How 'Hells Bells' are gonna get me ... and help me

As I begin the trek toward Green Hall, I take out my iPod. I have a seminar soon, a long period of interacting with people who always seem to be so much more comfortable — with the material and with themselves — than I ever will be. My 10-minute walk to class will probably be the only opportunity I have all day to listen to my iPod and relax in the only place I'm comfortable, my fantasizing mind. And I know just the song that will help me do the trick: "Hells Bells," by AC/DC.

The mind is, I think, probably the only truly comfortable place for a person like myself, with Asperger's Syndrome, because there's certainly nowhere like that in the big, confusing, social real world. A defining feature of Asperger's is having intense, particular (and usually peculiar) preoccupations — so intense they can inhibit concentration, alertness and social adaptability. It's a godsend that my biggest interests are music, theater and dance — communal activities with people as intensely passionate as I am that leave me no choice but to adapt and make personal connections. If I couldn't, I'd feel so ostracized that involving myself in these activities would be emotional suicide. As it is, they are constructive outlets where I can channel my disorder. Still, presenting my obsessions to my non-theater friends is hard to do in a socially acceptable manner.

Currently, my "intense preoccupation" is with AC/DC. My love of this band is so concentrated that I have learned their entire repertoire, researched their history and developed theoretical arguments about what makes them unique. They are popular at Princeton, but I still have to remind myself, "Think about something else. Your friends are tired of talking about AC/DC, and you're so stuck on them you can't follow the conversation around you."

I know that in comparison with groundbreaking blues-rock bands like Led Zeppelin, AC/DC can seem quite mundane. But their music resonates with me, maybe because it jives so well with the hyperactivity that I have to hold inside me every day.

As I walk to my seminar, "Hells Bells" is not the only song I want to listen to right now — I want to listen to their entire songbook for the next three hours. But I cannot let myself get trapped in this kind of obsessive self-indulgence or I'll lose my ability to focus on the immediate world around me. I'll regress to the behaviors of my early childhood, when Michael Jackson was my artist of intense interest and I would literally walk around in public shouting "Beat It" and busting out with full choreography. I'll let my symptomology, which I work so hard to contain, come gushing out.

I make a pact with myself: I can listen to "Hells Bells" only once, and then I have to put the iPod away.

I hit play. The bell strikes four times, followed by Angus' ethereal guitar riff, Malcolm's quiet, mysterious rhythm riff, and, after a minute and a half, Brian Johnson's larynx-shredding scream: "I'm a rolling thunder, I'm pouring rain!" As I approach the chorus and he triumphantly shrieks (on a high A-flat that most sopranos have trouble hitting), "I'm gonna get ya ... Hells Bells!" I do, in fact, let "Hells Bells" get me.

I think about why the song was written — to eulogize Bon Scott, their first lead singer — and about how he does not get his full due for what a great performer he was. This is unfortunate because I truly believe that every performer could learn something from Bon Scott. Watching him helped me make sense of so many things, both as a performer and as a social being.

My parents always used to have to remind me to look in front of myself rather than down, to focus my energy outward so people could see what I'm feeling, to be more confident in my ideas and actions, to do what felt right instead of dwelling on the implications. When I thought of Bon, all my parents' advice made sense: Despite his scratchy, banshee-like singing voice, he carried himself with a conviction that won him adoration. Known among his fans for loving the crowd almost more than he loved the music itself, Bon always made sure he connected with his audience and communicated something to them. He'd plant his feet firmly in one place, hold his head erect and look his audience in the eye.

Whether it was a crowd at one of my shows or a group of my peers in a classroom, I realized I had an audience that I needed to communicate with, just like Bon. And the only way I was ever going to do this effectively was by keeping my head up and looking them in the eye. That was scary. Asperger's makes eye contact intimidating in one-on-one conversations, not to mention in a high-stimulus situation like a seminar. But in forcing myself to overcome that, I have come to realize that I am no less smart than any of my peers, just less confident. Once I started "connecting" with them, my confidence, concentration and articulateness have increased.

Some days are better than others. Every now and then I may still have trouble clearly expressing my thoughts in class discussions or I may get nervous approaching acquaintances just to say, "Hi! What's up?" out of fear that I'll be awkward. But on the whole, I have begun to feel like I finally blend in with my Princeton peers.

I know it may sound silly, but I truly believe I owe my social "coming of age" to Bon Scott. I never met the man, but watching him has given me the confidence I need to adapt to Princeton culture.

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The song climaxes and, unable to control myself, I mimic Brian, contorting my face in a lipsynched final shout: "HELLLLS BEELLLLS!!!!" Drum hit. I turn my iPod off, take out my earphones and tell myself to look up. Perception is sharp. I'm ready to connect with my crowd, my classmates, in the seminar room.