Let's be clear about something right from the top: Coming to terms with the death of your favorite artist is not the same thing as mourning a friend or loved one. It is incredibly easy to confuse the two, but the experiences are fundamentally different.
In the aftermath of David Bowie's death, I've spent the past two days considering this. Like thousands upon thousands of other people, Bowie's work and influence meant the world to me, so I've tried very hard to be honest with myself about what I am currently feeling. When you lose a friend, family member, or even a pet, you grieve everything about them. You miss their weird habits and odd mannerisms, and fear for a future in which you will have no more shared experiences together.
I've always found that this is the most profoundly painful aspect of grief: realizing - sometimes for months and for years - all the things that you will no longer do together.
You ache for the silly jokes you shared, and the satisfaction you'd get from making that person smile.You hurt each time you cross a life milestone without them. And you yearn to make things right for all of the times you never said or did what you should have when you had the chance. So often, you just wish you could sit in the same room with them one more time, and feel complete again.
When someone you love dies, you long for the coexistance you once shared. But when your favorite artist dies, something different happens.
You don't really mourn the person -- no matter how much you might be temped to believe that you do. You won't be missing your lost time together or your shared experiences, because you didn't actually share anything together. You won't really mourn their art -- especially if it a musician -- because the art lives forever, and you can always revisit it. And it will always be wonderful -- perhaps even more wonderful over time. Still, something deep inside of you hurts like mad. And it's hard to pinpoint exactly what it is. I believe that this pain is deeply rooted your own path to self-discovery, and the role that the artist's work played in it. There is absolutely no shame in believing that an artist's work has changed your life. Great art can challenge you to broaden your horizons and try new things. It can force you to reconsider preconceived notions. It can overwhelm you with a beauty that you didn't realize was possible. And it can validate feelings that you've never before been able to process.
This is why, when our favorite artists die, we are so often overcome with inappropriately personal feelings of sadness and loss. And most of all, we feel a deeply disorienting sense of muted gratitude.
I believe that this is what hurts most: never having the opportunity to thank the artist for making your world more vivid and wonderful...to show them that their work brought you happiness or solace when you most needed it. To tell them that they may not realize it, but that they made a difference.
To that end, the experience can closely mimic that incompleteness that follows the death of a loved one.
But it's not quite the same thing. In fact, practically speaking, it is nearly nonsensical; under what circumstances do we ever meet our idols? When I actually envision what might have happened if I'd ever had a chance encounter with David Bowie, I absolutely recoil in horror as I consider some of the things I might have said. The influence of our favorite artists may be acute and profound, but our relationships are probably best left to be one-dimensional.
Still, I can't help but to feel that same sadness that I could never thank him.
I was very fortunate to experience a tremendous amount of personal growth as I studied Bowie's work. His approach to identity helped me become comfortable in my own skin for perhaps the first time, and it taught me how much control I have over how people perceive me. I learned something important about the thin line between the grotesque and the exotic, and that helped me partially overcome the body image issues that have stuck with me since I was a scrawny little boy. I have so much more gratitude for that than I can even express.
Of course, it is now impossible to thank him, and it probably always was. But I can tell you what is possible:
I still remember who it was who turned me on to Bowie. It was my friend, Miguel. He was an awesomely charismatic high school classmate, a reformed "problem child" who'd done some truly crazy stuff and lived to tell the tale. I remember how he approached me one afternoon and poked a finger into my breastbone. "You...Major Tom. That's who you are," he said, grinning. "You look like David Bowie. You know that, right? People tell you that, right? That's who you look like." Then he walked away, and my fascination with Bowie was born. All because of one cool kid with a strange and sudden observation. I can't thank Bowie. But, tonight, I can thank Miguel.
Broncho at the Black Cat backstage Small room, packed house, and an entire room waiting pensively for the band's signature song....which they wisely saved for the last number of the evening.
One of the greatest experiences in live music is feeling a crowd surge forward when a song begins. And that's exactly what happened at the opening vocals of "Class Historian" kicked in. I'm pretty sure that no one in the room wanted that song to end.
Goatwhore at the Rock and Roll Hotel Goatwhore isn't necessarily one of my favorite metal bands, but I do like the idea of the "blacked death metal" sub-genre (in execution more than name, I suppose). Either way, they pull it off pretty well. Two things struck me about this show: 1. Goatwhore is a good band. And that's not always a given. The gap between an average metal band and a good one might as well be a gulf. The two bands that opened for Goatwhore that night were clear road dogs. They were living it and loving it, but they simply weren't all that good. It pains me to say this, and I certainly won't mention any names, but by the time Goatwhore took the stage it didn't really matter how much I liked them. It mattered that they were - by far - the best band in the room. 2. Ben Falgoust seems pretty normal. Case and point: at some point in the show he said something about looking out for one another in the pit. This isn't unheard of, but I was surprised to hear him follow the warning by muttering that he knows what it's like to live with a physical disability, and that we need to take care of one another. Not your typical satanic band stage banter...
Pentagram at the rock and Roll Hotel I resolve that in 2016, I will stop using this blog to talk about my career problems. It is undignified. But in this case, it fits. Pentagram's homecoming show was less than two weeks after I lost my job. To say that I felt damaged would be putting it mildly. It was at or around this time that it was dawning on me that I was going to have to completely rebuild my professional life.....possibly in ways that I didn't want to. I was 41 years old, with a head full of grey hair, and a wife and kid to take care of. And here I was, suddenly without a job, without a plan and without any confidence that I'd ever be as happy as I was two weeks earlier. It was hard not to feel like things were over. I felt obsolete.....as though I was only good at things that didn't matter to anyone. So, I went to the club alone that night, stood in the back of the room, sipped beer and watched a beaten-but-not-quite-broken sixty-one year old Bobby Liebling sing doom rock for an hour.
He looked frail, but happy. He was nervous in front of his hometown crowd in a way that way that seemed to scream "sober, at last."
And while his stage presence was somewhat awkward, his voice was in tremendous shape. The highlight of the evening -- probably the concert year -- was hearing Liebling hit a surprise falsetto note on "Forever My Queen." I headed out of the club that night, thinking how miraculous the entire event was.....five years earlier, Liebling was a full blown addict, living in his parents' basement. He'd burned all of his bridges, and missed countless career opportunities. By all accounts, it should have been over - his band, his career, his life - decades ago. I walked to my car, reminding myself that it was never too late, and to never give up.
So, there goes Lemmy. For one moment, let's put aside the "I thought Lemmy was invincible" jokes. Anyone who was watching for the past year knew that this was coming. He was shortening his sets and cancelling shows, which wasn't the sort of thing Lemmy did. He'd stopped giving interviews, and was often seen walking slowly with a cane. He'd been sick - very sick - for a long time. And, now we know that he was dying. It's been heartwarming to see how the news had trended on social media for the past 48 hours. A lot of people really loved Lemmy. I've been holding back that childish tendency that so many of us have when a lost icon suddenly becomes celebrated: I find myself suspecting that many of the mourners didn't really love Lemmy enough, or love him the right way, or love him for the right reasons. There's often a grain of truth in that kind of thinking, but it's still a pathetic impulse to indulge. (In fact, this is the third re-write of this post, specifically because I kept finding myself somehow suggesting that my love for Ian Fraser Kilmister was superior to that of other people). So, instead of projecting how other people might or might not have felt about Lemmy, allow me to tell you why he mattered to me. I am a failure. I am a failed musician. I am a failed professional. I look and feel like hell most days. My time management skills are terrible. I am chronically late for everything. And somewhere along the course of my adult life, I've also become rather bad at managing my money. I live in a cluttered one bedroom condo, while all of my friends have neatly-manicured front lawns. And although I try to be a good husband and father, I sometimes wonder if I'm any good at those efforts, either. So much of my adult life has been defined by compromise, surrender and defeat. I try not to think about it too much, but when I do, I tend to see failure all around me. When those moments arrive, I can tell you with complete honesty that I have often thought of Lemmy Kilmister. By so many measures, Lemmy could be considered a failure. The man was a life-long addict, so dependent on substances that it famously impaired medical professionals from being able to treat him.
As a young man, he was fired from a band that was on the rise.
His next endeavor became legendary, but was chronically insolvent. He hired bad people and signed bad deals throughout his career. Despite being a prolific songwriter, most people only knew him for one tune, which was recorded 35 years ago. Even fewer people ever bought a record from him after 1992, even though he never stopped writing or recording.
He was a borderline hoarder whose raggedy-looking apartment did not say "rock star" on any level.
He was an absent father, who never got to experience the joy of having a loving family of his own. It's not an inspiring portrait. And yet.....no one considered Lemmy to be a failure. And that's because Lemmy understood what he was good at, and he understood what made him happy. He dedicated his life to that....even if he never made as much money as he should have. Even if it sometimes seemed like no one cared. Even when he got fired. Even when he seemed like a kind of lonely guy. Even when he got sicker and sicker and sicker. He uncompromisingly did what made him happy. It gave him integrity, and it made people like me interested in what he had to say. With a new year on the horizon, his example reminds me that I have to have to find that happiness for myself.....even if no one else gives a damn. It reminds me that I'm actually great at certain things, even if no one cares about them. And as I try to figure out what the hell I'm going to do about my career, it reminds me to continue saying no until I find the right opportunity. It reminds me that just because I'm a failure, it doesn't mean that I can't be successful. Thank you, Lemmy.
I'd never actually heard this track before a friend posted it on her Facebook page last week. And I couldn't be happier to have heard it. The Cocteau Twins remains a mysterious band to me. I own very little of their music, but I've never heard anything by them that I didn't find enchanting -- due in no small part to magnificent production, and Elizabeth Frazer's unabashedly playful approach to her vocals. I have not heard a Christmas song this year that has made me happier than this one.
Another downer, but it seems fitting for this year: a time when our leaders are threatened by the very thought of cooperating with one another, and the nation can't muster even the slightest bit of enthusiasm for any of the egomaniacs battling to be the next president.
It's a troubling state of affairs, and we all know it. That's the one thing everyone seems to agree about: this isn't working.
And yet each of us (myself included) seems more willing to draw lines in the social media sand than to try and find shared goals for our nation. It's embarrassing. For the record, I don't particularly like it when other people sermonize at me like this. Even with the greatest of intentions, it's terribly patronizing, and it doesn't actually change anything.
So, I'll shut up and kick it over to Steve Earle.
And with three days til Christmas, I'll try and get more upbeat....
It's a shame, really: so many great songs, so many terrific hooks, so many fantastic rhythm sections. But we Americans were an easily-threatened lot back in the 70's. We didn't deal so well with ambiguity, so we left glam to the British, and banked on manlier acts like Three Dog Night and Grand Funk Railroad. And that's a real shame. Because on Christmas, 1973, kids across the UK were rocking the fuck out to Slade's "Merry Christmas Everybody." Meanwhile, American audiences were struggling not to slit their wrists to Jim Croce's lovely, but maudlin (even for me!), "It Doesn't Have to Be That Way."