In 1979, when I graduated from high school in Stamford, Connecticut--the deepest suburbs of southern New England--many of my classmates quoted rock lyrics in their yearbook bios. A few songs celebrated adolescent fantasies of independence and escape succinctly enough to merit appearances in several bios. "I'm as free as a bird now" (Lynyrd Skynyrd) and "What a long, strange trip it's been" (Grateful Dead) were the most-quoted lines. I selected a lyric from Billy Joel, who sang, in "Vienna," "Slow down, you crazy child/You're so ambitious for a juvenile/But then if you're so smart, tell me why are you still so afraid?" Instead of freedom and escape as themes, I chose introspection, anxiety, and narcissism disguised as self-criticism.

Now I'm a rock critic, which means I shouldn't even admit to ever having liked Billy Joel, never mind reveal that I can quote one of his ancient songs from memory. Nothing is more uncool; it's not even cool in that current ironic reversal which finds pleasure in square space-age bachelor-pad records of the '50s. I should claim to have taken Metro North into New York, to see the Bush Tetras at the Peppermint Lounge, the Clash at Bond's, and all the other landmark punk shows. But there's a cultural moat around the deep suburbs, and I graduated high school having seen only one concert, a Billy Joel show at the New Haven Coliseum. My lone glimpses of new wave came over network television, when my honors-class clique gathered in Carol Jackson's living room, in our Lacoste shirts and Tretorn sneakers, watching Talking Heads or Devo on Saturday Night Live and giggling about the antics of these alienated urban freaks, while Carol's mom baked cookies.