I’ve been a music junkie since before I could walk. The 45-rpm single of Shirley Ellis’s “The Clapping Song” shaped me. There are family stories of me hoisting myself up to the stereo so I could stare at the records spinning around and around. I was encouraged to be creative, and I’m sure my parents suspected I was different. Unfortunately, I spent most of my teenage years distancing myself from them, because I simply didn’t know how to communicate the cravings that my body and mind were manifesting.
I started to come out in college. At the same time, I was drawn to the alternative music and culture of the era. I obsessed about bands like the Smiths, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Kate Bush, and The B-52s, devouring magazines like Trouser Press and After Dark, road-tripping from our tidy suburb to classic Manhattan dance clubs like the Ritz, Pyramid, Boy Bar, Save the Robots, and Danceteria. My house-music cherry was popped at the legendary Paradise Garage.
If only I could go back and tell the young me not to worry so much about what everyone else thinks about him. I would tell little Bill to embrace his inner joy and that it’s okay to celebrate, feel free, and love unconditionally!