Charm City Jukebox

I had a new-agey pop-therapist type friend who used to always ask me, mid-rant, “But Claire, where does the anger go? Where does it go?” She wanted me to say something about chakras, or maybe my kidneys. She was hoping I would embrace veganism, meditation, deep-belly breathing. And that’s all fine. That’s all dandy, really.

But honestly, if you want to know where the anger goes, I’ll tell you: It goes right in my speakers.

“Cherry Bomb,” by The Runaways*

I’m pretty soft-spoken. It’s a drag. People periodically think it’s okay to treat me poorly because the volume lever on my voice goes more to 7 than 11. If I wrote a Top 5 Minor Infractions That Cause Me Searing Anger list, the old “I will now talk and behave like your quiet voice is a license to walk all over you” routine would be firmly planted at the top. (Word to the wise: It is possible to say “Hey this place is crazy loud, can you repeat that?” instead of screeching “Whaaaaat! Ughhhh I can’t heaaaaar youuuuu” while rolling your eyes.)

This happens less as I get older and much, much less nice about it. People also add this bizarre back story that paints me as some kind of pushover, uptight innocent. You want to know the real story? I CAN’T TALK ANY LOUDER. It is as much something I can control as the size of my hands or the color of my eyes. When screeching and judgey nonsense gets me fired up, I need to blast some vintage Runaways. I need to hear “Hello world/I’m your wild girl” followed by the gleeful shouted chorus of “CHERRY BOMB!” Cherie Currie barks and wails, and Joan Jett looks like the bad girl whose reckless life you might like to steal for a couple hours. It gives me a reinfusion of lost swagger, and makes me seriously consider dying my hair red again and buying a leather jacket.**

“Payback,” by James Brown

Sometimes, cooling off isn’t enough. Throwing a punch at a pillow, sitting fuming on the couch with a beer and a loop of 30 Rock episodes is a rage-bandage that lacks satisfaction. When you need to feed a good rage fantasy, elaborate movie style, James Brown is your man, and “Payback” is the perfect movie montage soundtrack. This is robbing a crooked casino in a catsuit music, this is what plays at that point in the movie when your giant wingbacked leather chair swings around and the audience finds out you were the badass orchestrating these righteous hijinks the whole time. It also works for really stylized kung fu movie fight sequences that allow you to throw imaginary roundhouse kicks at anyone who’s incurred your fury.

“Refugee,” by Tom Petty

“Refugee” is a perfect balm for a secret universal anger experience: Imaginary fights. I’m talking about those times when you’re taking a walk, or driving to work, and suddenly you’re in the throes of a fantasy argument with any variety of characters from your life, hashing it out over slights big and small, some of them long forgotten but somehow stored in some dank anger cavern in your memory. This time you stand up for yourself, or you stand up for yourself better—you have the cutting retorts, you get louder, you think of all that stuff you should’ve said then and would’ve if you hadn’t been deep in the actual argument fog. Instead of blowing all that adrenaline on a drawn out internal argument with a friend you haven’t talked to in five years, listen to Tom Petty. “Somewhere, somehow somebody/ Must have kicked you around some/ Tell me why you wanna lay there/ And revel in your abandon” and “Everybody’s had to fight to be free/ You see you don’t have to live like a refugee” are the perfect antidotes to enraged wallowing. Get empowered, get over past slights, play “Refugee” way too loud, and enjoy your drive to work for once.

“You Oughtta Know,” by Alanis Morisette

Alanis Morisette’s voice is raw and unflinching. She’s loud! She’s angry! She doesn’t suffer fools! Take that, Dave Coullier. This is not only a deeply cathartic anger song, but also a song that helps you build up necessary anger when you’re on the fence. Still making excuses for a terrible ex? Still turning some variety of blame inwards instead of towards the hallowed person who might deserve it? Let Alanis be your guide.

“Kiss Off,” by the Violent Femmes

I needed a tense song, because I was tense and growing tenser. It was the summer after college.  Every day I was Metro-ing into DC from College Park in the same polyester interview dress, which was usually still damp from being washed in the sink the night before. And if a laundry miracle occurred and it was bone dry, it stayed that way for about a second in the thick, 90 degree humidity. My lease was running out, and so was my money. My car sat in the garage without gas and made pathetic mewling noises when I tried to drive it (“Feeed meee”). I ran from office to office and rattled off reasons I was employable, then went home sweaty and hungry, pretty sure this was another office whose waiting room I would enjoy, rather than their employment. I needed a tense, pounding heartbeat of a song to blast in my ears, to get me fired up enough to do it all again the next morning. I blasted this song a couple times a day. It was tense and taut, the guitar was plucked like a nerve and “They’ll hurt me bad/But I don’t mind/They’ll hurt me bad/They do it all the time” was the defiantly pissed off sentiment I needed to hear.

*Fun fact: If you listen to “Cherry Bomb” by looking up “Cherry Bomb” on Spotify, John Mellencamp’s “Cherry Bomb” shows up next. Worst musical transition ever.

**Is it just me, or does Cherie Currie look like Amy Poehler doing a Cherie Currie impression in that picture?