St. John The Gambler

Back when I swore by every word of Nick Cave's, I remember being touched by his recollection of listening to Cohen's "Avalanche" for the first time, and how that swept away everything that made him feel chained in his youth. I think I'd heard the song at that stage, but hadn't paid it as much attention as I clearly ought. With subsequent listens, it occupies a special place in my mental landscape. I think you'd call it songs bereft of hope, in a way simultaneously poetic - in the sense of not being a retelling of some personal tragedy, but aiming higher - and yet not - in the sense of conveying a genuine emptiness that can be frightening in a way that the arts scarcely are.

There aren't many other songs I'd put in this category. For example, over time, I've found that as dark as Cave's music can be, it occupies only the former and not the latter for me. (Which is not to say it's inferior. It's just different.) But I'm starting to feel that Townes Van Zandt sits next to Cohen in the two towers of song. There is something very affecting in hearing a young man admit that his sins are the only alternative he sees to picking up the razors, or just waiting for the end. I also find it interesting that, rather than embrace the cliche of living free on the road, he chose at least a couple of times to basically reveal it as a failed attempt to escape it all, most famously in "Pancho & Lefty"'s opening lines. Like most good songwriters, his work stands on its own, but when you learn about his life, it inescapably adds an extra level of seriousness. Relistening to some of his more pessimistic moments, it's as if one is watching the chronicling of a futility as it unfolds. Which makes it music not appropriate most of the time, but essential when it is.

When he admitted that he didn't know the first thing about me, I suppose it was reassuring, because I'd told him this adamantly several times now. But when I stopped to think about it, I wondered whether I shouldn't take it as cause for concern. Does it give me actual pride when people say I'm a mystery to them? I'm not sure if it's as extreme as pride, but certainly I'll admit to feeling some validation of the part of me that always keep watch on the world around, always disappointed at the apparent scarcity of people with similar mixtures of idiosyncrasies. Be that as it may, two thoughts come to mind. For one, me being a mystery is not to be confused with me being interesting to other people, and in fact, the opposite is likely closer to the truth. For another, and this deflates the bubble, I have to say that most of the time the mystery arises due to willing obfuscation on my part. I have a litany of excuses for why this has been the case of late, but one that I must reluctantly allow for is that I'm worried that if I open up, I'll find that I'm less interesting than I thought. So, locked away with the conviction that I'm some lost treasure, or embracing the possibility that I'm really no-one; didn't I solve this dilemma already?

1) Robyn Hitchcock, "The Sleeping Knights of Jesus". The melodic rush. The whimsy. How it just takes a line to open the doors. I think to myself, there is a light that never goes out.

The early Fall moon in sight, I close my eyes and dream. Maybe one day I will no longer be able to go back. Each time I do, the bridges seem creakier, the landscape hazier. But when I catch sight of her, my eyes awake.

1) Bright Eyes, "We Are Nowhere". Back when this was released, I used to think unkindly of the band and their lead singer especially. This was based purely on the hype that surrounded his talents, in particular comparisons to the Master, which is something I still don't take very lightly. But there's nothing that time doesn't heal, I suppose, because these many years later I'm happy to report that my purely emotional reaction to the music has been positive. As with any musician you come to like, you have to learn to overlook the obvious turn-offs, like the sometimes overfelt quaver in his voice. You instead learn to tune into the undeniable lyrical strength, and the surprisingly resonant melodies, even if the latter are in no small part due to one of the Master's old friends.

2) Elliott Smith, "Needle In The Hay". Were I slightly older, I could imagine writing the same thing about this man, who is fast occupying a privileged zone wherein I feel an artist can do no wrong. I vaguely knew this was supposed to be a classic, and was bracing myself for the classic tale of initial befuddlement followed by gradual enlightenment. Turns out I just needed to hear him deliver the opening line for me to become a believer for life.

The biggest lie

Just a glimpse, from a distance, and I lose whatever grasp of time I used to think I have. Walking by myself on the way back, humming a tune to keep me company, I think that the feeling of that moment is all I need. Looking back now on such moments' scattered appearances through my life, I'm of course aware of the almost comic nature of my actions, or lack thereof. I don't doubt that I will find myself with a host of regrets that can match any spiritual compatriot, and the thought does sadden me. At the same time, part of me thinks: what does it all matter, anyway? While other paths may bring a richer, deeper experience, in my eyes at least I have seen a larger hand at play, and have received joy from it. If it were to take me from this world the second my eyes fell down, I wouldn't feel robbed of anything. When it comes to you, what hurts the most is that I must instead walk on, knowing that each time I look back, the longer it is that I will find what I am seeking.

1) American Music Club, "Jenny". Eitzel's nihilism is sometimes melodramatic, but for the emotionally misaligned there's nearly always something to grab on to, and occasionally marvel at, lyrically. In this portrait of a husk, I find it in the consistent imploring that home (alone) is the worst place to be, ably supported by a pliant melody. Perhaps these lyrical tricks are just that, but I can't deny that they work on me.

2) Elliott Smith, "Sweet Adeline". More fleshed out musically than earlier songs, but no less astute in squeezing out emotional details from a well-delivered lyric. I like that he hints at a misery he tries his best to escape, sedated or sober, but which never seems to want to go away. I think the explosion at the end tells us which way he goes this time, but I'm skeptical he's escaped it for good.

3) The Soft Boys, "Underwater Moonlight". Hitchock seems a likeable weirdo, and this is a melodic fantasy (I suppose) tale I find myself liking on its own terms, not thinking too much about the retro vibe and all that. Evocative imagery, too.

4) Morrissey, "King Leer". If you get in my good books, I'll give you a lot of rope. At this stage, anything I haven't heard from Moz that has any distinctive edge is likely to be similarly rewarded. But partiality aside, is it just me or are the put-downs of his sweetie's goon the best?

Sitting on a couch in the deadening summer light, marveling at how the wheel turns once again. I used to have one less thing to worry about. Why do I have the king Midas touch in reverse? I can't afford to think about this anymore. I am paralyzed, in a web of my making. All I wanted was to feel what I felt when I first read that Simon Singh book. I had no other business with your planet or your ways. I am sorry if I offended.

You could call it the arrogance of youth, if you wanted to be uncharitable. The thought that anything can be conquered with a bag of memories, a melody for every occasion and a good book in hand. Challenges can break you. They can show you who you really are. I've been having fancies of starting anew and putting to rest whatever minor demons the past brought. That's funny, it sounds pretty familiar to my ears. Now what seems like hell will in time likely seem like child's play. The best acts are yet to come. That's how it stands today.

Why is it that everytime I get the urge to write something bombastic and fiery about the inadequacy of the modern world, there is a voice that urges significant restraint? You would think that after 8 years in this business, I'd know by now that there is basically no external reason for censorship. And if I am not to express things that occur to me frequently, what good is this place? So anyway, here is something I miss: the mystery of the arts. I remember a time when we didn't know what everything was, when its full backstory was not laid bare before release, when its secrets remained so for yeas, serving as fodder for all manner of fantastical imaginations and stories. I see why it may seem jejune to the believers, but each time I am reminded of its reality nowadays, I grow a little colder, and I'm not sure why. Recurrent realization of time slipping out of hand, perhaps. I'd like to think it's because a little more magic has been lost, though.

It is unfortunate that this earlier time was also my childhood, so perhaps I am conflating the two. Ah, what did those times mean? They are wispy memories now. I can hardly believe they happened to me. During my exile I feel even disconnected from my more recent naivete. This fiend I have become, sedated by the steady access to entertainment, takes empty steps each day and ends up where he started. What are we living for?