It all comes back to music…

Written by  on August 29, 2015 

I wrote this sometime after November 2001 since it references some lyrics from Buffy the Vampire Slayer’s “Once More with Feeling.” I recently found it, scanned it, and am posting it. I wrote it as a stream, so I haven’t changed the tyops or added paragraphs. It is as it was when I wrote it. You will recognize some lyrics. You will not recognize other lyrics.

What does it matter to you? when you’ve got a job to do you do it well, after all, my mommy was an engineer. Wasn’t it Dr. Hook who said it’s not easy being seude? So anyway, I was listening to the Muppets version of Wipeout, performed by the able and talented Animal when it occurred to me that there’s really nothing to be said about a muppet singing other than lookit that muppet sing. But the best thing is that itunes now blends tracks, so the end of wipeout merges in very nicely to Jerry Garcia and the Dead on David Letterman. Spooky now to hear Jerry singing a friend of the devil is a friend of mine if i get home before daylight I just may get some sleep tonight. Still, he had a good run while he had it, and the legion following him and co. from coast to coast doesn’t diminish from the talent. Amazing to hear 20 different version of the same song, all different and yet not. But I don’t understand people who get locked into a certain era of music and what happens in their heads to wire that in and is it the same that widens the ass and makes you say things like damn kids and in my day. I think it is. So as long as I keep listening to stuff from 1900 through now whenever now is then I think I’ll never get old or at least not feel old. It’s feeling old that’s the nail. The hidden pebble in the shoe that irritates and confounds and grumps. It’s not when your body fades and the light in the eyes dims, it’s when the mind stops exploring that the slide to the grave begins. Life’s a show and we all play our parts and when the music starts we open up our hearts because it all comes back to music and you can sing along, get your kumbayayas out. Because life’s a song you don’t get to rehearse and every single verse can make it that much worse. People i knew in high school now still listen to the same ten cds are such boring people and you knew then when the potential was there and that hurts to see because then something happened like the cement between their ears set once the diploma was in hand, but why does it happen to so many and yet not to all? I grew up with Joplin (Scott and Janis) and Rogers and Heart and John, Paul, George and the drummer guy and with zepplin and floyd and Chicago transit authority before they got sued and changed their names to boston and then there was david byrne and elvis (no, not the dead one) and Prince and Ella and Elton and Queen and Eminem and Sheryl Crow and what sort of person isn’t moved by music anyway? If there’s one thing that unites humans it has to be music, certainly not language or culture or humor. Not humor with the french obsession for the less talented half of Martin & Lewis. Best thing about the french is they are so easy to pick on. 32 miles an hour, baby! Ruhr to Paris. Astounding. But when Freddy sings “Just gotta get out, just gotta get right out of here” it doesn’t matter if you don’t understand the words because the meaning is in the music. 99 Leuft Ballons is far better than 99 red balloons because the feeling is real in the german. Shall we dance or keep on hoping, shall we dance and walk on air shall we give in to despair or shall we dance with never a care. It’s not that I feel like I’m better (rite, of course i do) I just don’t understand the mechanism where a person’s musical tastes shut down. Who can listen to “does she know how you told me you’d hold me until you died but you’re still alive” and not be moved by the passion and fever? Who can ignore Billie singing? Or George and Ira’s Ambulatory Suite? tell me you don’t like music and I’ll tell you your soul is dead. Shuffle off the mortal coil now cuz you’re done, baked. So I was sitting in the record store because I’m old enough to remember those record things record stores used to sell and I was skimming through titles and I popped a disc in and slipped the Koss headphones on my head and listened, and not skipping forward to see the next track but just GRIPPED by something I’d never heard before that drilled into my head and bloomed — whether the bloom of a rose or the bloom of a hollow point is still to be seen “we want you homes, we want your lives, we want the things you won’t allow us” and “I wrote this song two hours before we met i didn’t know your name or what you looked like yet” and there was a bit of epiphany to it all because, here, for the first time was something wholly new and wholly mine because I’d found it an no one else knew about it. Still, it all comes down to the simple fact that music unites the youth and divides the old from the young. Listen young and you can’t be old. But it’s not that simple because most the pap out there is crap. Maybe that’s the getting old part is being unwilling to expend the effort needed to find the good in the effluvium that is spewed out of the studios on a daily basis. So maybe getting old is just laziness to not take part in what is happening around you. getting settled into a house where you don’t have to see the outside world because your only exposure to it is commute-time and the rest is behind blue blinds. So people find it odd when they notice that the MP3 playlist just went from Michael Jackson to Ella Fitzgerald to Natalie Imbruglia. What kind of radio station is this anyway? Oh, it’s KREME? What’s that? That’s my 18 days of mp3s set on random play. Cindy Lauper with Leonard Cohen, earth Wind and Fire right near Eminem. Frank Zappa and Led Zepplin. India Aire and Indigo Girls. Aqua and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Pulp and Prince. Sonny Rollins and Rush. Why not? A MILLION MILES AWAY FROM HERE AND I AIN’T GONNA WORK HERE NO MORE. Life isn’t bliss…the pain that you feel it only can heal by living. Feeling washed out like a star on a cloudy night. Faded as my ol blue jeans. Now I’m trying to patch up the pieces of broken time.

Category : PersonalWriting

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