My first band was called Dynamite Lover. My dad did not like that name. “Jeez Holl,” he’d say. “You really gotta call it that? Maybe think of some other alternatives?” I was so offended. “Why wouldn’t I call it that? I love to blow shit up! (I’d never actually blown anything up.) Explosions are rad! Dynamite is a great word…” I scoffed in defense, while he just sort of shrugged his shoulders, rolled his eyes, and let it go. I was eighteen but clearly naive, not considering the double entendre. I think I woke up about ten years later and was like… OH! I get why my dad didn’t like that! How embarrassing. For my next trick, I called myself Holly Marilyn, dropping my last name. Marilyn is my middle name. Named after my grandma. My dad’s mom. Many people over the years have thought it was made up. Even close friends of mine. Like I combined Hollywood and Marilyn Monroe. Again, how embarrassing. I would never make up such a ridiculous name (ummm). But my parents would. And did. I remained Holly Marilyn for quite some time, until I felt I’d tarnished that name and that girl’s reputation, so when I started a new band I christened it The Child, also taking it on as a moniker. After that band had run it’s course, I struggled yet again to find my identity. Within a few weeks I’d joined another band, Night Terrors of 1927, playing bass and singing backups, and was happy to be known as “the hot girl bass player from Night Terrors” for like a hot second, until I realized I prefer to be more front facing. I quit that band, and tried Holly Marilyn on again, but it wasn’t enough. I’d grown. When I started writing songs for a TV series, I wanted to be taken seriously as a writer and a composer so I went full force, with all my given names. Holly Marilyn Solem. Holly Marilyn Solem from the show Hand of God, on Amazon prime. A nice identity until the show got cancelled and I was left floundering. A few years after that, I got sober and needed to distance myself from everyone I’d ever been before. If possible, I would have happily erased my prior existence, disavowing everything I’d ever touched and nearly everyone I’d ever known, especially my old self. I wanted to be new. So I became Neon Cowgirl, and rode that appellation off into the Sunset, till it faded, fizzled and it was time to say goodnight. And what I was left with was me. All these names, all these iterations of one person’s creative work, was really a big identity crisis. Maybe I was just trying to escape the one thing I couldn’t bear to be called… The Rembrandts daughter. Boy, did that one irk me. I would cry to my dad, “I’m so sick of being known as…” complaining of this sticky nick-name that followed me like a shadow, and made me feel like my own contributions would never stand on their own. My dad, sweetly saying in response, “someday I’ll be known as Holly’s dad”. I had a hard time believing it, but then… it happened, and there were several years my dad would come crying to me, claiming he’d meet people who’d ask, “aren’t you Holly’s dad?” (He didn’t really cry about it, but he did get a little taste of how irritating it is to be known this way.) Last weekend I saw my first Rembrandts gig as an adult. I’d seen many as a kid, but it’s probably been at least… I don’t know. A long time. I witnessed my father shred his Fender to pieces, sing like a goddamn angel, and work his onstage magic — a gift that comes so naturally to him it seems there was no chance of him being able to do anything else in this life — along with his band-mate and musical partner since the 1970s, Danny. It is weird how for granted I’ve taken my father’s talent and musical abilities. Like, oh yeah, whatever. That’s just my dad. My boring old dad. I was surprised when I got hit with visceral nostalgia as they played their breakthrough single, “That’s Just The Way it is Baby”. Having flashbacks of seeing the video on MTV over and over again, fascinated by my dad and Danny trudging through the desert with their guitars, while simultaneously feeling weirded out by the pretty model woman who was in the video with them. I recalled ringing the local pop radio station, KDWB, so many times to request this song they threatened to call the cops on me if I didn’t stop. I was six. I never called in to another radio station ever again.  I cried when they played “Someone”, a real gut-wrencher of a love song that I believe to have been written by my dad, about my mother. My mother, who in that moment I missed so desperately I thought I might fall down dead due to the dynamite explosion in my chest. I had to run into the bathroom and hyperventilate-sob for five minutes, till I splashed cold water on my face, looked in the mirror, and said, “Holly Marilyn Solem, pull it together.” I didn’t want to leave my brother hanging alone in the crowd. I wanted to be with him and I wanted to keep feeling the feelings that were arising. Every song felt like going through a family photo album, time capsule or treasure box.  When they finally played, “I’ll Be There For You, I shared an almost out of body moment, laughing maniacally at how surreal it all is and was, along with the other “Rembrandts daughter” (Danny’s daughter, Katie). We put our arms around one another and it was a relief to remember that someone else understands what it is to be the daughter of this pop culture phenomenon. I’ll have to ask her in depth, at some point, what her experience of this has been.  Bursting with pride at seeing my dad do his thing, what really hit me was how lucky I felt that he is my dad. There were times I wished desperately he was just normal — a banker, or a garbageman. It was difficult to navigate knowing if people wanted to come over after school to hang with me, or in hopes of a chance meeting with the guy from the Friend’s theme song. (Joke was on them cause he was usually on tour.) I dreamed of a regular childhood, not spent in bars, green rooms, dressing rooms, sucking down kiddie cocktails, while chatting with the band, managers and crew guys, feeling like a tiny adult. What might that have looked like? Who would I have been? I can tell you. Probably wouldn’t have as much to write about. My dad is not a normal dad. He is not a normal person, so why would he be a normal dad? He plays in a rock band, is often visited by aliens, has in depth, two way conversations with plants, and is bizarrely good at river dancing while playing a clay flute. When people mention the archetype of father, mine doesn’t match up to any image I have in my mind or in the media or in societal norms of what that is. At times, this has frustrated me. I’m sure I’m not alone when I admit to spending a ton of hours and money in therapy talking about how I wish my parents were what I imagined parents should be. Trying to figure out what went wrong and how to fix it. But I can’t say I’ve ever spent that therapy time detailing what went right. So I’ll do it now: My dad is a sensitive and tender man. An emotional cancer sun, who cries when he is moved, which is often, by nearly everything under the sun… a birthday card, a song, a conversation. He eats meat and potatoes because he is from the midwest and his green vegetable intake is comically minimal. He taught me how to play guitar, and was endlessly patient with me as my tiny fingers bled and warped into the right shapes to finally kind of learn Blackbird, which I mostly wanted to do in order to impress him. Even though he seemed genuinely impressed by anything and everything I did. And when it comes to patience, his is endless, and even though we were separated a lot by his busy touring schedule, when we are together, he will drop every single thing to listen to every single word, song, dance, or outfit I want to show him. He will listen and he will retain and remember, and later recall things that shock me as I’ve often forgotten. It’s wild when someone is really paying attention. I grew up watching my dad be really good at something, going for it relentlessly, and succeeding. Yet he remains humble. And then believing in me thoroughly in all of my creative endeavors and pursuits, being my cheerleader, my biggest fan, and sometimes even my collaborator. Anytime I have ever needed any help with making music, he has instantly carved out space for me. He recorded and played on my first demos (as well as many other songs over the years). Demos that opened the doors for me to get my first breaks, a song in a big movie, my first record deals, managers, booking agent, etc. There have been times when I’ve had difficult feelings about my relationship with my father, but I don’t think he’s ever once wavered when it comes to how he feels about me. He’s only shown me warmth and unconditional love, never judged me, and I do believe he’s done the best he could. Which is really all a daughter can ask for. I could go on but this would be way too long and it would get too saccharine and I must maintain my dark edge. So I’ll finish with this… I’m glad he’s not normal. I’m glad I’m not normal. He and I agreed last week that things have evened out identity-wise, and we both feel pretty happy being known as both ourselves and as related to each other. I think I finally know what they mean when they say, “all’s well that ends well”. P.S. My dad is banned from reading my Substack due to the gory details of dating and drug use in many of my stories. I just don’t need him having those images in his mind, ya know? Don’t worry tho, I’ll send him this one. You’re currently a free subscriber to Neon Cowgirl . For only six bucks a month, you could upgrade to paid!
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