Happy 20 years of Decemberunderground! AFI's 7th studio album was released on June 6th, 2006.
This is the album that introduced me to AFI (one of my favorite bands as a teen), so it holds a special place in my heart. I can't believe it's been 20 years now. What's your favorite track off the album, or favorite memory associated with it?
Okay, save all your mean commentary and need to tell me that I am a creep for yourself (Dave has written some things himself). I had a thing come to mind and I want to start writing again. I don't know if this is going to go further than this, but here it goes.
“So, you cannot sing Bigmouth Strikes Again anymore because you’ll get cancelled. I mean, the first few lines are a dude joking about punching his girlfriend’s teeth out,” Callum adds, and she watches professor Havok’s raven brow cock and then both of them furrow like confused caterpillars that she longs to place in the palm of her moisturized hands and pet. The professor sighs and he continues traipsing through the aisles of the auditorium, all eyes glued. To her surprise, David laughs.
“If I didn’t already state this at the beginning of the semester…”
A breath catches in her throat as she watches Davey ascend the short stage once more and resume his spotlight at a black podium, littered with band stickers and fliers to inform the viewer of shows happening on the weekend. Everyone vied to post their stickers and fliers in professor Marchand’s lecture hall. The bulletin board on the south wall of the room no longer contains the space for any more shameless promotion.
The breath had caught because she was momentarily reminded of the one time she had ever seen her professor perform. A few years ago in a coastal city, alone for the experience because she had not wanted to be distracted by any of her friends, who listened to nothing she enjoyed.
Davey continues, “Violence is not taught or encouraged in this class, nor is it the personal belief of yours truly.”
“Except for punching Nazis!” shouts a baritone from somewhere in the middle of the sea of seats.
“Perhaps, but in this class, you’re welcome to sing whatever you like, whether I like it, your classmates like it, or not,” Davey adds, squinting slightly in the light in an attempt to see who the hell shouted about punching Nazis. Not that Davey disagreed with this idea. He nods in the direction of the student who had brought up The Smiths, “You digress, Callum. The question was about a completely different artist. The Buzzcocks were formed in…”
Crickets. She’s sitting close enough that she can see Davey roll his cocoa eyes. She always focused best in the front row, never mind her nearsightedness. He begins to look impatient, leaning against the podium and gazing across the heads of many starstruck students. It’s week three of this course, and people are still starstruck.
“Pop fuckin’ quiz—get out your pens, pencils, I don’t care if it’s written in lipstick–it’s happening,” Davey explains, “Name at the top of the sheet, date.”
Her heart lurches like when one slams the brakes suddenly. She likes the sound of Davey demanding that they do something. Strict. Unwavering.
A unanimous resounding groan fills the air and Davey rolls his eyes again. He had said at the start that students were to expect to come to this class to actually learn, not just to be fans staring at their favorite singer. And she smiles, knowing the answer like the back of her hand. This band is a little more than a decade older than her time, but she’d grown up on a diet of punk and worldly artists and knew the answer was 1976.
“Just one question. And if you get it wrong, I will be displeased,” Davey admits gravely, “If I hear you talk, it’s cheating and you get a zero. My TAs know your names–I already had them memorize their group of students at the start of the semester,” Davey explains. Another resounding awww from the class actually makes her giggle. She glances to the right at the TA standing now and watching students work, lifting her sheet, one of the first to turn in their answer. Davey steals a glance at her and cocks an eyebrow curiously. She had written this answer in absolutely no time. Davey observes several worried faces.
“Alright–bonus question, folks. If you can name the singer of any punk band, you’ll receive half credit.”
Delightful murmurs all around and sheets of paper begin being filed down the rows to teaching assistants.
“It’s not even midterms yet,” Davey explains, “You have to have learned at least one thing in the last couple of weeks. Half of you read my Substack,” Davey continues with what appears to be both encouragement and irritation.
“And no, I won’t put answers to future exam questions up on that site. So don’t get any ideas.”
She can feel his gaze upon her, where she’s already eager for this lecture to continue. To her surprise, she catches Davey’s smile. A smile at her. Though she had asked him only a few questions in the last few weeks, she finds herself hoping he doesn’t recognize her from Substack. How can he, when he isn’t very internetty to begin with? She glances to her right and then to her left, where both classmates are still racking their brains for the right answer. Is Davey actually looking at her? When she realizes that he is, her face tomatoes. She’s grateful for the lingering tan of the summer, because she doesn’t think Davey notices her blushing.
As she already predicted, it is damn near impossible to get office hours with Professor Marchand. They are by appointment only, mainly in the form of groups of four to six students at a time, considering how many people have been eager to take this class. So, when she finds herself the among the last from her group of six in Professor Havok’s office, she is grateful she had written all of her questions down. Davey focusing on her at all makes her nervous.
“You were one of a handful of students who got the year correct. I got a lot of nineteen sixty sevens, and it makes me worry the future of this country is in bad hands,” Davey explains. She laughs a little bit louder than she’d meant to, covering her own mouth with her hands. The student beside her rolls her eyes, and she’s certain the woman got the pop quiz question wrong.
“How many people tried to use Billie Joe as an answer to the bonus question?” she asks hopefully. At this, Davey laughs. He laughs a bit louder than she had expected him to, and she clocks the micro jump that the student left sitting beside her experiences. The student begs for the points, stating she had written nineteen sixty-seven when she meant to flip the last two numbers. She listens to Davey gently explain that she cannot have the points, because then he’d have to give the same points back to an overwhelming fraction of the class.
When this student finally leaves the room, it’s just her and Professor Marchand. He cocks the same raven brow.
“For a second, I assumed you said, ‘screw it! I don’t know,’ and handed in a piece of paper. You were the first student to hand that quiz in,” Davey explains. She beams. Acknowledged.
“You thought wrong, professor,” she explains. His grin doesn’t fade. He wonders what exactly she’s going to ask him.
“You’re one of a handful of students I have that gets any of these pop quizzes correct,” Davey explains. She crimsons.
“You look a bit young to know a lot of this stuff,” he adds. She realizes that she is under his magnifying glass right now. She doesn’t know how long she can take this scrutiny for.
“Well, I didn’t take this class because of you,” she half lies, “I took it because when I was thirteen, I remember my mom sharing her seven inches and teaching me what good music sounds like.”
Davey laughs again. She can tell he’s rather pleased by this. She doesn’t plan to ever tell him how huge of a fan she truly is, lest he roll his eyes like he did in the lecture hall. She can tell he really cares about teaching this stuff and not having it be about his status as a celebrity in the music world. This is the first thing that draws him in. She doesn’t need the extra credit with a knowledge base like this, and Davey knows it. He finds himself intrigued.
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