Unfortunately, Bush’s Razorblade Suitcase is my all-time favorite record.
I’m not ashamed that I’ve listened to it dozens of times every spring since its release in 1996, but I’ve spent enough time DJing college radio and dating men that I know I’m supposed to be. I first heard Bush as a preteen, and I responded as I was meant to respond to that musical equivalent of a Monster energy drink—syrupy and chemical with rockin’ badass packaging.
This spring, it occurred to me that Razorblade Suitcase was also likely my first and most profound literary influence. Lingering young love is one thing. Realizing the cataloging of grotesquerie that I thought sprang organically from some place deep in my emotional anatomy but instead was transferred from the mind of Gavin Rossdale—that’s different. As my parents probably said when I was asked to leave Catholic school around the same time I first snapped that CD into my cherry-red Discman: I’m not mad. I’m just disappointed.