We Seek the Lion's Share, Never Knowing Why

IT CAN BE TOUGH to distinguish between one's music and one's self image at the age of 15. At that age, a kid can't simply like a song or album without aligning himself with the artist--it must be a serious commitment, not just some random appreciation. You must learn about the band's history, you must learn the players' names, you even need to learn to draw the band's logo on school binders--it's all exhausting, and certainly not an undertaking you'd make unless you were into the band for the long haul.

For this reason (and so many others), my official position with regard to Styx was always one of disdain. After all, this was Styx. But as difficult as it was to appreciate the band during their early years, the chore became virtually insurmountable with the release of Mr. Roboto.

Making matters worse, Styx keyboardist/singer, Dennis DeYoung, really defined "pretentious" for me. From his overly primped hair, to the unnecessarily "majestic" way he approached his keyboards--none of it worked for me. In fairness to DeYoung, I was playing in a band at the time and our keyboardist was convinced he was a hybrid of DeYoung and Bowie. It left a bad taste in my mouth, and I really felt as though I couldn't blame Bowie.

But if a discography was like a stock history, Pieces of Eight had to be the all-time high for Styx. Coming off the difficult-to-dislike Grand Illusion, Pieces of Eight got me worried--would I have to align myself with this white-washed wonderband, so adored by the sun-bleached surfers I so despised?

Even worse, surfers couldn't possibly recognize the true genius wrapped into these two albums. "Oh, we were into Styx way back when!" they'd claim. But they were wrong, for it was not possible to be into this band until these two albums came out--certainly not if you had any musical sense.

But there I was, listening to Pieces of Eight over and over in my room, helpless to resist. It was undeniable proof these musicians were not of the "blow-up doll" variety I previously invented for them. I was on the edge of a great fall, one that could affect my musical credibility forever. I could have stayed in the Styx-fan closet--and had I known Mr. Roboto was coming, I certainly would have--but I didn't.

AMONG THE EARLIEST CONCERTS I ever attended was Styx at the Los Angeles Forum. Most impressive to me about Styx was the solid wall of HIWATT double-stacks that draped the back of the stage. Yes, at 15, this was a reasonable measure of quality. After all, they could have been Marshall stacks, so at least there was some originality going on.

From that moment on, HIWATT was my amp of choice, though when anyone asked why, I didn't have a good reason. My first experience with them was watching a member of another local band plug a cable into the wrong jack and shock himself. From that moment on, these amps seemed mean to me, and I liked that. Seeing a solid wall of them from the Forum floor just sealed the deal.

I had clearly underestimated this band, and that concert made me feel somewhat better about my musical digression. Why? Because I was better able to explain away my temporary musical insanity. You see, Styx was more like two bands rather than one. This was due to the band's three main creative contributors--Dennis DeYoung, James Young and Tommy Shaw. While DeYoung to me was the undisputed leader of the underachieving surfer set, Young and Shaw were something entirely different. When they took the lead, Styx transformed itself into a rocking fortress of musical machismo--softening no edges, and making absolutely no excuses.

This was a welcomed change from the "Lady," "Babe" and "Lorelei" garbage you know DeYoung lived for--not to mention Mr. Roboto, the man's epic musical foray into all things bad about music.

Then there was Pieces of Eight, the title track from the band's most amazing record. It was written and sung by DeYoung, which to this day I find utterly unfair. This shouldn't have been his song; it shouldn't have been their song. Pieces of Eight is progressive pop that ranges from the simple, quiet and beautiful, to the complex, loud and "anthemic." Guitars and keyboards challenge one another, but never once overstep their respective bounds.

As I listened then, I felt empowered. As I listen now, I feel defeated. The message back then was "don't let this happen to you." The message now is, "the inevitable is exactly that."

Bravo, DeYoung, you bastard.