Tag Archives: listening

Dispatches from Writer’s Camp: The Next Frontier

Look, a metaphor!

Remember that on July 3rd we campers were treated here at Mt. Holyoke College to a fireworks display of stupendous proportions. Yesterday, on the 4th of July, it was quiet. I’m not kidding. After the reading I sat on an Adirondack chair in the dark sipping whiskey in the middle of the lawn and I watched some stars shoot across the sky in relative silence. Not a single explosion. Well, maybe one or two, intermittently, distantly. Whoever was in charge of the display from the night before must have wanted to get all the pyrotechnic ya yas out early. That’s fine. It seemed to have worked swimmingly. I’ve become kind of a grump about fireworks. They are beautiful to watch if you can forget that they are, after all, mostly a gussied up reenactment of warfare. Not to mention the expense. Someday, perhaps, in a perfect world, in a new frontier, people will celebrate the fourth of July by blowing soap bubbles.

At the end of a class yesterday that described the literary history of American frontier exploration, both literal and symbolic, Alison asked us what we believed would be the next frontier. It was a brilliant, thought provoking question. And our responses were revelatory. We began, as you would expect us to do, with some more literal predictions. Well, there’s space, still, the infinite expanses of the universe. There’s quantum physics. My understanding is that there’s a boat load of stuff we still don’t know about the ocean. The human brain remains mysterious territory. Medicine. There will be technological advances every bit as revolutionary as the one’s we’ve experienced over just a few short years. That kind of stuff. Then the discussion got darker. As Alison’s talk had culminated in a description of Dystopia as the most recent literary “frontier,” we began to discuss the bleak, depressing, backwards, and absurd state of affairs in our country in the age of a Trump presidency. The new frontier seems dark, indeed. It was inevitable that we should land here, our first writer’s camp since the election. I can’t speak for everyone, but my guess is that as creatives, as artists, as makers, we are in this community nearly unanimous in our outrage over the current state of American politics. We are all still smarting and trying to figure out what role we have to play in these next months and years.

And then the conversation shifted.

Bookstores are inundated with readers looking for rigorous political satire. African women are writing science fiction novels. People like us are here, in this place, in this time, coming together to write, talk about writing, celebrate each other, learn from each other, lift each other up emotionally, intellectually, spiritually. Literature matters still. Literature teaches us how to be human. Literature teaches us how to be more empathetic and compassionate. Literature teaches us how to love. It was decided: we have to keep writing. And there, in this conversation about the power our words might have to make substantive difference in the world, someone suggested that the new frontier is in relationship, deep understanding and connection, the way in which our behavior in the world and our way of relating might have a ripple effect louder and farther than any firepower ever could.

And then we moved from that wonderful, enlivening conversation to an experiment with receiving and giving feedback about writing. So accustomed, as we are, to “workshops” in which the writer cannot speak but must listen as others try to communicate, sometimes helpfully but often narcissistically, what the writer needs to do to improve their work, what if instead the writer spoke the entire time and in response to honest, open questions from peers and friends, the sole purpose of which would be to elicit inquiry, reflection, discernment, to inspire the writer’s inner teacher to speak?

We tried that. The results, I think, were stunning. I believe there is almost nothing in the world more affirming than to feel and be heard. I know from personal experience that almost every moment of conflict in my life with another human being was the result of my inability or unwillingness to listen or from the perception that someone I loved or cared about was not listening to me. But what’s especially phenomenal and important and potentially transformational about this idea, is that this same gift can be given to or received from relative strangers.

There were individuals who had never met before yesterday partnered up to have this kind of conversation around writing, where one writer described a dilemma in his or her practice and then the other asked only honest, open questions and allowed the writer to speak in response. No suggestions. No advice. No fixing. No judgement. We listen attentively to others, we listen to our own responses, later, we help each other hear  and see what we might not have been conscious of, and this listening then percolates its way into clarity–immediately in some cases, in a few hours sometimes, or after weeks or months of slow cooking.

So the new frontier might be a transformation that occurs when individuals, when groups, when cultures, when whole nations learn to listen. I’m no Polyanna. But I do sometimes tend toward rose-colored glasses, or glasses half full. I’m pretty disgusted with a lot of things, but I am also heartened and hopeful where I see sense, integrity, decency, kindness, compassion–and that stuff is all around us. Over the last four days I’ve been soaking in it, Palmolive-like. We start where we are. My friend Mark insisted that we begin with those in our immediate reach. It will ripple outward, like fireworks, only softer, like soap bubbles.

Try this at home.

 

 

 

 

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Notes Toward a Musical Autobiography: Volume X, Letter F

Happy and Totally Belated New Year, everyone. It appears that I took the entire months of January and February off from blogging. 2016 finds me having barely survived the first semester of my 28th year of teaching (which, disappointingly, turns out to be only my 26th), feeling gratitude for a new beginning with new classes, taking in some meditation practice, gearing up for a role as Lord Capulet in Romeo and Juliet, and, when I have the opportunity, still working my way through the music collection in alphabetical order, listening to at least one compact disc from every artist or band represented there. Here it is, March, spring break, a year and a month into this wacky project, and I stumble fearlessly into the letter F. It may have to come in two volumes; there’s a whole lot of really great shit here.

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Donald Fagen, “The Nightfly.” I think, I’m almost 90% certain, that this album, the first solo record by one half of the genius behind the phenomenal Steely Dan, was one of my first compact disc purchases ever! It’s such a groovy, cool record, and listening to it now it feels just as groovy and cool.  It makes me want to dance. And so my son and I bip around the basement to “I.G.Y.” and “Ruby Baby” and my favorite: “New Frontier.”  

Faith No More, “Angel Dust.” Here’s an unlikely transition for you.  After dancing with my son to Donald Fagan, I put this on. He made me turn it off.  The boy is not yet used to noisy music.  Will not tolerate the heavy rock. I have to come back to this one way later.  Yesterday I spin it, doing the laundry, taking a head banging selfie that I posted on Facebook.  There’s something about this band, as dark and sardonic as their lyrics can be, that absolutely fills me with a strange kind of joy, a jump up and down kind of glee, pure energy born out of heavy guitars, explosive drums, and a vocal that is constantly shifting between frightful screaming and beautiful melody.  Mike Patton, I think, is one of the most gifted singers (and weirdest) to come out of the 90’s grunge scene.

Jason Falkner, “Can You Still Feel?” The first time I heard Jason Falkner was on the first record by the stupendously awesome and terribly short-lived band called Jellyfish.  I won’t say anything more about that until I get to the J’s in the alphabet. Suffice it to say  that anything by anyone in that band would pretty much have to be monumentally good, and almost everything Falkner has done has been exactly that. Not as flashy or as retro as Jellyfish, his talent is in writing inescapably hooky and memorable, finely crafted and expertly played power pop rock tunes while spinning super sharp lyric lines and singing really, really well.  I’m not sure that he had a single lead singing role on that Jellyfish record, so in that band his talents as a singer and composer remained mysterious.

Fantastic Plastic Machine, “The Fantastic Plastic Machine.” Lounge-jazz sixties-kitsch, Austin Powers meets a Japanese Beck. “Mr. Salesman” is a gem. I don’t recall how I discovered this record and the time I spent listening to it must not have made a giant impression on me, because, despite the cool vibe of that one single and a few other groovy moments, the tunes did not stick, did not animate my life in any way.

Maynard Ferguson, “Footpath Café.” I’ve spun this record maybe once or twice since I bought it in 1992.  I don’t have very much of this kind of thing in my collection, however, from the time I played in the high school jazz band, I have felt a kind of joyfulness associated with big band music. It’s not a thing I very often choose to spin, but listening to this now brings all that back. The musical skill and finesse evidenced here, especially in the drums, is undeniable and inspiring. I’ve alway admired drummers that could swing really fast and push all those accents and hits along the way. It makes my head bop up and down like a bobble-head. I could do without the singing, though. My least favorite tracks on this record are the ones that feature a vocalist.

Bryan Ferry, “As Time Goes By.” First heard this cat sing in the 80’s on Roxy Music’s “Avalon” album, which, years from now, when I get to the R section, I will have to spin. Actually, that’s not true. The first time I heard Ferry was on the 70’s hit “Love Is The Drug,” but when I heard and then bought “Avalon” as a young adult, I had no idea that it was the same band. At any rate, Ferry is one of those chameleon artists, all over the map, from jazz standards to Dylan cover albums, and that’s one of the things that makes him cool. This record of early jazz-pop standards from the 30’s is transportive, magical, and perfect for Ferry’s croon.  This record caught me, in my mid 3o’s, all sentimental and sappy and trying very hard to fall in love again and succeeding in the most disastrous way possible.

The Fifth Dimension, “Master Hits.” OMG. Some of these tunes, when I was a kid, I mistook as tunes by The Mamas and the Papas, perhaps because (as a little bit of googling proves) “Go Where You Wanna Go” was performed by both groups. No matter. Sooner or later I figured it out. “Wedding Bell Blues” (or as I would recognize it, “Marry Me, Bill,”) “One Less Bell to Answer,” and “(Last Night) I Didn’t Get To Sleep At All” (God, I love those parentheses), finally gave it away (that’s no Mama Cass). Another group that, while none of their records made their way into the Jarmer household, were nevertheless constant childhood companions, as they were played incessantly on the radio–and who didn’t listen to the radio in the 70s? These are truly  great tunes.  I’m adding this to the digital library post haste.

The Fingers, “Prophets and Casanovas.” From what I can tell from a quick and dirty internet search, this band no longer exists, didn’t exist for very long, and perhaps, only made one record, this one here in my collection. The reason they’re important: we (as Here Comes Everybody) shared a stage with them in one of our late nineties or early oughts tours to Los Angeles, and hosted them once, I think, on one of their tours up here to Portland. A highly capable and energetic power pop band, the individual members of which, have probably gone on to do interesting and solid musical things. We’ve lost all track of them.  Brief blast from the past.

Neil Finn, “Dizzying Heights.” I decide to write about the most recent Neil Finn record (I think I have them all) because I have been listening to this one almost non-stop in the car for the better part of a year. Neil Finn seems to me to be about the wisest of pop song writers working. He’s smart and thoughtful and his tunes often have a deep emotional resonance despite the fact that the grooves are super toe-tapping and melodically interesting to boot. This record is a moody one, dark in places, weirder than most other Neil Finn records. The opening track “Impressions” is this slow, dirge-like swing thing with a bass drum pattern big enough to rattle your insides while a beautiful vocal whispers overhead. Bluesy, dark, but lovely. Looks like I’ll be hanging out with the Finn family for awhile. Ever since Split Enz rocked my new wave world in the 80’s and Crowded House followed fast on those heels, I’ve been loyal to brothers Neil and Tim–and now to the offspring, Liam Finn, Neil’s son, who has two or three records of his own by now.

Liam Finn, “I’ll Be Lightning.” Listening to Liam Finn is as strange as it was to listen to Julian or Sean Lennon.  In all cases, it’s quite possible to just close your eyes and hear the voices of their famous dads. Almost everything Liam does here would fit quite nicely on a Neil Finn record. He’s perhaps a little more adventurous and noisy than papa in the rhythmic and production departments, but the songs are not nearly as sophisticated, the playing is not nearly as professional, and here, I think, we’re listening to a songwriter who’s learning and totally devoid of any self consciousness–both highly admirable traits. This record came out in 2008. It’s been almost that long since I spun it last. It’s a lovely listen.

Tim Finn, “Self Titled.” Tim’s second or third solo record after his departure from Split Enz and a couple of years before his collaboration in 1991 with brother Neil on “Woodface” (maybe the greatest Crowded House album ever), this 1989 record closes out the decade for me and my world. The 80’s were my musical adolescence, both as a listener and a performer, and as I was learning how to write my own music and dreaming the dream and growing up into an adult and getting married too young and struggling to get through college, the Finn brothers had my back, along with XTC and Peter Gabriel and David Sylvian and Kate Bush and Laurie Anderson and The Smiths.  This Tim Finn record: I haven’t listened to it for such a long time, but as soon as it spins, my early 20’s come swirling back at me: finishing that English degree, starting grad school to become a teacher, having to move out of the love shack, moving into the basement of my in-laws, playing badminton in the driveway, drinking beer with my brother, the Chevy 10 van and the Buick Le Sabre, my first teaching job, moving out of the basement.  A hugely optimistic era.  And this record seems to capture that spirit. Tim, like his brother, is so gifted as a singer, but the tambour of his voice is distinctive, easy to tell from Neil’s, more vibrato, more theatrics, in some ways a more conventionally pop rock voice, but angelic at times and always precise. These cats did not need autotune. There’s some groovy rhythm section stuff here: Tony Levin on bass and Jerry Marotta on drums. Tim surrounded himself with heavy hitters on this record. Produced by Mitchell Froom of Crowded House and Suzanne Vega fame. I can’t believe this record isn’t in the digital library.  Consider it done. Somewhere I caught the rumor that Tim Finn was not healthy, psychologically speaking. I hope that’s a fib.  I hope he’s well. The Finns have brought so much joy into my life.

Well, I think that’s all the F I can take for today. It’s Monday of my spring break.  I’ve got rehearsals this week for Romeo and Juliet and lines to commit to memory, but other than that, my responsibilities are few and there may be more time this week for listening, for finishing up with the fabulous letter F, for another blog entry or two, and perhaps, for a full emergence from blogging hibernation. Even though it’s raining cats and dogs, IT’S SPRINGTIME, YO!

 

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Notes Toward a Musical Autobiography: Volume V, Letter Costello

trust

It happened when I was listening to The Beatles; I couldn’t choose which record to listen to.  It happened again with The Boomtown Rats, again with Cheap Trick, and now, in my mission to listen to one cd from each artist represented in my collection in alphabetical order, I am faced with choosing a single Elvis Costello album from the 25 that I possess. I found with The Beatles, with The Boomtown Rats, and with Cheap Trick that it could not be done. I’m not even going to try with Elvis, the second most liberally represented artist in my entire collection. That would just be dumb.

As a teenager, discovering that I was nearly alone on a new wave island in suburbia, I gobbled up everything I could find that struck me as inventive, weird, nerdy, out of the mainstream, and I made quite a few important discoveries. The Talking Heads, Blondie, XTC, Thomas Dolby, Gary Numan, Japan, and Elvis were the harbingers of my adolescence. We had a classic rock station that was making some forays, late at night, into this territory, and of course, we had MTV in its very nascence. I don’t know if I saw Elvis before I heard him. I think I heard “Watching the Detectives” on the radio, and “Radio, Radio,” on the radio. That must have been it. For some reason, though, it didn’t occur to me to buy a Costello record until he was three albums into his career. It was the song “Oliver’s Army,” I think, that really did it for me–so “Armed Forces” was my first purchase–and perhaps, I don’t remember exactly, it could have been the video that finally sold me. After a quick perusal, though, I find the verdict is in. No, it couldn’t have been the video. This thing is terrible. Bad enough to kill a great song. Don’t watch it.

And yet, no, a terrible video cannot kill a great song. I have personal experience with this. “Oliver’s Army” is a great song. As a youngun, I often found myself drawn to tunes the lyrics to which I didn’t understand. I still don’t think I understand this song, but that doesn’t stop me from loving it–its giddiness, its exuberance, its changes, its tongue twisting lyric, and that awesome chorus tag: “And I would rather be anywhere else but here today.” And now that I think of it, remembering less poorly perhaps than before, “What’s So Funny About Peace Love and Understanding” was my first Elvis love–and I remember distinctly hearing it on the radio radio late at night.  So, is it “Armed Forces?” I don’t know!  I haven’t even started listening but for the last few days I’ve had nothing but Elvis on the brain.  What about that first album? Such a perfect thing–such an odd thing–terrific songwriting–almost a kind of country record, and yet, strange, odd, exuding a personality unlike anything I’d ever encountered, horrible sounding, and yet, here’s a record that saves the very best song for last! Don’t get me wrong, “Alison” is a great song, but “Watching the Detectives” is one of the very greatest songs. Oh, crap, finding it impossible to choose, I begin at the beginning and can’t stop myself until I’m five albums in! Here goes:

“My Aim Is True”: A terrible sounding great album.  And it’s only now that I realize (unless I realized before and just forgot about it) that The Attractions had not been formed yet, so none of the greatness of that band is apparent here.  No matter.  As I’ve said, “Watching the Detectives,” with or without The Attractions line-up, is worth the price of admission. If I remember correctly, this was the third Costello album added to my collection.

“This Year’s Model”: This was my second Elvis record–and holy shit, what a revelation.  That first track, “No Action, ” tossed me into spasms of ecstasy.  I mean, OMG, the drummer Pete Thomas practically solos through the whole thing.  It’s full of kinetic energy; it’s explosive, bombastic, much punkier and more rocking than anything on the debut record, a clear transformation–and it worked a similar transformation on me, albeit, backwards.  This is the first album with The Attractions, perhaps the mightiest backup band for a solo artist ever assembled in the world of Michael Jarmer. They were absolutely smoking. Check out the “Ticket To Ride” drumset effect in “This Year’s Girl” and the punk-ass jazz fusion of “Lipstick Vogue.”  And then there’s “Radio, Radio,” indelibly etched into our minds as a kind of protest song in that first Elvis appearance on Saturday Night Live. Sophomore slump? Not even close.

“Armed Forces”: Again, my first Elvis record, and my what a record.  From the lead vocal solo pick up of “Oh I” to the downbeat “just don’t know where to begin” of “Accidents Will Happen,” to the raucous closure of “What’s So Funny About Peace Love and Understanding,” this record absolutely rocked my teenage geeky soul and it continues to rock the soul of this old man.  As a kid, I remember being so struck and taken by Elvis’s very particular vocal styling, a kind of nasally Bob Dylan meets Tom Petty, but only English and super smart and way more inventive and musical.  And this, along with my parallel discovery of The Boomtown Rats, really brought to my ears and brain for the first time the idea that rock music could really be about something big–even though I didn’t quite understand any of it. It had a weightiness to it, a gravitas.  Sonically, I love the way the drums sound on this record and the roller-skate organ continues to kill throughout.  This music makes me happy.

“Get Happy”: Here’s a radical idea–let’s put 20 songs on a single 12″ record, 10 songs a side! I think it’s important to mention that even though all these records are now in my cd collection, I bought all these albums when I was a kid on vinyl, the compact disc still six or seven years down the road. By necessity, because of the limitation of the LP format, all the songs on this brilliant record must be super short.  There may be only one or two tunes on this entire album that clock in over three minutes. So the record flies by. And there is gem after gem here, too.  Most notably, “Five Gears in Reverse,” “Opportunity,” and “I Can’t Stand Up for Falling Down.” Great songs.  Soulful and short.  But this record didn’t captivate me quite as much as the previous three, but it was still beloved. This record, though, perhaps more than the previous three, improves with age–possibly, it seems less stuck in time, less tied to an era than its predecessors.

And last, but not least, “Trust.” I might go out on a limb to say that this might be my most favorite Elvis album ever. I’m not going to die by those words, but I know that if I could only take one Costello record with me to the desert island, this would certainly be one of the contenders. I remember vividly that I was listening to this record late one night when my girlfriend knocked on my bedroom window. There’s nothing really sordid to report.  She just stood out there and we whispered back and forth for awhile before she snuck off back to her home down the street.  That must have made me one happy camper, and as she walked off, I may have boogied by myself in the bedroom to “Clubland,” “Strict Time,” “Luxembourg,” “Watch Your Step,” and the groovy collaboration with Glen Tilbrook from The Squeeze, “From a Whisper to a Scream.” There was something about the lyric and musical variety of this record and it’s lush production that set it over the top for me–not to mention that I was in love.  That love and the pursuant heartbreak wouldn’t last more than a year–but this record, this record was built for the long haul. I’ll leave you with one of my favorites. This drum part. The space. The lyrics. That bass line. That cool vocal delivery.  Elvis at his early career best, I think.  Cheers. Finally I get get back to the conclusion of the letter C.

 

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Well, That Was Mostly fun., Wasn’t It?

First of all, what a strange name for a band. Dorky, really; nevertheless, these fun. kids have become my favorite contemporary pop thing of the last couple of years. And I’ve been sort of astounded, surprised, and heartened by their recent and rip-roaringly fast rise to megastardom. So, I got my tickets months ago and my wife and I went to the Arlene Schnitzer concert hall last night to see the fun. boys play. And it was mostly fun. It was also kind of enlightening–in some good ways, but not always; in fact, it was also enlightening in some really heinous ways.

Let me get the negative stuff out of the way first.  Opening band.  I’m not much for slagging musicians, even famous or relatively famous ones, so, for now, this opening band will go nameless.  Any resourceful person could identify them in pretty short order, or, if you were there, you know who I’m talking about.  Two rappers (well, one rapper and another guy who grunted) and a drummer.  That’s it.  The drummer was clearly accomplished–I could tell by watching him flail around–but could I hear him? No.  He was slamming his drums behind prerecorded drum loops or triggers that were a thousand times louder than his acoustic drums, and nowhere near as interesting.  First strike.  Everything else in the way of “music” was prerecorded, canned.  Second strike.  Canned music is for dummies.  You’d think, with such a straight-forward mix, that at least the sound would be good.  Wrong again.  Messy, garbled, impossible to discern most of the harmonic information.  Third strike.

This is my bias, and I’m totally up front about it.  Hip-hop, rap, has never been my cup of mud.  I have never learned to appreciate 97.8 percent of it.  And this rapper guy seemed to personify all the elements about this particular genre that bug me.  I don’t like being yelled at.  He yelled at me.  Non-stop.  I couldn’t understand what he was yelling about.  And he kept calling me a motherfucker. Why does he need to do that?  And he kept ordering the audience around.  And this is most disturbing:  the only way he was able to get people in the audience to do a particular thing was by yelling at them to do that thing.  “Stand up, motherfuckers.”  “Portland, make some noise, motherfuckers.”  “Put your hands together, motherfuckers.”  And what I find most disturbing about this is that the audience, for the most part, would follow his instructions.  They’d stand up.  They’d make a noise.  They’d put their hands together.  They acted, too, as if they were enjoying themselves.  Go figure.  This band fun., they play sophisticated, melodic, hook-laden, original pop music.  During the whole opening set I was sulking in my seat.  I was angry, yeah, angry to be subjected to this terrible thing, angry at fun. or their production company or the promoter for hiring these yahoos, and angry at the audience for enjoying themselves.  People, don’t you distinguish?  Do you have no skills of discernment?  And then I was angry at myself for being so angry, and uptight, and hifalutin, and old.

It seemed to me, looking around, that the majority of my fellow audience members were young enough to be the fruit of my loins. They were high schoolers and middle schoolers.  Every once in a while I spotted a twenty-something and now and then I’d spy a person of my age group who was probably chaperoning for his or her kids, or, like me, just slightly out of place, there for strictly aesthetic reasons. Nevertheless, the audience was very young, the youngest audience I’ve seen a concert with in a long, long time. So the cynical part of me explained that, no, this audience was too young, they cannot distinguish or discern;  they don’t know the difference between greatness and mediocrity and would lap up ANYTHING that was put in front of them and labeled COOL by some marketing force about which they are oblivious and don’t understand a thing.  They are happy as clams to put up with and to even believe they were enjoying this opening act. I was so happy it was over.  The gin and tonic helped me get through the last two numbers.

Let’s get to the fun part about the fun. show.  Doesn’t that period bug you?  Aren’t you always kind of fooled into thinking that the sentence is over when it’s really not?  I apologize.  I’m trying to be true to the music, hence, the period and the lower case f.

fun. provided about the most extreme contrast imaginable to the preceding.  The three core members of the band, the guitarist, the singer, the keyboardist, as young (I think) as they are, are consummate players and performers.  The sound was full and the mix was comfortable–the only time I felt a desire for earplugs was during the teenage screaming in between tunes and before the encore. Okay, here are some items I found enlightening about the fun. part of the mostly fun show.

Item one:  I was surprised and filled with a kind of unaccountable joy to hear an entire audience singing along with each tune, word for word, every single line.  I found myself leaving the cynical me behind and just being impressed at the level at which young fans of this band are really attending to the music–which, as I’ve said before, I find rather sophisticated, lyrically, melodically, rhythmically.  There is, however, in most of their tunes an anthemic quality–the choruses especially beg to be chanted by throngs of enthusiastic humans.  But the verses?  And the bridges? And all of that syllabic information in the words?  Those tempo changes? Those quiet vocal breakdowns?  Yeah, they knew every nuance.

Item two: Again, in stark contrast to entertainers who call their audience members motherfuckers, the fun. guys were kind, sincerely appreciative, funny, relaxed, like normal guys who were genuinely thankful for the warmth and the generosity of their audience. They were, excuse me, having fun.  They were not posing or posturing.  And this also gave me hope for the future of pop music.

One last item:  Related to the last thing, I think, having to do with the kind of human being that makes the art (I don’t really know ANYTHING about what kind of people these guys are, really, so I’m making a huge leap here), the music that fun. makes is infectiously, overwhelmingly, undeniably positive.  Even though, lyrically, the songs often deal with characters in some kind of pain or confusion, there rings through most of them an incredible optimism.  I think this is good for the world and for music and for young people and for me.

So after the pain and misery of that opening act, the evening was redeemed by and through fun.

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