I have the original version of the album that I bought on CD probably somewhere around 2000, which is a bit later than its "moment", but that's because I had it on cassette from a few years prior. Because it was on cassette, my clearest single memory from listening to it is hearing that jarring, grinding/tearing/squealing transition from "Where Boys Fear to Tread" to "Bodies" for the first time, and leaping up from my seat to take the tape out, because I was sure my stereo was "eating" it, and every time thereafter that I heard it, I wondered whether it was damage done to the tape, or whether it was supposed to sound that way. Since none of my other friends were into Smashing Pumpkins, and I therefore never had another copy of the album to compare it to, I was in some doubt about it until I finally listened to it on CD.
Four years ago, my sister turned 21 (I was 34 at the time; there's a bit of an age gap there, yes). I got her a copy of the album as a birthday present. We don't have a huge amount of overlap in our musical tastes, but it was an album of enormous importance to me when I was her age then and younger, through the latter half of my teenage years, at that time of your life when music seems to matter most, when it's most prominent as the background of your life. I mean, music has never been unimportant to me, but when I was younger, it was of almost desperate importance. I identified the times by the music, and in some sense, myself as well, I think. Anyway, I got my sister a copy, because I felt strongly that as someone whose interest in music was more than just incidental, she should have a copy. I wrote her a letter to go along with it, because sometimes I just like to do that. What I told her then is as as true now as it was in the moment: Sometimes there is music that you like, sometimes there is music that's good, and then sometimes there is music that just... speaks to you, so clearly it's almost as if it was made for you specifically. And at that point, questions of good and bad are entirely irrelevant.
If I had to choose one album to take with me through the rest of my life, and only one, it would probably be this one, no hesitation. When I'm furious over something and need to rage and vent, I can listen to "Bullet with Butterfly Wings" or "Tales of a Scorched Earth". When I'm feeling melancholy, there's "Galapagos". If I need something gentle and calming, there's "Take Me Down" or "Porcelina of the Vast Oceans". When I need something big and soaring, there is, maybe a bit clichedly, "Tonight, Tonight". And in general, when I'm feeling detached and off, there's a kind of unguarded sincerity and desperate emotionality to the whole album that can be grounding.
Even though I mentioned a moment ago that when I was younger, the music I listened to helped to identify the times in my life, to crystallize moments in the world both inside and outside my own head, I have no real specific memories of listening to the music. But that's because it was on such constant rotation that it's impossible for me, here twenty years on from the very end of my teenage days, to pin down a particular date and time when it was especially relevant, or most relevant, beyond the tape-eating incident mentioned above. It was always relevant. It still is.
Wait. No. There is one other memory.
When my wife and I got married, about seven years ago, we each chose songs for various points in the wedding and reception. We wanted some of the songs to be ours together, some of them to be hers, and some of them to be mine. One of the songs I chose was the title track for this album. At the time, I just chose it because I thought it would sound right for the moment, because it was something that was "mine" specifically, and that was all. Later, I would think that the song and its use in the ceremony were perfect: We decided that we'd like to have the bridesmaids and groomsmen walk in to that song, before she came in to a song of her choosing. It was, by total coincidence, timed perfectly. And as I think about it right now, it was used perfectly as well, as the quiet, humble prelude to something much greater and longer.