How did I get here?

TALKING-HEADS550b1If you are of a certain age and mindset, then you likely have a (possibly vague) recollection of the first time you heard the Talking Heads. I’ll admit they were not so high up on my radar until Remain in Light came out, and one song in particular had resonance then, and still does in my life: Once in a Lifetime.

It’s pondering of the existential aspects of life—the meanings and definition of success and satisfaction—were, in some ways, not terribly relevant to a 17 year old with more focus on term papers and parties than attaining a meaningful life. I had yet to be buffeted significantly by the arbitrariness of bureaucracy, the tedium of work you don’t love, the demands of a family, and yes—the joy, too, of love, responsibility, satisfaction in a job well done.

Yet the song remains a lodestar for me, and listening to it often supplies an opportunity to reflect—or genuflect—on the successes I have had, the hard knocks I have endured, the love and support I receive. In performing this relatively unscientific inventory of my time on earth, as a citizen of Brookline, Massachusetts, USA, North America, Earth—as Stephen Dedalus might say—I find the glass half full.

That’s how I got here—and I am thankful.

Paul Weller and the Art of Wabi-Sabi

I was lucky enough to see Paul Weller in his latest incarnation on Saturday night. His rise in The Jam and longevity in general, as a musician, artist, and taste maker, is well-earned. What I have always loved about the punk movement is the way it broke free of the dynamics of the music industry at that time (1970s), when Colonels and Kings “made” and “broke” bands and sounds by manipulating the public’s perception of what it should listen to by buying airtime and buying off DJs.

Punk was messy, but it was egalitarian, and possessed the patina of sweat and excreta that was undeniably real, and hand made—Wabi-Sabi, if you will. Perhaps Paul Weller and his mates, Malcolm, and Vivienne were the original western practitioners of Wabi Sabi—re-branded as DIY. If so, I am more than happy to follow in their footsteps, knowing that the time, patience, and integrity I try to imbue my art with is real, and not predicated on a marketing genius’ “vision” of what the public wants.

And yes, Paul and the band were wonderful, glorious, messy, sweaty, and had 4 encores, ending, appropriately, “A Town Called Malice,” a thoroughgoing rejection of Thatcherism, which, you may argue, hastened the demise of “old” England and the rise of a more monochrome, disney-fied version we know today.

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