I’m your worn in leather jacket. I’m the volume in your f—ked up teenage band. A bag of smokes and a six pack. I’m the dreams you had walking down the railroad tracks — you and me.
Social Distortion, Don’t Take Me for Granted
You’ll have to excuse me for the Social Distortion kick I’ve been on lately. Scratch that: no apologies. I love Social D, and the older I get, the more the love grows. They’re one of those punk bands that has aged well alongside me.
Do I still jam out to Dead Kennedys and Bad Brains? Yes. But at the frequency (and volume) as in my youth? Not a chance. Plus, my wife Allison can get down with Social Distortion. Put up with it may be the more apt phrasing. She digs “Story of My Life.” I know it. But Jello Biafra’s bizarro singing voice or H.R.’s frenetic energy on the mic? Eh, not so much.
“Don’t Take Me for Granted” hits close to home for me. Reminds me of childhood. I can feel it deep in my soul. Right there. Pinpoint it like a warm, glowing orb.
Maybe it’s that I once sported a two sizes too small black leather jacket, played in a rock band myself, or walked the railroad tracks with a cigarette dangling out my mouth as an angst-ridden teenager — my friends by my side. Whatever the reason, I’ve been listening to this song, released in 2004, nonstop as of late. I set the loop feature on Spotify and the song starts, plays, finishes, and starts back up all over again.
I bet I’ve listened to it more than one-hundred times in the past two days alone.
Mike Ness wrote “Don’t Take Me for Granted” as a tribute to his friend Dennis Danell, a co-founding member of Social Distortion, who passed away suddenly in 2000.
I can’t help but be reminded of my old bandmates from Anti-Lou when I hear the song.
Feedback.
Distortion pedals.
Ears ringing.
Trying to nail a new song. F—king it up. Lugging amps up on stage and plugging those bad boys in.
Prior to the first chord of the song being struck, Mike Ness says into the mic:
It just makes you think that, eh, you know, you think your friends and loved ones are going to be there forever; and then one minute they’re gone — forever.
I think of Scott, our drummer who passed away unexpectedly in February 2014. Rare heart condition. Never even knew he had it.
I’d just gotten a new phone earlier that day. Didn’t have my old contacts punched in yet since I upgraded from a flip phone to an iPhone. The first call I received was from Josh. I didn’t recognize the number but I knew the voice.
“He’s dead, man.”
Feels like yesterday hearing those words. Sticks with you.
Then the flood of memories: meeting Scott for the first time. This was long before he became our drummer. His t-shirt was ripped. Had blood on it. Nirvana shirt. Unplugged in New York. He’d punched out another kid at Earth Day who was being the loudmouth every one knew him to be. Scott closed his mouth for him.
Years pass. Our original drummer leaves the band. Scott gets recruited. The four of us spend what feels like every waking hour with one another practicing. We play shows. Record our only album. Play more shows. The rest is history.
I think part of growing older is surviving on memories. Not the bad ones, though you learn from those. The good ones. I was blessed to have the friends I did in my youth. Thinking about all the dumb s—t we did together keeps me going on tough days. Family aside, being an adult can suck. Air-tight friendships for me are non-existent now.
I’ve never come close to recreating what I had in youth. Not that my aim is this. But that level of friendship? I don’t know how to come within even a shadow of it.
Close friends in childhood is a double-edged sword in ways. That could be part of it. The inevitable measuring stick. It’s too tall. I’ve lost too many good friends along the way. Taken away too young, all. Jeremiah was the first. Then Brian, Scott, Gary. Who’s next?
Those still alive today I barely talk to anymore. It’s depressing this happens as we get older despite what we know those on their deathbed say: I wish I’d kept in touch with old friends. It’s one of the five regrets of the dying. Yet, we don’t learn. Keep making the same mistakes they did. Myself included.
I get why people are on social media. But social media never did it for me. It felt too surface-level. Made it worse if anything. I don’t want to see you if I can’t see you. It’s too hard for me.
Maybe that’s it.
Why the song resonates for me as strongly as it does.
It puts it all into perspective for me.
A good reminder.
A pact.
I don’t take you for granted.
But don’t take me for granted either.
P.S. It’s Josh Holt’s birthday today, so if you are reading this on October 10, wish his old behind a happy birthday.
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