The Banality of Modern Music

I sat outside The Mission on a beautiful Wednesday evening with Tracy, who would be tending the bar that night.  It was almost eight o'clock, and as I cracked sunflower seeds I somberly contemplated the fact that there were no other souls in sight for open mic night.  I needed to experience some good live music, to feel the positive energy, but alas, I submitted to the fact that Jefferson City became a ghost town at night, and that the venue would probably reflect only the ambling of ghost people and their hidden music.  However, much to my delight, a group of three strolled up to the entrance, one wielding a guitar.  Success!  Even one is better than none, I thought.

I went inside, signed up to open mic, and for the next fifteen minutes or so watched with a bit of amazement at all the people who came in - some with friends, some alone, some putting drinks in their hand, some tuning instruments, some looking frightened and others excited.  One thing was certain - there was a charge in the room.  It was the kind of energy that music always produces on an intangible level.  The anticipation that something special, something moving, was about to transpire.

I played my Garth Brooks (a bad choice for that crowd in retrospect) and two other originals, then settled in for a night of fantastic music.  I heard contemporary pop, old school rock, originals, jazz, a lot of different genres.  What hit me the most, however, was the rawness of the atmosphere.  The desire that coursed through every single talented figures body poured itself into the audience.

What hit me hard was the imperfection of it all.

What I mean to say isn't that there wasn't talent - there was plenty of it.  I am not making some sort of judgment as to the worthiness of the material or the artists.  I simply mean to say that such an atmosphere stood in stark contrast to the elitest mentality of modern day musical entertainers.  We've become children of auto-tune, purveyors of the superficial make-up that covers the natural beauty of true art today.

There is a difference between entertainment and art, although the two often coincide.  America has become obsessed with entertainment - they strive to be titillated by the next big thing.  They want lavish performances with floats, explosions, imagery, costumes, beautiful women and hunky men.  We've been trained by shows like American Idol to listen ardently to the vocalists, and to chastise them for their mistakes, even if we do so subconsciously.  We seek music like a drug as something to grant us temporary satisfaction and yet that leaves us worse off than we were before.

I am not saying that entertainment is without value - certainly it is.  I am not saying there is no place for mindless lyrics set to computerized beats and placed in perfect pitch by software.  Care-free, drift away music is exactly what you want after a long day at work.  But we've become obsessed with it.  And I'm frankly sick to my stomach by it.

We need art.

Art, to me, above all else is a form of expression regardless of the vessel which it comes by.  Art doesn't know tone, art doesn't keep track of trends, it has no notion of popularity.  It manifests in paintings, in sculptures, in monuments and buildings, and in music, to name just a few.  It is primitive, it is visceral, and it comes from somewhere deep inside a person.

Where are the Kurt Cobains?  He has long been my favorite artist since the days of my youth.  If you listen to Nirvana with modern ears, and had he not become a rock legend, you probably wouldn't give him the time of day.  Had Kurt shown up on the stage of American Idol he probably would have been on one of the outtakes that people laugh about, saying things like, "How can that person not know they suck at singing?  Didn't their mother tell them?"  Yet Nirvana's music changed the musical landscape, and left a lasting imprint on the hearts of many.  Kurt was an artist, who delved deep inside himself and poured out something primordial and ubiquitous.

Don't get me wrong, I do think Kurt had a powerful and technical vocal talent...sometimes.  Most of the time, however, he sought his art with such reckless and wild abandon that those notions faded into the background.  If you listen to some of their live recordings it is evident that he is off key and his voice wanted to give out 5 songs ago.  Sometimes he completely lost his spot in the song on his guitar or started songs in one key and switched to another.  It was the raw simplicity, the humanness, of the performance, and the strange sense of familiarity you felt with Nirvana's music that made it powerful.

And that's what, to me, makes spots like The Mission places of strong rejuvenating energy.  Some people come in crippled by the notion that they might not live up to the expectations of a song - they might not be found acceptable by the "judges" in the audience.  We've got to leave those notions behind.  How many musicians are out there that don't share their wonderful, enlightening art with others because our society has become full of the musical elite?  Those people who whisper "This guy sucks," and pay no heed to what the artist DOES bring to the table.  The bravery of standing before criticism, the vulnerability of exposing sensitive subjects in rhyme and prose, the inspiration he could bring to those same people if they'd only realize that he sought an amiable goal and actually PURSUED it.  In one song this person shows both the frailty and the strength of a human being.  And it is wonderful.

I encourage you, stop watching American Idol and The Voice for a while (Not permanently, as they've certainly done a lot of good for music in general), and go see some local music.  Be a part of a community.  Feel its humanity.  You'll be glad you did.

United States of Entitlement

This morning I ambled my way up the steep hill of Jefferson Street in Jefferson City Missouri, shoulders aching from a guitar and pack, feet blistered and callused from a lifestyle of walking. It's about a mile from the library to the Salvation Army, I make the trip twice a day for meals. Were it not for the steep hills and heavy gear the walk wouldn't be so bad. I've learned to embrace the struggle, however, and am happy that at the end of the journey I receive plenty of food from very hospitable and loving individuals. When I am able, I buy my food, but I do not always have the money.

There are those in this country, myself included in many cases, that are part of the "I deserve" mentality, however. As I flopped down my gear I met many of just those kinds of people. You can almost always tell the difference between someone who has really been in the throes of desperation in their lives - a person who has gone hungry or been damaged in some way - and those who choose to leech off society. These leeches are the ones who consume welfare because they "deserve" it. They walk into the shelter with an exaggerated sense of arrogance and pride. They demand to be first. They complain that the food needs salt or moan that there isn't ketchup for their hot dog. God forbid you take the seat they usually occupy. They're the Entitled, the lazy, those stuck in the animal realm of life. That realm of rabid consumerism. It exists even below poverty - perhaps especially there.

There are those, however, who either simply have a degree of humanity and manners, and/or have been desperate. They know what it's like not to have water, not to know where a meal will come from, not to know where they are going to sleep. These are the people that say thank you. They at the very least eat their meals in tranquil silence.

I've been on both sides.

When you strip yourself away of all life's calamities, however, your mentality begins to shift from "I deserve" to "I need." I suppose it's either that, or you become the hardened street thug, pilfering businesses and robbing the passerby. That isn't me though. I've developed an "I need" mentality. I "deserve" nothing; to deserve something assumes, in my mind, that there is some divine arbiter of justice that hands out rewards based on merit. I believe no such thing.

What brings this revelation out of me is the acknowledgment and the embrace of pain. Pain is a constant, pain is a requirement of living. Pain happens. Pain is a divine motivator and inspires great triumph of the human spirit. I do not mean to inflict pain, for such a thing would not bring harmony, but to experience it as it occurs in life is the closest thing I've experienced to divinity. Instead of trying to get rid of it, a person ought to listen to what it is trying to say. Instead of medicating, instead of ignoring, instead of imagining some land you will experience in the future where pain doesn't exist, I believe one ought to accept the present. And pain is great at causing us to live here and now. Perhaps that is its true power.

And so I sat, engaged in the spectacle before me. A group of individuals complaining because they only got half of a kielbasa, nachos, tea, saurkraut, bread, and vegetables (enough to feed 2 men), who had no regard for the family behind them, with two small children that looked malnourished. They were the entitled. I looked over to my Army Vet friend. The one who dealt with mental demons, the one who had the heart attack, the one in desperate need of disability income. Though he did complain that he was screwed out of his disability, if there was anyone who earned it this was the man. And he sat there, engaging in happy conversation, without complaint, eating his food.

None of us are entitled to anything. None of us deserve anything. There is no divine arbiter. If we learn to live in the present, however, and embrace and understand pain, we may actually find some liberation from such pain in having compassion and regard for others.

I Love This Lifestyle

This morning I stood at the stoplight waiting to cross the flood of traffic that washes through downtown Jefferson City's highway 50 at 7:30 AM. People in a hurry, people back to the routine of daily life after a weekend honoring our vets, or at least, a weekend with an excuse to let their hair down and likely put a drink in their hand. These were people on a schedule, people with big important things to do. Workers chasing the dollar - their security blanket in life. Mothers taking their children to school...or to play dates, or to the doctor, or wherever it is they needed to go.

It was another great moment of revelation to me as I stood there, waiting for the pixelated white walking man to signal it was safe to cross. I realized just how different my life was compared to the people in their fiberglass and metal missiles that projected them to their destination. I thought about how the morning began. For them, there was likely the buzz of an alarm clock - the angry sound of an unwanted visitor forcing itself into their slumber. Maybe they had a cell phone tone, which, even though may have been a welcome tune in the past, a favorite song perhaps, inevitably becomes a beast of burden when you have to wake up to it every day. In their groggy stupor, after likely hitting snooze a time or two, they stumble out of their comfortable, dry, warm bed to face the day.

Women "put on their faces," and dress in cute attire, or perhaps formal skirts and blouses. They spend their time dolling themselves up, as society has taught them to do. They make sure they're clean, make sure their fragrance is appealing, ensure they have the appropriate amount of professionalism and feminism. Men maybe put on their business suits, shave, shower, and head for the door. Perhaps they carry laptops and cell phones - their indubitable necessities to stay connected with the world, or so they think. Women and men, mothers and children, husbands and wives, all pile into their motorized chariots, fill the cabin with modern age vibrations, and hustle off to join throngs of other people going about capitalist business as usual.

I, on the other hand, experienced quite a different morning. Just before daylight, I heard the sound of a multitude of birds singing from their roost, fluttering about, getting a jump on the day before most people are even awake. The sounds of nature (and perhaps a car or two) were my early morning wake-up. It was a little chilly. After you have laid on the hard, clumped up ground enough times it actually becomes oddly comfortable - but most would say it is as uncomfortable as it gets. I opened my eyes to the hiking trail below me viewed from my perch beneath an overpass...and gazed out at the stream rushing with water from last night's rain. My blanket is dirty and covered in straw, a nice bedding out in the wild. I'm dirty also, and have only one pair of extra clothes that I alternate between. I look at my bag, which has hygiene items and a few odds and ends, and I look at my guitar, my beloved Sweet Pea, and I smile.

That's right, I smile. A legitimately happy, care-free, welling up from within and can hardly contain it stupified grin. I've got $1.00 to my name. However, I've already made many new friends in Jefferson City. Like Brenda and Jim from the Redtail Lounge, who enthusiastically have invited me back to play music any time I want. They even let me sleep at the lounge the night before last, and take Sweet Pea on nights that I get tired of carrying her. Jenny and Tracy of The Mission have invited me to open for an act in the near future - a paid gig! Can you imagine?! And let's not forget Farmer's Market on Saturday's, which I happened upon while ambling around Jefferson City one day. Isabelle was gracious enough to encourage me to come back and fill the market place with good vibes.

And that's what it is about to me. It is about freedom in obscurity. To be a stranger to the normal and dear friend to the unique, the ubiquitous...the chaos. It's about stopping and playing music for a man who is down on his luck, and seeing the smile cross his face that moments ago bore the creases of sorrow. It's about taking the little money that I have and giving it to the woman who was pregnant with twins (7 months along), who had lost her job because of her pregnancy, and her husband had been laid off - it's about giving her $10 to get lunch. It's about befriending the homeless vet that the state had screwed out of disability - a man obviously disabled from the way he walked, a man who had a heart attack, a 58 year old hero to this country that most people probably view with disdain as he ambles down the street, sweat dripping off of him because at his age and in his health he cannot handle the heat. It's about giving him my last $5 so he has gas to get to where he needs to go. It's about putting positive energy into the universe, it's about what the Buddhists refer to as Bodhisattva and Karma, it's about aligning myself with where I should have been going all along.

I love this lifestyle.