tattoo when I was 16

The rebel had lost his teenage queen

I’d taken a stand for an outlaw’s life

My ma’s words kept ringing, ‘You’re scarred for life’

She said you’re scarred, you’ve been scarred

Scarred for life...”

While shopping at ‘Record Revolution’ on Coventry Road in Cleveland, in 1984, I found a copy of the LP in their bargain basement. It took only one spin on my turntable to burn the title track into my memory. I had been branded with vinyl ink. The song screamed out with angst and wounded energy. Like a siren call, it projected the hurt of alienation, being bullied in school, being shamed at home, and being left for dead in the shadows of conservative parents. Each drumbeat, each guitar slide, each howl and stomp and defiant fist-pump echoed my own sense of defeat. I had landed back with my brood after spectacular failure in the Empire State. Sleeping on the couch. Working in a warehouse. Wearing tattered clothes provided by friends as an act of pity. Thirsting for alcohol, a sin rejected by the family. Stumbling, bent, befuddled, out-of-round like a flat tire. Smoking Camel cigarettes. Wondering how the grace of a higher power had turned into damnation in northeastern Ohio.

Knowing too well that it was the ‘wages of sin’ spoken of in prophecy. The sentence described in my childhood, for those who stray from the path.

I wore a flannel shirt, pecked through with many holes. A gift from friends who had offered me a place to stay. Before my final exit from the Finger Lakes. The garment still hung on my shoulders when I found that Aussie platter of street-level vibes. Listening in the living room of our home, sat in front of my green footlocker, by the couch, I rocked back and forth. The music stirred my soul. Scratching, clawing, fighting to rise. An appeal for liberty.

An oath taken amid demons, loosed by failure. A cry from the depths, to see sunlight and self, once again:

“I spent some time a guest of the state

I got out and wanted to go straight

People don’t forgive, the force don’t forget

I was jailed for crimes I did not commit

I was scarred, I was scarred

Scarred for life...”

What followed was an adventure in personal growth and career development. Married twice, parenting a son and two daughters, dodging divorce, chaos, a return to homelessness, judgment by my family, struggle, the onset of age and fatigue, and finally, another crash.

Back to the beginning.

Broke and broken. This time, with physical infirmities to compliment the clash. I was old and scarred. Bowed by fate. By the consequences of my own actions. Yet still a writer. Still tapping out the story of a kid from the Midwest.

Still hearing my champions call out in song:

“I fought tooth and nail, every inch of the way

I got scars… to prove it

I was in love for keeps that time

But Rock & Roll was still on my mind

She was young and true and so full of life

And the pain went deep, I was scarred for life

I was scarred

Scarred for life...”

The Facebook post occupied only a small portion of my page. But it lingered with importance. A flame flickering in winds of history. Moved by the cycle set in motion when I was born. And by the sessions that produced this Rose Tattoo album. Now, an artifact of yonder days. Yet for me, still a potent potion that could revive an innocent self. One humbled by circumstance. With an empty stomach and a clear mind. Sharpened in focus, pointed directly toward the new horizon. Unburdened with pretentiousness. Free of guilt. Fed on hope.

“My reputation, it cuts like a knife

I was scarred, scarred for life

Been knocked around, I had a hell of a life

I was scarred, scarred for life...”

I had come a long way since sleeping on the couch in 1983, with my meager collection of guitars leaning in the corner. It felt good to remember, and to chart the distance traveled since buying the Australian slab of vinyl, so many years ago.

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