As meaningless as a blog like this can be, I do think the thing it has been for me is a sort of cathartic murmur of personal thought and word. My words that once they are out there can never really be brought back into the darkness. I have said so many times that I should just walk away from this thing all together but the truth is it helps me. It focuses me in some strange way and even though it makes me no financial or critical acclaim, it does allow me a place of comfort as the world around me seems to spin out of control.
Again I open my laptop and sign on. I check out the latest headlines and hit up my many accounts to see what is going on in the world around me. A world I have barely seen, but still feel so much a part of.
The news lately has been disturbing. The news has been an unbearable forecast of what is yet to come. A reminder of how fragile we are. Yet we don’t do our best I feel, to really get it. Is the mark I’m making here making any difference whatsoever? I’m rambling as I do when I hear bad news. I’ve got one name for you Gordon. I want to yell, “God damn it!” but I don’t because I’m a polite Canadian. I want to punch a wall but I don’t because it’s crass.
When I heard the news about Gordon Downie, I like so many, had the wind knocked out of me. What a son of a bitch! I don’t dare say that out loud just in case a reader gets offended, but shit that’s some bad ass news.
Then we exhale and remember we are all just tragically “man”. No power. Hall of Fame. Money. Good deeds change a thing. We all are just running on time. A vapour of a moment really. What do we leave behind that matters much at all?
In Mr. Downie’s case the man is walking bravely into the unknown with music blaring as he and his bandmates prepare for the concerts of our lifetime. Imagine the bravery.
The music of course speaks for itself. A vault of homegrown, kick ass, lyrically relevant memoirs of a nation coming of age. Not heard since the likes of Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Gordon Lightfoot, Joan Baez and The Guess Who just to mention a few.
The music becomes even more potent when we realize that our revered artists are flesh and bone just like you and I. The talent that they have goes beyond the ability to capsule what they have given us and while they are doing it we drink and party to their songs. We bubble up that bong to try to find it’s greater meaning that was right in front of ours faces the whole time. Insecurity, sexuality, promiscuity, monogamy, femininity, masculinity, heterosexuality, homosexuality, puberty, politics, war and even death.
They play it loud and hard to attempt to let us into their soul. We want to know them so badly. We can feel them but cannot touch them.
Even still, the politics of concert ticket selling rapes the very essence of what a true artist wants to share and accomplish. An industry built on the backs of some of the most influential people of the ages. What price can we truly give to the healing energy of music.
If there was a time when we needed a Woodstock, this would be it. Where is the voice of our generation? Fighting the fight of his life as the sharks in the tank eat the poor with resale and capitalism.
Rock on “The Hip”! The kids need you more than ever.
Edited by Mary Ellen Monk