Jennifer Spiegel‘s nonfiction collection Kids Without Horses evokes the highs and lows of the authors life vividly and honestly throughout the book.
Katherine Kindred wrote of the book:
“Jennifer tells the stories of a life marked by trauma and the bright spaces in between. Throughout, her faith informs her . . . I both love and envy her talent and her brutal honesty. Her writing is beyond great.”
In her own words, here is Jennifer Spiegel‘s Book Notes music playlist for her collection Kids Without Horses:
A Playlist, Of Course
This was a hard one.
Everything about Kids Without Horses speaks of revision. I gathered pieces, some over twenty-years-old, some brand new. And I revised and revised—and then revised some more. I wrote three different introductions, keeping the third. I re-wrote a couple pieces altogether. I cut a few I thought I loved.
And I revised this playlist too!
First, I played it for my husband in the car. (We don’t really overlap in musical taste that much.) He said, “Music should grow or reflect where you are now.” (He doesn’t like it, I thought.) He was implying, basically, that I was still listening to the same crap I had been listening to since the nineties. Time to grow up, he might’ve said. He added (twisting the knife), “Even Eddie Vedder is different now.”
To which I responded, “I know THAT.”
Second, I tweaked it. Um, a little.
(I took off Rick Springfield and Duran Duran.)
Just because I’ve written five books and all of my accompanying playlists (a literary trend I adore) sound similar doesn’t mean that they’re not AWESOME!
But I have another excuse, too: this book is about Gen X in middle-age—or my dorky Gen X-self in middle-age. You’ll see I left out plenty of cool stuff. I have always tended to, um, dwell HARD on my faves.
(I know, I know. I keep asking myself: Where in the world are The Lemonheads?)
As Gen Z (or one of those other second-rate generations) might say, “Sorry, not sorry.”
I’m billing Kids Without Horses like this: This is a myopic, personal, and eclectic collection. It’s okay to repeat that: a myopic, personal, and eclectic collection. From Red Square and Dublin to Oklahoma and Brooklyn, from Nelson Mandela and Michael Scott to Donald Trump and Larry David, from Rick Springfield and Ethan Hawke to U2 and Elena Ferrante, this is—at the end of the day—unorthodox orthodoxy.
And now for the playlist. I will only highlight some selections, though each was chosen for a reason.
“Shimmer,” by Fuel. This is my pet-project.
“Like A Song,” by U2. Unorthodox orthodoxy right here, friends.
“On Broadway,” by George Benson. As I wrote this collection—of true stories—I became increasingly aware of how, well, curated and crafted creative nonfiction is. I am this woman here, in these pages; however, it’s not wholly me. It’s this persona: performative. My Broadway. Sometimes, I’m someone else. Many people in my life don’t even know this girl. Do my kids know her? Did Tim know what he was signing up for a million years ago? She is real; she is nonfiction; she is curated, crafted, on stage.
“Dirty Day,” by U2
“Shock the Monkey,” by Peter Gabriel
“Mother,” by Tori Amos
“Shop Around,” by Captain & Tennille. My very first concert! Aren’t you so sad to know they divorced? But Toni Tennille was with him when he died. In Arizona. Weird.
“I Know It’s Over,” by The Smiths. They’re on this playlist a lot. It’s the sad stuff. You know how there are sad Smith songs and happy-ish Smith songs? (You do.) These are the sad ones. It makes sense in the book.
“Fascination Street,” The Cure. I love them. It’s a big regret of mine that I’ve never seen them live. And I love Robert Smith for being Robert Smith, looking like a middle-aged mess. LOVE IT!
“When You Were Mine,” by Prince. He should be alive right now.
“Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want,” The Smiths. More thoughts on The Smiths. Their very appeal in those harshly and dramatically lit Gen X Days was their utter myopia, their utter self-absorption, the utter smallness of their world. And—deceptively—it felt so true. I’ve gone years without listening to them. Sometimes, though, I’m nostalgic for self-pity.
“King of Pain,” by Sting. I have to refer you to the book: “Meningioma” is the chapter.
“A Letter to Elise,” by The Cure
“Animal,” by Pearl Jam: Listen. There’s a reason why Pearl Jam is here and Nirvana is not—and I loved Nirvana. I guess, if I were being entirely honest, I’d say that I’m mad at Kurt Cobain. I’m mad at him for killing himself. That’s not nice, is it? (Remember, writing is performative; I can be kind too.) I’ve always loved Pearl Jam better. Always. And I’ve always said that Eddie Vedder is the look of the man that Spiegel Women (my mom and I, though she has neither confirmed nor denied this) love. In other words, Eddie Vedder is adorable! And I’m mad at Kurt. It’s harder to live. It’s harder to be a mom or dad. It’s harder to age.
“Disarm,” by The Smashing Pumpkins
“Asleep,” by The Smiths
“Sinnerman,” by Nina Simone
“Burning Down the House,” by Talking Heads
“For My Lover,” by Tracy Chapman
“Troy,” by Sinéad O’Connor. She’s special to me. Forever.
“Papa Was A Rollin’ Stone,” by The Temptations
“Russians,” by Sting. I’m a political beast, as are my faves.
“Biko,” by Peter Gabriel. Politics.
“Seconds,” by U2. Politics.
“Black Boys on Mopeds,” by Sinéad O’Connor. Politics.
“W.M.A.,” by Pearl Jam. Politics.
“Where You Lead,” by Carole King. My parents listened to great stuff. I’m being careful not to go overboard and include everyone. My mom, though, taught me about Carole King.
“I Feel the Earth Move,” by Carole King
“Legs,” by PJ Harvey. I sometimes secretly think of PJ Harvey as my alter-ego. Which is pretty hilarious. I wrote a poem about her, but it’s in my next book.
“Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters,” by Elton John
“Glory,” by Liz Phair
“Superstition,” by Stevie Wonder
“Song for Myself,” by Harry Chapin. Great songwriter.
“Prince of Darkness,” by Indigo Girls
“Burning Bush,” by 16 Horsepower. They might be the only band that Tim and I both love.
“Sun City,” by Artists United Against Apartheid. Well, it’s important. It says a lot; it implies a lot. I remember this so well.
“Yahweh,” by U2. I’d like to think that this little playlist is about dark and light, death and life, hell and redemption. I want someone to sing me to sleep, on the one hand; and I want to be lifted on high, on the other. I thought about arranging songs to reflect this night-day dichotomy, beginning with the dirt being thrown on our graves with The Smiths to a metaphoric resurrection from the dead with U2. A before and after. I only did it a little. Just a little redemption.
“Ramble On,” by Led Zeppelin. But I end with Led Zep, the band upon which other bands are built.
“Bad,” by U2. I tried to be good and not bombard y’all with U2. I failed. Here’s the best song ever written.
also at Largehearted Boy:
Jennifer Spiegel’s playlist for her memoir Cancer, I’ll Give You One Year
Jennifer Spiegel’s playlist for her novel And So We Die, Having First Slept
Jennifer Spiegel and Paul Fuhr’s playlist for their anthology Dead Inside
Jennifer Spiegel’s playlist for her novel Love Slave
Jennifer Spiegel’s playlist for her story collection The Freak Chronicles
Jennifer Spiegel is mostly a fiction writer with three books and a miscellany of short publications, though she also teaches English and creative writing. She is part of Snotty Literati, a book-reviewing gig, with Lara Smith. She lives with her family in Arizona.