Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl: A Memoir

by Carrie Brownstein

Jeremy was, to quote from a Bikini Kill song, the “star-bellied boy” of my high school. With an angelic voice, bright eyes pooling with color and sadness, and a preternatural gift for melody, he was our genius. We gathered around him on the bus, at lunchtime, and at parties like he was a messiah. He was floppy-haired, cute, and mysterious, shy and funny. But mostly his appeal was that he could sing. He could take all the records we were listening to (Sinéad O’Connor, U2, R.E.M.), deliver an up-close version, and bring them into our world. Jeremy became our conduit, taking these formidable albums and making them feel like ours, as if he were a live Walkman we toted around with us, pressing play whenever we wanted to be reminded of our little friend group, how with enough music, with our eyes closed, we could feel like everything and nothing all at once. In Jeremy’s bedroom he’d show me chords by way of playing “The Last Day of Our Acquaintance” by Sinéad O’Connor. I’d play along to the two-chord song while Jeremy sang. Then he’d get bored and start into R.E.M.’s “The One I Love” or U2’s “New Year’s Day,” both of which required some arpeggiation, and I’d fumble my way through them, often still on the intro as he played the last note. He was patient with me, encouraging. I’d go home and practice, feeling that even with just a few chords, everything was now in my grasp.

Hm. This is nice.