We were studying poetry in Mr. Zimmerman’s English class, and he gave us the assignment to bring in a song to play and discuss its structure, rhyming pattern, symbolism, metaphors and meaning. He wanted us to examine poetry in modern music, which was more interesting to us at the time than a “poem lovely as a tree.” I was really excited for the assignment since music was so important to me. I could kind of guess which kid would bring in what type of song based on being a jock, nerd, metal head, socialite, punk or stoner.
I wanted so badly to play and discuss “Subdivisions” by Rush, which would have been my senior-year statement about high school and its social structure. But, ironically, I chickened out and caved to peer pressure. I thought I had to live up to what the class expected, which would be for me to play a hardcore punk song and disrupt the class. Not that I didn’t like being a disrupter, but at that point in time I wanted to make a real statement about high school and have my fellow students take a pause to think about it, especially those jocks, bullies and others that were too cool for, well, school.
One by one, each student walked to the front of the classroom and gave their report doing their best to dissect their song as poetry. I scoffed at the guy playing “Sailing” by Christopher Cross and dedicating it to his girlfriend. Not all choices were cheesy or not to my taste, and I was most surprised and impressed when one of the popular girls brought in “At 17″ by Janis Ian. It was like she opened up her diary in the classroom for us to read. I couldn’t believe that this socialite pulled back the curtain to show us who she really related to behind the “cool kid” exterior. This was reason enough why I should have gone with my gut instinct and not taken the predictable road. I was given the chance but chickened out. I wanted to have an honest discussion about how everyone behaved in high school. Maybe “Subdivisions” still affects as much today since I have always had this unfinished business.
My turn eventually came, and I gave a disappointing presentation on a song by a local punk band that was trying to write more abstract and metaphorical lyrics than others. I thought I was being artsy and cool. It was Dullsville.
It was the end of my senior year, and I was slowly exiting the punk scene and listening to a lot of other music, especially Rush. The first time I heard “Subdivisions,” I thought the band wrote it just for me. I was magically blessed with both foresight and hindsight at my very first listen because the song moved me so much. I understood its message and meaning, and it was a perfect soundtrack to the here and now. I could look into the future and easily place my classmates into the song.
Summary: The song itself is loaded with great lyrics and descriptive rhyming, and it paints a clear picture of teen angst, isolation, longing while living in the mundane suburban sprawl. The song tells the story of peer pressure and the need to both fit in with the crowd while looking off past the horizon for something better. For me, as a 17-year-old, I understood the message loud and clear since I witnessed the wannabes, hangers-on and those doing anything to be cool. I just wanted to dodge those raindrops and get through school.
The music is dark and haunting and triggered so much of my teen angst. It was how the song made me feel that had me pointing my accusatory finger at the caste system within the walls of Ram High. I had rebelled against these folks for the last three years and then failed to seize the opportunity to point a mirror at them when the chance presented itself.
How I’ve kicked myself over this for 33 years!
I rebelled against the conformists, not my parents or my east-side neighborhood. I channeled my energy into leather jackets, safety pins, spikes, chains, dyed hair and spray-painted shirts. Every Monday morning in first period I heard about all of the parties and the gossip, like who sneaked out their window, who got into a fight, who hooked up with whom. I didn’t like any of it. Give me a two-minute song about anarchy and I was happy.
So please indulge me here as I go back in time and pretend to take the long, intimidating and nervous walk back up to front of the class and dissect this poem. At least now all these years later I have much more life experience and hindsight.
“Subdivisions” begins with ominous keyboards setting a dark tone to the song. Then enter the drums, guitar and more keyboards with a melody that creates a sense of a lonely Saturday night in Any Suburb, USA.
The singer begins the narrative:
Sprawling on the fringes of the city
In geometric order
An insulated border
In-between the bright lights
And the far, unlit unknown
My insulated border was the post-war homes of the Plaza neighborhood and nearby houses of the Ranchos and El Dorado Park Estates. When I went running or riding my bike around the rows and rows of houses, I wondered, What was going on behind all those doors? Where was everyone? Were they having more fun than me? And from our corner house, I could see way off into the distance and above the tree line the glow of city lights that seemed to indicate that the action was way over there.
Those lights of course were from Thrifty’s, Lucky Market and Millikan’s stadium, not some far unlit unknown.
Growing up, it all seems so one-sided
Opinions all provided
The future pre-decided
Detached and subdivided
In the mass-production zone
Nowhere is the dreamer
Or the misfit so alone
I had a duality with the song (being both a misfit and not a misfit). I had it pretty good and was never angry at my parents. I just wanted to march to my own drum and didn’t like being told what to do (and still don’t). I didn’t ever want to fall in line and be like the rest of the herd. I wasn’t much of a “joiner” but always had friends from all circles: jocks, nerds, metal heads, punks, and socialites. Yes, and I knew some stoners, too. Plus, I was also 5’11” , 125 pounds and all kneecaps, so my punk couture could just cover up any insecurities and feel I was a complete nerd.
The chorus hits:
Subdivisions (spoken in a deep, menacing, authoritative tone)
In the high school halls
In the shopping malls
Conform or be cast out
Subdivisions
In the basement bars
In the backs of cars
Be cool or be cast out
Any escape might help to smooth
The unattractive truth
But the suburbs have no charms to soothe
The restless dreams of youth
Get that same haircut. Get those clothes. Join the team. Join the club. Smile for yearbook photos. No thanks.
But there was one rainy night I got off of work from the Chevron gas station and took the offer from my buddy Andy to go to a house party. The rain had stopped and the streets were quiet as I drove into the neighborhood to the house. I was both anxious and excited to get there. The house lights reflected off the water in the trees, giving the night a very cinematic appearance and a verse straight from the song. It was late into the party, and everyone was deep into their wine coolers. It turned out to be the best two hours I had in a long time of just talking and not worrying about being cool or being cast out.
Drawn like moths, we drift into the city
The timeless old attraction
Cruising for the action
Lit up like a firefly
Just to feel the living night
Oh man, how many nights did we walk around the neighborhood after doing homework or on weekends craving to be somewhere else. Somewhere where the action actually was— where the girls were. Maybe it was following the red tail lights up the 110 Freeway into Los Angeles. Mostly it was the magnetic energy of all those kids meeting up at Naugles or Penguins Yogurt just dying to be somebody, to meet somebody, to feel grown up and free— to laugh, scream, smoke, make out and “feel the living night.” It was long before the Internet and smartphones that gave us instant access to anything and anywhere. We only had hope, desire and happenstance.
My favorite verse comes next:
Some will sell their dreams for small desires
Or lose the race to rats
Get caught in ticking traps
And start to dream of somewhere
To relax their restless flight
Somewhere out of a memory
Of lighted streets on quiet nights
After graduation I remember hearing about early marriages and early pregnancies. At 18, I thought that was a life sentence of limitation and settling in for a suburban existence. I believed those classmates would always be looking out past the horizon at the end of their front yards dreaming of somewhere!else. There would always be some type of deep-down unrest for them.
I was aware and smart enough in 1985 that I never wanted to lose the race to rats or get caught in a ticking trap. I didn’t want to be Mr. Button Down, dress like I worked at NASA in 1963, punch the clock and get the gold watch after 30 years at the same desk. I wanted the road less traveled. At 18, I never wanted to sell out and be a square. I sensed that for some of my classmates it seemed just fine for them. To settle. That was the last thing I wanted.
Chorus hits again:
Subdivisions
In the high school halls
In the shopping malls
Conform or be cast out
Subdivisions
In the basement bars
In the backs of cars
Be cool or be cast out
The instrumental passages and guitar solo launched my wandering and wondering into the stratosphere. That ’80s synthesizer melody still haunts me today and triggers intense nostalgia. With each listen I can be transported back to May of 1985.
The singer drives the point home one last time, repeating:
Any escape might help to smooth
The unattractive truth
But the suburbs have no charms to soothe
The restless dreams of youth
To this day, as I drive around at night, I am still haunted by the memory of our lighted streets on quiet nights of yearning and worry. I see the yellow glow of porch lights and still wonder where everyone is and what they are doing!without me. I was always attracted to their warmth and felt so at ease and insulated in my Plaza neighborhood.
OK, so now I can exhale and walk back to my desk in Mr. Z’s class, feeling like I finally got all that off my chest. I hope I covered the material thoroughly enough to get a good grade.
As for conforming to the caste, guilty as charged.