Here's the thing: Tumblr was, for me, more of a community than anything else back in 2009/2010. (I am telling you now, sweet reader, that it is best if you stop reading now. I am about to transform into my ultimate form: a crotchety, overly-nostalgic old man, and it is not flattering whatsoever.)
When I first started blogging, it was under the name seanlennon-. I was a fan of people like johnlennon- (Danica), bobdylan- (Sam), rogerwaters- (Robin) and janeasher- (I believe this was Molly? I can't quite remember the URL Molly had). I joined this site because I loved their blogs, and maybe even a little bit because I wanted to be part of that group. They were so... funny and sarcastic and interesting. And they loved music the same way I did. It was as if I finally found a place where everyone not only understood what it was to be a fan, but lived the lifestyle.
I had a lot of fun in those first two or three years. I remember I once stayed up twenty-four hours on Tumblr - some sort of convoluted experiment. Whatever band I was into -- The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd -- there were people here that loved them. Loved them passionately, wholeheartedly, with every fiber of their being. I made a lot of friends here, some of which I actually do keep in touch with.
Tumblr no longer allows hyphens at the end of usernames. And anyway, that group has since dispersed. I like to think they are out there living extraordinary lives. I wish I could tell them what they did for me, without even knowing. Helping me get by in my roughest years. Am I the only one left?
In... maybe 2011? 2012? Robin (rogerwaters-) gave me the extraordinary gift of the URL for simonandgarfunkel. At this point I had fallen deeply and thoroughly in love with Simon & Garfunkel, and was determined to build a coherent, compact community around this duo. I gathered up as many S&G enthusiasts as I could (Mariana, Lisa, Guilia, Bruna, and everybody else here) and... it worked, miraculously. Mostly because of Mariana. I feel like I deserve very little credit for its success. But another community was born, and that kept me around.
I'm a little lost now. I come back here and feel... like the new kid in class. This has become unfamiliar territory. I feel like I am shouting into the void, hoping that those people will hear me again. I feel a little old and crusty. (I am still technically a young adult, mind you, but...)
It just occurred to me to think: does anybody care anymore? Is there anybody left here that cares about me? Which is making me think: why am I posting this at all?
Here is the answer: I care about you. You, whoever you are. Whether we've spoken or not. I know there are still people out there who live for music, for their bands, and I feel a sort of obligation to pop back here every so often and give back a little bit of what has been given to me. To answer any lingering messages, to immerse myself again, if only for a moment.
I don't know where I am right now. I am a person -- a fan -- who no longer loves bands the same way. I worked in journalism and met too many musicians, learned too much about the industry. The magic of fandom has now been replaced with... discomfort. And nostalgia.
I listen to music every day. Minimum three albums a day. But I no longer want to meet the people behind these creations. I haven't traveled farther than two hours for a concert all year. (Though I did leave the country for two of them, but I ultimately regretted doing so.) I don't have money for concert tickets anyway. I am exhausted. To be honest with you guys, I've been really hurt by some people in the industry. I'm just tired. I don't see musicians as saints or deities or even... otherworldly anymore. They're just people. It's their job. They are flattered by fans, but you are one in a sea of faces and in the end they could care less about you. Or even what you think or feel.
See what I mean? I'm a crotchety old man.
I love music, but I don't believe in fandom anymore. Actually, you know what? Now that I typed that, it sounds like total bullshit. I do believe that there is something special about fandom. I just don't know where I fit anymore.
Simon & Garfunkel are still my number one. If there is such a thing as a soulmate-band, they are that for me. Their music fits into my being. It fills something I hadn't realized was empty.
And now I'm going to go, because if I keep talking about S&G this post is just going to gain a good 2,000 words and ain't nobody got time 'fo dat.
I try to remember that to sit down and write is a gift. That if I do not seize this day, it will be lost. I think of writers I admire who are no longer living. I'm aware that the simple fact of being here creates a kind of responsibility, even a moral one, to get to work.
Maybe they had no faith, Tom thought. Maybe they were like me, always expecting disaster, surprised only when it doesn't hit. Maybe we are all, the killers and the killed, equally damned; not guilty, not somehow made wise by war, not heroes, just men who are either dead or convinced that the world is insane.
The One Time I Regretted It, And the Six Times I Didn't:
A Story of Folk Duos, New England and Life as William Miller
Much like a young girl with her diary, I feel almost obligated to apologize for my absence from blogging. I mean, I just typed "sorry it's been a while" before hastily erasing it; I too easily imagined it written by an eight year old me with a purple gel pen in her hand. The reality is, it's okay not to reminisce or reflect for a little while. It might even put things in perspective.
The last time I wrote, I was someone else. At least, it seems that way. I had just moved out of my parent's house and was living in a third-floor apartment. I had started a new business, doubling as a writer by night and an RA at the local nursing home by day. I didn't listen to Simon & Garfunkel much. Maybe it was difficult, in a way. There were memories attached and I was moving forward.
While there, I had the privilege of taking care of a disabled Vietnam war veteran. We would set tables together, I would serve him coffee, he would hold open doors for me. He was a real gentleman; no ulterior motives, no real reason to be kind. He just was. And he never wanted anything but to help others. "Can I help you?" was something I heard daily, followed by a beaming toothless grin.
The morning I arrived at work to discover that he had died in a fire the previous night was one that I will remember for the rest of my life.
I listened to The Milk Carton Kids' "The Jewel of June" (x) and put my shoulder to the wheel.
Not long after, I was face to face with those fellows: none other than Joey Ryan and Kenneth Pattengale of The Milk Carton Kids. I was tasked with interviewing them for Torrent Magazine (x), and following them on tour throughout New England. And so I found myself in Burlington, Vermont at the very venue I had seen them perform at in 2012. Notebook and recorder in hand, I was suddenly William Miller (x). I swear I even said "Joey, Kenneth... I really love your band" at one point. In a naïve haze of admiration, I was easily charmed by these two witty, handsome folksingers and soon our interview ran long as we shared drinks and laughs. I won't go into detail about the tour*, but suffice to say that having the opportunity to attend folk shows nightly and explore the Northeast was my favorite thing I'd ever done.
(* As a sidenote, though, I will elaborate on one night in particular. On a day off from the tour, I stopped in Newport, RI - home of the Newport Folk Festival. Staying in a hostel downtown, I met a pianist from Israel. Amazingly confused by his surroundings, he used the girl's bathroom and accidentally left the door open... which unfortunately gave me a full view as he disrobed. I cleared my throat and he jumped, spotting me sitting in the adjacent bedroom. He laughed then - I mean, really laughed - and made no attempt to cover himself before slowly closing the door. We had tea at a local cafe a few hours later.)
When I made it back to New York, I was remarkably un-exhausted. Actually, I was excited. There really was more out there.
But somehow... everything was normal. I put on my scrubs and pulled my hair into a bun, woke up at six, and went back to my day job. How was everything the same? It was as if I had been away for a lifetime, and everyone was just as they were - except me.
I left my job at the nursing home, and my apartment on the third floor, two months later. I put everything in boxes and took a ferry to Vermont. I drove until there was nothing around and moved in with three men I'd never met. I published some magazines, and got another day job as a line cook at a local Italian restaurant.
No one knew me. I didn't know anyone. And it was great.
There were parties at my new house -- dining room tables covered with liquor, those rascally-special cigarettes, and drunken snowboarding that ultimately lead to faces full of ice and howls of laughter. This was life as I had never known it. This was life where people thought I had something to say, and where laughter by the light of a fire followed the clinking of glasses and jokes about sexual inadequacies.
After months of adrenaline and new experiences, one night in January it finally hit me: the exhaustion. I had been scrubbing dishes for six hours and my shift was dragging on, the clock reading almost 1:00 AM. Rather abruptly, it occurred to me that I didn't know what the hell I was doing in Vermont. Why had I left my hometown so hastily - left the stability and comfort behind? I was living the life of a "starving artist" because I had been so eager to change things. Doubt, as quickly as it had been pushed away months before, flooded back into my mind. Home didn't exist for me anymore - not really - but I wanted to go back there anyway.
And then there was a familiar hum. I looked up from the sink and saw that I was the only one left in the kitchen, tired and soaked with dishwater. The hum was coming from a tiny, decade-old radio sandwiched on a shelf between containers of oregano and parsley. The song grew louder until I finally recognized the sound.
"America" by Simon & Garfunkel (x).
Paul and Art had come to save me - as they have so many times before. Those beautiful, ethereal vocals and dreamy lyrics captured me again. I listened intently for Art's voice to appear, following its wafting tone until it gave way to a DJ's booming roar: "That was Simon & Garfunkel, and now a message from our sponsors!"
I was smiling like an idiot when my boss came in and told me I was free to go home.
My story about The Milk Carton Kids made the cover.
A few weeks later, I met a banjo player at a record store in Burlington. He needed a ride back to Seattle. As it were, I had a car. "I want to go to Chicago." I said, as we planned our route. "I don't know why, but I think we should go to Chicago."
"Okay." He said.
Days before our cross-country adventure was to begin, my car broke down.
"It's gonna need about $2,500 in repairs."
"Well," I thought, looking at the mechanic who had just stomped on any hopes I had of getting to the west coast by next week. "That'd be fine if I had $2,500." I sold that car, still without enough money to buy a new one.
The banjo player left without me.
Again I found myself confronted with reality, with memories, and that previous life of mine as I was forced to sell the last possession I had of my deceased father's to get another car.
So I continued to exist. I listened to "Summer on the Westhill" by Kings of Convenience (x) and reminisced about the feeling of discovery. I went to eleven concerts, including one by none other than Paul Simon himself. Somewhere along the way it stopped being exciting. I left the country once or twice. I drove something like 550 miles to nowhere and back in the dead of night. (As it turns out, essentially nothing is open 24/7 here.) I washed a ridiculous amount of dishes. I drove my new car into a pile of snow (as one does in Vermont.) The joys and tragedies of life continued to shake my world.
I guess you could say I was disappointed in myself; I was living like a ghost, observing but not participating. And for whatever reason, I missed Joey Ryan and Kenneth Pattengale. I missed that life -- being on tour, traveling... experiencing everything. I had gotten attached. I made the same mistake as William Miller had in Almost Famous.
"Oh man... you made friends with 'em. See, friendship is the booze they feed ya. They want you to get drunk on feeling like you belong."
"Well it was... fun."
"Because they make you feel cool. And hey - I met you. You are not cool."
"I know. Even when I thought I was, I knew I wasn't." (x)
Eventually, the snow melted and the sun came out. I opened my window and heard birds chirping in the distance, saw fog rising in the field.
The Milk Carton Kids came back to town. We said hello, chatted nonchalantly. The Milk Carton Kids left soon after.
I received an offer to go on tour with a friend's band.
Most people equate detachment with indifference - or worse, clinical coldness. Not so at all. A detached person, for example, ought to see a snake as a snake, not as a snake-plus-a-shudder. A snake-plus-a-shudder is not a snake, but something the observer added on his own. Nobody is asking you to like snakes or elevators, but any well-meaning friend would or should suggest that you see them straight before you set up any decisions in your mind.
J.D. Salinger in a letter to Deirdre Bonifaz (1954) / “Letters from Salinger,” The Massachusetts Review 51.4 (2010): 776-78.
I've spent the past few days listening to the Beatles while driving to work/the store/etc and I'm starting to like listening to them again so I was like, "huh - maybe I'll see what's going on in the fandom" First post I see is about The Beatles "creating" a genre Nope Listen, guys, The Beatles were great and all but they did not create a genre. They were not the first rock 'n' roll group, nor were they the first pop group. They weren't the first ones to fuse the two together, either. Sorry. I know y'all think they were rock 'n' roll's grand saviors or whatever, but the reality is that they were just a couple of talented guys who wrote good music. The Beatles' fandom has a bad habit of blowing things out of proportion and making wildly grandiose claims.
So basically... a couple of months ago I paid an arm and a leg for orchestra tickets to a Paul Simon & Sting concert And I just realized that that concert is happening in a couple of weeks So that's... a thing
Somewhat belated considering it was officially released last week, but the first issue of Torrent Magazine is now available for purchase in print. Our first printing is limited to 100 copies, all hand-numbered and available for a limited time only. I can tell you guys that there are VERY FEW left now, and if you'd like a copy you should order as soon as possible. Keep up to date on folk music's latest with Torrent!
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