Life Goals of a severely disturbed, and severely genius man...
One of the things that has always driven me, one of the
things I hope and wish to accomplish before I sign off for the last time, is a
deep desire to give, even if to only one other human being, the inspirational
gift of music. No single thing has
altered the trajectory of my life in such a distinct and measurable way. My whole life, as I have mentioned
previously, took a significant, inconceivable and wonderfully magnificent turn
when I truly embraced music. And,
another way of fleshing out the idea of “truly embraced” is to say “devoted my
life,” to music. Like most people when
they are growing up and figuring out what life is and how they might fit into
the world around them, I listened to music mostly passively. That is to say, on the radio in the car or
while we were shooting hoops. Sports
were my life, my focus and my thoroughly intense passion back then. I was going to be the starting shortstop for
the Milwaukee Brewers or catch passes from Brett Favre at the tail end of his
career. I also loved basketball, but
even at a very young age I was well aware of my limitations in regards to
someday playing basketball professionally; which is to say, I knew I was short
and white (or rather pink, being half red and half white). At that time, those were the only things I
knew: football, baseball and basketball,
with a little hockey and tennis thrown in for good measure.
As I progressed into the terrifically awkward and
self-conscious teenage/middle school years, something started to change. The world was slowly unveiling itself unto
me, with all its splendor and glory suddenly coming sharply into focus. Girls, music, literature, poetry, art, movies,
travel and on and on were right there in front of me when, just the moment
before, they were not. It was all new
and unconscionably exciting. I was being
pulled in a thousand directions and my brain could barely contain itself. Things were coming at me from all angles and
my poor Aspergian brain was desperately trying to collect them all, process and
file these things neatly away. Only it
wasn’t neat, it was a fucking disaster.
I gobbled it all up as quickly as I could, for fear of missing out on
something amazing or awe-inspiring. My
brain is such an archivist and a completist that whenever I found something new,
I had to fully immerse myself into it and absorb everything I could as quickly
as possible. It couldn’t have been much
more than a couple weeks after first reading “Slaughterhouse-Five” that I
obtained copies, sometimes multiple, of every Kurt Vonnegut book. I remember I got them very cheaply by
ordering them off this weird internet thing called “Ebay” which used to offer
tremendous deals on used items people no longer had a use for. I can still feel the joy I had opening box
after box which contained anywhere from one or two to ten or twelve new books
for my consumption. And I consumed them
all, with vigor. Again and again, I
repeated this process. I can’t tell you
how many times I joined and quit BMG music so I could get 12 cd’s for the price
of 1 plus shipping. All of the sudden I
needed every Metallica album, every Guns N’ Roses album, every Bon Jovi album,
every “Weird Al” Yankovic cassette tape.
Of all the new mediums and modes of entertainment I had recently
discovered, music always held the greatest draw. There was something about it that just
captured me in a more visceral way than movies or books or television. It’s the sort of thing that happens when I
see a Salvador Dali painting. I am in
awe and dumbstruck by the brilliance, but inspired at the same time. Music had the ability to manipulate my
emotions like nothing ever had. Great
movies like “Raging Bull” or “Back to the Future” had the same impact, but it
was spread out over a couple hours. I
liked the immediacy of music. Somehow,
these artists could, in a matter of three minutes, change my entire day or
week. I couldn’t understand it. So for years, music was no more
comprehendible in its construction than “The Brothers Karamazov” by Dostoyevsky
or “The Leaf of the Artichoke Is an Owl” by Gorky. I had no idea how or why these things came to
exist in the world. I couldn’t fathom
how one would go about the business of creating such wonderful, beautiful,
magnificent, awe-inspiring things. There
was no way that I could ever be a part of that world in any other means than as
a consumer. That was my role and I
relished it. There was such a small
group of truly brilliant people and I, in no way, was included in that
ever-exclusive club. I longed to be a
genius but deep down knew I wasn’t. I
wanted to stand shoulder to shoulder with these giants but couldn’t. Alas, it was my Roxbury.
A great change was headed my way, but I was not to know it
until many years later. Early in my
musical awakening, I was a huge fan of Classic Rock, Metal and Hair Metal. Guns N’ Roses was, for a long time, the
epitome of everything I loved about music.
They rocked harder, looked cooler, got more chicks and wrote better
songs, I thought at the time, than anyone else on the planet. Then, I found Led Zeppelin, and they rocked
harder, looked cooler, got more chicks and wrote better songs than Guns N’
Roses! Then, I found Bob Dylan, and
he…wrote better lyrics…than anyone else on the planet. OK, that didn’t really work in that regard,
but Dylan played an enormous role in my musical development, which I’ll get to
in just a bit. I always thought to
myself, “if I could ever play music, I would definitely want to be the lead
singer of a Rock N’ Roll band.” But the
Led Zeppelins and the Guns N’ Roses-s and the Bon Jovis (my favorite Bon Jovi
memory is from when I was 12 or 13. My
best friend in the whole world, at that time, James, decided, with my help of
course, that it was a good idea to try and woo a girl he had a huge crush on by
singing to her over the phone. The song
he so skillfully, and appropriately, we thought at least, chose was “Livin’ on
a Prayer.” Needless to say, she was
mightily unimpressed by his ability to not really hit any of the right
notes. That final chorus was downright
brutal with his untrained voice.
Naturally, of course, I and the other boy who bore witness to this,
couldn’t control our laughter and endlessly mocked his enthusiasm, impressive
though it may have been. James certainly
didn’t fail that day due to lack of confidence…) all had singers that I knew,
even then, had way more talent than I could ever hope to attain. Because, you see, some people are born with
the great gift of talent, and the rest are born like me: with no artistic ability whatsoever. I’ll never forget arguing with my art teacher
who once gave me an “F” on a set of sketches I submitted for an assignment. She said they were so bad that she was sure
that I had pencil-whipped them that morning before class. I was so mad, and hurt, seeing as I had spent
hours upon hours on them that week, diligently working every night, when I
could’ve been shooting hoops with my friends. I desperately wanted to be good
at art. But, she was right, the sketches
were terrible. At least I got her to
change the “F” to a “B” by staying after school for an hour to draw in front of
her so she could see that no matter how hard I focused and tried, the results
were equally shitty.
Now, I realize that having a distinct lack of talent is no
longer much of a deterrent in music these days.
Just ask Grouplove, the owner of the worst piece of flaming garbage ever
referred to as a “song” (check out their song “Shark Attack,” so you can revel
in the comfort that comes with no longer wondering where the bottom is. The seemingly racist music video is a terribleness
all its own, which adds bonus shittiness-points to the song). But, back then, sucking ass and making people
want to murder their earballs was not appreciated the way it is today. We’ve come a long way, baby! But, this is the point in the story where Bob
Dylan comes back. He was the first
person I heard, which I simultaneously loved and respected AND thought “God, I
could sing as good as that guy.”
Listening to the, mostly, simplistic acoustic guitar lines and his
vocals, registered in my brain as something that I, as terrifically untalented
as I may have been, might actually be able to do! It was the first of many revelations in
regards to my musical future, which, at that point, was still not a thought
that passed through my 14 or 15 year old brain.
Shortly thereafter, I saved up my lawn-mowing money and bought my first
guitar out of the JCPenney’s catalog. It
was a black Harmony dreadnought acoustic guitar. It was the most magnificent thing in the
world. Only I had no fucking clue what
to do with it. I couldn’t afford
lessons, the internet back then was still just for weirdos who wanted to send “email”
and look at porn; and no one I knew had any idea how to use one of these
strange contraptions. Well, first things
fucking last. I very quickly learned two
things:
1) I needed to also purchase a tuner in order to
successfully use this thing
2) Sam Goody, in the Beaver Dam mall (R.I.P. thanks
to Wal-Mart) sold books that would show me how to play anything I wanted. The first book I bought, of course, was an
anthology of Bob Dylan songs.
Dylan’s influence weighed heavily over my early musical
career. From the simple chord
progressions and song structures to the poetic, prose-y type lyrics, I tried
desperately to be as much like him as possible.
On my first album, “Burn What You Can, Bury the Rest…,” the song “She
Will Never Return to Me” is the last vestige of that early songwriting style I
adhered to.
By now, if any of you are still reading, I’m sure you’re
wondering “What the fuck does any of this shit have to do with giving the
inspirational gift of music to someone?
This is just a long, boring wank about your life.” Well, you’re right. But, also, I’m getting there assholes; just
hang on a minute…
OK, so here’s the fucking tie-in. About a year after all that shit, I began to
wonder what I really wanted to do with this newfound “magic” music shit. Dylan was nice, but save for songs such as “Like
a Rolling Stone” and “One of Us Must Know (Sooner or Later)” he just didn’t “explode”
out of the speakers the way I wanted to.
Elvis had it in spades with “Hound Dog” and “Jailhouse Rock,” but more
or less cooled off beyond that. Billy
Joel’s “Glass Houses” slipped just the tip in.
Hell, even Meatloaf’s “Bat Out of Hell” (see what I did there… huh,
right?) had its moments. Then, I got my
grandma’s old, buffet-style (literally, on Christmas and Thanksgiving) record
player. It was a motherfucking bitch to
get up the stairs to my bedroom, but in the end, I don’t know where I would be
without it. Probably would’ve went to
college and actually did something with my life. You know, made money and shit, like an
adult. Flipside, would’ve been boring as
fuck. I lived a lifetime by the time I
was 25 and I loved every minute, even the terrible stuff. Totally worth it, kind of…
Anyhow, let me set the scene: young “Brad” is 16, sort of mussing around
with this “guitar” trying to figure out what he wants to do with this new “music”
thing he’s jumped balls-first into.
After lugging this fucking record player up to his room, he’s bound and
determined to use it. He flips slowly
through his mother’s old records, which haven’t been touched in years,
carefully examining each one, and pulling out his favorites, based on nothing
but a gut reaction to the album covers and his limited knowledge of these
artists. After making a few selections,
he returns to his room, delighted in his newfound modicum of music
consumption. It’s so pure and simple, he
thinks. They sent the Voyager Gold
Record into space believing records to be so simple and wonderful that even
aliens could figure out how to sink a needle into the groove and blast “Dark
Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground” into the outer realms of space; still
somehow annoying their begetters, or whatever they hell they call their parents. He threads up a records and listens, more
intently than he has ever listened before.
The clicks, the pops, the hisses and warbles somehow making it all seem
more human, more imperfect. The drums
sound more vibrant, the bass more distinct.
The spacing of all the instruments is more like one would imagine them coming
from a stage; the guitars over there, the drums booming from the center, the
bass anchoring it all down. One record,
then another, booms from the speakers, with “Brad” listening like he’s never
heard music before. Then, it goes
silent, the end of record loop. “What
next?” he thinks and examines the stack he’s brought into his room. And then he sees it. It has never particularly struck him, though
he’s heard a few of the songs. “Seems
more like adult rock than anything I might like.” Nevertheless, the cover is quite
striking. Dark, contrasting, black and
white images set against nothing but a blindingly white background. It folds out to reveal the entire photo,
which he’s never seen before: a
scraggly, skinny white kid with a beat-up Tele and a large, black man with a
saxophone. There’s a smile on their
faces that exudes confidence and fun, but hints that there’s more struggle than
one might initially ascertain. The print
is bold and clean. Each song title
sounds like it could be a movie from the 50’s or 60’s, starring Marlon Brando
and Grace Kelly. Well, it’s only eight
songs, let’s see what it’s got…
He pulls it out, but, being still new to vinyl, lays it
B-side up on the turntable. He turns it
on and carefully lowers the needle onto what turns out to be “Born to Run.” What happens next is still hazy and dream-like. No sooner had the warm
sounds touched my palate than a shudder ran through me and I stopped, intent
upon the extraordinary thing that was happening to me. An exquisite pleasure
had invaded my senses, something isolated, detached, with no suggestion of its
origin. And at once the vicissitudes of life had become indifferent to me, its
disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory - this new sensation having had on me
the effect which love has of filling me with a precious essence; or rather this
essence was not in me it was me. I had ceased now to feel mediocre, contingent,
mortal. Whence could it have come to me, this all-powerful joy? I sensed that
it was connected with the sound of the drums and guitars, but that it
infinitely transcended those savours, could, no, indeed, be of the same nature.
Whence did it come? What did it mean? How could I seize and apprehend it?
OK, for the nerds out there (or the well-read, I’m not
discriminating, I’m joining you), you’ll recognize that passage as Proust’s tea-soaked
madeleine incident but the sentiment remains, assholes. I told you I’d fucking bring this back around
and here it is: if, by some intrusion of
fate, heavenly or otherwise, I could somehow impart, no, bestow that very
experience unto some young child, henceforth, enlarging their world and their
experience and their love of beauty, both of this world and within oneself,
then I could die, knowing I fully served my purpose on this earth, as a mortal
man in God’s image. That might seem a
bit self-aggrandizing but the sentiment holds true. Music is truly a gift and should be regarded
as such. It has become the bastard child
of art in recent times, degraded and reduced to background noise constructed in
such a way as to make us “feel” a particular emotion on cue. People will gladly pay thousands of dollars
for a painting they will look at, perhaps, once a month. But a song they listen to everyday, albeit probably
just to fill space while driving/running/shopping/folding laundry/etc., is
worth nary a penny. People would just
rather stream a song than buy it. I could
not possibly quantify the dollar amount of entertainment, enjoyment and
personal fulfillment “Born to Run” has given me. I owe it my life, there’s no doubt about
that. I have purchased it countless
times, in one format or another, but no mere dollar amount could balance that
debt. “Born to Run” has shaped my life
in such a way that it’s impossible to separate the two. It’s my R2D2 in the escape pod moment, the
seemingly galaxy-altering detail told in the seemingly smallest way possible. Proust
understood the gravity of the moment where life suddenly became something new,
whether he understood the implications or not.
I knew, but I knew not what
was happening, only that it was
happening. It was terrifying and
wonderful and my life would never be the same.
I hope I can ruin someone’s life in such a way one day. Ruin it in the most beautiful way…
