Remember, Remember

When I look back on my life I am constantly amazed at the things that no longer matter to me, and I know that this sentiment is not _______ to me. Think about it; were you ever involved in a long-term relationship that didn’t last? I was. And I remember that at the time—at that specific moment in the history of Austin Marshburn—there was nothing more important to me than fostering a more meaningful, lasting and beautiful relationship with that girl. Then beer came along and slowly, but inexorably, my perspective began to change. But this does not discount the fact that at that time there was simply nothing more important than that relationship. Everyone I know, and probably everyone you know, exists in a dynamic and ever-changing paradigm (Except boring people and the profoundly retarded). And this means that they cannot feel the shift. It’s like when my sister and I were children. Many times we wouldn’t see our grandparents for months at a time, and then when we saw them they would invariably remark, “Look how much you’ve grown.” My sister and I would, just as invariably, never believe them. The reason for this is clear. Trying to notice any change in yourself on a day to day basis is impossible. Only over time do we notice these changes. Obviously, my grandparents’ assertion was correct. I mean. When they started saying I was growing—and I did not believe them—I was three feet tall. However, this is a very extreme example, and I’m not interested in extremes. I’m much more interested in the little things, in the tiny nuances of change because that’s where falling in and out of love lies. That’s where true happiness is won and lost. And that is what I’m endeavoring to find. To this end, I’m going to employ music.

I guess that’s sort of an amorphous thesis so here’s a concrete (maybe granite) reproduction of it. The only constant is that there is no constant; everything continues to grow until it dies. So, how does music fit into this moribund tale of “everything.” Music is simply the fastest growing entity available within my paradigm. Perhaps you like crocheting, and perhaps crocheting is constantly evolving; morphing into bigger and better or smaller and worse things. The only problem for me is that if this were happening; if crocheting were an amazingly dynamic endeavor, I would never know because I don’t really care about crocheting. I care about music and I care about sports. This brings up another question namely why isn’t this essay about sports? They’re also constantly evolving, aren’t they? Well, it’s true, they are. But I would argue that they do not evolve nearly as fast as music. The reason for this is simple (O yeah, it also has to do with the fact that I am an indie rock apologist. I should get that out of the way now—i.e. stop reading if you don’t like The Honorary Title or haven’t heard of Fischerspooner). Both music and sports are reactionary (because everything is reactionary) but major athletics is constrained by the constant need to adhere to the mainstream (which evolves slowly), while independent music is constantly attempting to shift the mainstream (which means it has to evolve quickly). This is an incredibly important divergence, and it brings me back to the argument’s assumption. Life is ever-changing, and there is no way to stop this constant flux. The problem is that, in most cases, it is impossible to realize that a change is occurring until a very long time after the change actually occurred. For example, how long did it take me to realize I was no longer four feet tall? Did it happen when I was four feet six inches, four feet two inches? Two inches is a lot. But I would doubt that I would have noticed it. But this is why I’ve chosen music to illustrate my paradigm shift. I am acutely aware of what music means to me, and of what it can teach me about the little things; about the nuances of happiness won and happiness lost.

So, right now I am listening to Mettallica’s alarmingly fast guitar riffs. I can’t remember the guitarist’s name, but there is no doubt in my mind that at one time I could, and would, have mentioned it in casual conversation as something prescient. At one point in the history of Austin, Mettallica meant much more than it should have. In fact, I can tell you that their first bassist (Newsted maybe, or is that who they have now?) died in a terrible bus accident. However, I am now absolutely indifferent to Mettalica. I mean, I know that Enter Sandman—which I’m listening to—and Nothing Else Matters are pretty spectacular songs, but they just have no meaning to me anymore. What does this tell me about music? More importantly, what does this tell me about myself? I mean, have I outgrown the bearded tough-guy look? Maybe I have, but then again so did Mettalica. I think something more is going one here. I mean, how could I go from absolutely exalting a band because of some successive notes they were able to play to changing the channel when they come on the radio? The answer to this query goes beyond anything Mettallica, or any other band, could do technically with a song. It delves into how music makes people feel, but more importantly it journeys to the land inside all of us; the place where we make decisions about what we love, and more importantly, why we love what we love.

Right now, I can only think of one band that matters to me as much now as when I fell in love with them, and it is not an original choice. It goes without saying that this band is The Beatles. That’s it. After 22 years on this Earth, the only band I have never stopped caring about broke up 37 years ago. This is an incredibly important point, not because it says something about the music I like, but because it speaks to the transient nature of love. This (of course) brings the discourse back to love.

Lately, I’ve begun to wonder about divorce in this country. Is it endemic of the fast pace of American life in general and of capitalism in particular. Or is it something more endemic of the human experience. Now, I realize that there may be a few holes in logic when one is attempting to compare carnal love as it pertains to the human experience with love of music, but bear with me as I attempt to jump over the hurdle of logic.

I realize that, perhaps, the reason I believe loving a band and loving a person is correlated is a simple function of my never having found the “right woman.” I think this is something my mother might tell me. However, this line of thinking strikes me as cynical and way off-base. If love of another is something so ingrained in the human psyche that it cannot be compared to love of something else (like music) then why does love, almost always, end in pain. Think about this; even if you married the love of your life at 31, the odds are that you went out with others before you met this apple of your eye. If you seriously went out with nine other people, there is a good chance that at some point you thought, “I think I might love this person.” If this was the case then nine times out of ten this love was fleeting. Now let’s extend this paradigm further. The divorce rate in America hovers around 50%. In the context of this essay, what does this mean? Well, it means that fifty percent of the time when people solemnly swear to love eachother, that love does not last (By the way, the American married population is a pretty large sample size). How is this transitory love fundamentally different than my dynamic love for music? My answer; it isn’t. It may move more slowly, but this just makes the movement more insidious, not less.

This brings me back to the Beatles. I can unironically say that I love a band that pre-dates my existence. However, that is not to say there have not been forays with mistresses before and many that are still happening as we speak. For instance, at this moment I absolutely love Bloc Party, Muse, LCD Soundsystem, Electric 6, the Killers, and countless others. Who knows, maybe one of these bands will one day climb Beatle Mountain, but I doubt it. In my time, I’ve also loved Mettalica, Guns ‘N’ Roses, Poison(??), Led Zeppelin, Queen (who I sort of still love), AC/DC, Van Halen, Black Sabbath, The Allman Bros. Band, and Nirvana. However, these were all transitory loves who in hindsight helped to explain the temper of my life at the moment I loved the band better than a million written words ever could. If you want to know what I’m like at a certain point, it does not matter to listen to what I say; only to pay attention to what it is I love. To my mind, this does not pertain only to me. It seems to be universal. Think about this, when you meet someone in an airport bar, do you talk about your inner feelings or about sports? Sports, right. There are two reasons for this. 1.) We don’t want to seem vulnerable even though we all are. 2.) We feel an obligation to not force others to think about their own life’s shortcomings by bringing up our own relational shortcomings. And the result of this is transitory love.

Here’s the thing—and this is important—those bands represent myself as I existed at a certain point in my life, but not as I exist now. This is incredibly important, but easily overlooked because it means that, truly, they are representative of my past self. This means that understanding that music makes it possible to, on some level, understand myself. On some level, perhaps this will teach me why I love what I love, but in truth maybe its simpler than that….maybe John Lennon was right. Maybe humans are transitory because All we need is love, but only the lucky ones figure out what that means.