Anger Is an Energy

Content warning: Old, obscure rock lyrics.

They put a hot wire to my head
‘Cos of the things I did and said
And made these feelings go away
Model citizen in every way

Anger is an energy!
Anger is an energy!
Anger is an energy!
Anger is an energy!

—excerpts from Rise by Public Image Ltd

I drove to York yesterday, the closest big city. Big is a relative term. Forty-four thousand people seems big to me. Gettysburg, the town, houses seven thousand, and the surrounding area, another fifteen to twenty. Not big enough, apparently, for a FedEx Ship Center.

UPS does business in Gettysburg.

They have a shipping warehouse right outside of town. When you miss your delivery because you’re at work rather than taking a day off to receive your package, you just pop into the conveniently located UPS warehouse and pick it up.

With FedEx, you drive to York. Including the two minutes I spent inside signing for my package, I spent one hundred and five minutes making the trip. Know what’s annoying? I drove it last week too.

Eli and I bought new laptops. Actually, Eli bought a laptop, I bought a new laptop. Eli never owned one before, so while his laptop is new, I don’t think I can say he bought a new laptop. If you’re the one person who’s been reading my blog from the start, you’re thinking “Another new Laptop?” I seem to buy a laptop every other year. I just looked back at an old blog post; I bought my last laptop in November 2019. It lasted the length of the pandemic. That’s fitting. Lots of death over those two years, why not my laptop.

A few months ago, I noticed that I misspelled half my words as I typed, every other word underlined red. None of them included the letter “a” — Jeff Cnn, Susn Cnn, etc. I bought a refurbished laptop last time around. I figured if I could squeeze three years out of it, I’d be ahead. Nope, two and a half years before the “a” key tired out. Plus, it only had fifteen minutes of battery life. This time I went new.

Eli’s laptop arrived last week on work day. He and I drove to York to pick it up. According to Apple Maps, there are two ways to get to York from Gettysburg. One way is to hop on Route 30, a half mile from my house and drive a straight shot for thirty miles. The other way involves squirreling around the county, one dusty country road after the next, covering thirty-eight miles and saving forty-five seconds. This is how Eli and I got to York. Yesterday, without Eli to navigate, I jumped on Route 30, turned off my mind and jammed out to music.

Radio Jeff. That’s what I named my Spotify playlist. Like all Spotify playlists, it’s unique—unique to me. I’m the only one who has heard it. No one else would listen. Usually, with Eli present, we all listen to his playlist. The songs are familiar to all of us—relying heavily on music from the late sixties and early seventies—Hendrix, Zeppelin, the Doors, the Who. Driving home from York, Eli suggested we listen to my playlist. But then we turned it down so low I couldn’t hear it.

Years ago, as a spin instructor, I played an abrasive, scrape-y punk song by the Dream Syndicate. As it finished up, I said, ‘truly a song only a mother could love.”

An old guy in the back row, probably my age and clearly annoyed, replied “And yet here we are listening to it.”

That’s a good way to describe my playlist. I keep it to myself, now.

Yesterday, a sunny Saturday morning, I blasted out my tunes: punk classics from the seventies, hard driving alt-rock from the eighties and nineties, bass-heavy psychedelic tracks from the sixties, and the Beatles. The whole way, one-hundred-and-three minutes, I sang along. Furious music, most of it, filled with rage. Except, of course, the Beatles.

When Rise by Public Image Ltd came on, shouted out the refrain: Anger is an energy! Anger is an energy! Anger is an energy! Anger is an energy…

And then Love You To by the Beatles came on.

A lifetime is so short
A new one can’t be bought
But what you’ve got means such a lot to me

Make love all day long
Make love singing songs…

And I began to wonder, what am I so pissed about. When my alarm sounds at five o’clock each morning, I hop out of bed. I sleep well, and I face each day with excitement. I could rattle off a comprehensive list of what’s great about my life, but really, a good night sleep and daily enthusiasm says it all. My life is pretty good.

I’ve been immersed in the punk, pre-punk, post-punk and neo-punk musical genres my entire adult life.

A song I listened to several times over the past month, including yesterday, is Bad Habit by the Offspring—a song about being frustrated with other drivers. Throughout the song the tension builds until it explodes out in an ejaculation of fury:

Drivers are rude
Such attitudes
When I show my piece complaints cease
Something’s odd
I feel like I’m God
You Stupid, Dumbsh*t, G*d D*mn, Motherf*cker!
I open the glove box
Reach inside
I’m gonna wreck this f*cker’s ride

Jesus! What’s my problem? This song is nothing like me. I’m a patient driver! Why do I listen to this?

As near as I can tell, it’s the energy that draws me to this angry music. The rage portrayed wakes me up and pulls me in. Plus, it’s suitable to scream along with—and with my singing voice, that’s the best I can hope for.

Now that I’m aware, I’ll start paying attention to what the song says. Not just singing along with the lyrics, but analyze the message the song is sending. I’m suddenly curious about my motivation to listen to this music. I just hope my new awareness doesn’t spoil all my songs for me.

Listen to Rise by Public Image Ltd.