If I'd had a healthier, happier childhood, if in fact, I had a childhood and not an always-adulthood, it would have been like any other crush, here today gone in a week. But my rollermania was enduring. I kissed their pictures when I went to bed like saying my prayers. I got up in the morning with them and they were never far from my thoughts. I waited for each issue of Tiger Beat like a papal encyclical. I learned about how mail ordering overseas works when I bought their UK-release only albums. I named my cat after drummer Derek's dog. I made scones (badly) from their recipe.
I wasn't known for much in my junior high except my Bay City Roller passion. They were my forte and signature. I wore plaid every day. I didn't have, but longed for, a pair of high top All-Stars. (Now I have some fake-verse plaid- wannabe low tops, such is life and thank you husband. I go down often that rabbit hole of memory lane. Slanite.) But I didn't have those amazingly 3M plaid (If-you're-American-and-and-my age-you know-what-I'm talking-about) shoes.
But plaid converse notwithstanding, I trimmed my trousers in tartan and rolled them up to show off argyll socks I'd gotten for Christmas from Grama L (forward thinking of her) Until my dad said I looked stupid and to roll them back down. I did but only till he was out of sight. It's the one thing I kind of defied him on. And that's part of what drove me to do it. His constant disdain of me. Run me down if you will but DON'T YOU tread on my Scotch plaid shoes! So what's it all about? ( I feel there's a Stones song here, like Mother's Little Helper...)
I wasn't looking for a father figure. FER SHUR! They were too young and it would be creepy. I didn't need another dad, having two already. I wasn't looking to belong either. I kind of liked sticking out like a red, blue and green checked thumb. I enjoyed the reputation of being west Michigan's leading authority on the Edinburgh boys, the girl most likely to faint hearing "Shang-a-lang!" Maybe what I wanted was to be different. To have my thing I excelled at.
There it is. I felt like a failure most of the time. And was made to feel that. I was too clumsy for sports (actually from spinal damage but who cared). My singing voice was choir grade only. And my dad said it was showing off to sing. I was miserable failure at art. My grades were excellent but all that got you in my day was teasing. And there were others with better. But you can't really fail with cult devotion, can you?
As I look back, their music wasn't really that iconic or great. When bestie Heather suggested that to me, I hissed at her. With teeth bared. Really! But she is right. It didn't really matter to me that they weren't a Led Zepplin or Jethro Tull. (like I had a radio and my dad would have shat himself if I EVER listened to WLAV anyway). I just liked their bubble gum sweet songs, end of.
I will say that if they'd played more native songs like "Flower of Scotland" I'd have loved them even more. But I suppose dumbing down roots was more financially correct and folk songs had gone out of vogue by then. Fat lot of good that did them when their manager stole it all anyway. And Anyway, where am I going with this?
In one of my college lectures we watched a series of talks by sociologist Morris Massey who posited that "what you are is where you were, when." With Texan televangelist like zeal, he asserts that, simply, terroir matters. Things that resonate, do so because of your personal time and place. I think that the Bay City Rollers came to me, to misquote Randy VanWarmer, "just when I needed them most." They stayed to help me through some dark nights and when I left without closing the door, they didn't stand in my way.
Finis.
(with XXXXXs, OOOOs and thanks to Alan Longmuir (RIP), Les Mckeown (RIP) Stuart "Woody" Wood, Eric Faulkner, Ian Mitchell (RIP), Pat McGlynn and of course, my beloved Derek Longmuir. You'll never know how much you meant this girl, many moon ago. I'm not too far from Bay City, Michigan so if you're ever visiting, stop by for some poorly-baked scones!)
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