Celebrate we will
For life is short but sweet for certain…
It’s not that I know him personally, but I like to refer to
Dave Matthews as just “Dave”.
There are a few things that I like about music CDs, and
there are a lot of things I can dislike about them. In another life he might have been the guy down the street I grew
up with and became best friends. We’d
shoot the shit about all the things that little kids do, like how it would take
at least a hundred GI Joes to take on Optimus Prime, unless you had Sergent
Slaughter. I remember a scene where he
took on like fifty corba generic soldiers at once with his bare hands and all
you got for it was that he was down to his wife beater, sweating, and holding
the last sorry bastard by the collar for a moment before pitching him off the
pile of groaning human bodies. And no
one ever messes up his shades.
Dave would respect an ass kicking childhood memory like that.
I haven’t listened to his music in a while, and coming back
to has all the nostalgia and loose-tie kitchen singing that you might have with
a reunion. An entire CD of Dave’s is
like a well rounded philosophy of life.
The initial attraction to it is the instrumentation, the tempo, the
mood… He doesn’t really tell you what to do, but he tells you what he sees—he
points out the things through word and vibe that need pointing out. He’s got this thing, where he’s in part
confidence and the partybringer, and in part, the Devil in disguise, with this
anarchist in him, something so sinister and Machiavellian, and at times, he’s
just another man down on his luck with the weight of the sins dragging by a
chain. But these are the paths he took,
it all adds up. I think perhaps listening
to Dave is a whole CD event, it’s not an understanding that can be gained by
listening to any one song independently of the others. They are, as all things, just parts of a
whole, and the more pieces you get the greater an understanding, the closer
your approximation of your thoughts come to the real being.
It used to be that I’d listen to him and see someone who
understood me. Back in high
school that was. Every CD of his had a
roundedness to it, a contrast of light and dark—a jiving upbeat tune coupled
with more forboding lyrics for interpretation, or just the opposite. Never on the beat, yet, reliable. Never feeling repetitive or whiny, or too
loose and preachy. No, it was all just
right like that middle bowl of porridge, that middle sized bed after a weary
day of activities.
But now that I listen to Dave it’s funny because it’s the
same CDs that I got back in high school, and that was all an era well over 7
years ago now… and now I find different things to find in the music. He feels older now. It feels like he’s a step ahead of me. We’re similar—and yet, there’s no doubt
about it—he’s more experienced than I am.
He knows something that I don’t.
Because there are things in my life that I could dramatize
as sorrows— and I have questions as to how to resolve them. I listen to Dave, and he’s got the same
things going—but somehow, I’m under the impression that he’s figured out how to
come to terms with a lot of the things that bother me. Thematically that is.
I listen to you, Dave, and I don’t just see some jackass who
thinks he knows it all. I don’t see
some guy who wants to be different, or some guy who wants to enforce
tradition. I don’t hear none of that…
instead, I hear someone who has lived a good full life, and who still has got
years left in him to enjoy.
How’d you do it Dave?
It’s a stupid thing really but I just came to terms
yesterday that the fact that my girlfriend really, really loves me, and that I
love her as well. I’m a bit embarrassed
to use that word because it feels cheap, but well, I can’t describe it any
other way. The word ‘love’ is stupid
thing because it’s so over abused, it’s been used in spam and like anything in
spam it’s nature is questionable at best, repetitive at least. I wouldn’t normally point things like this
out, because I’m not one to talk much about the inner workings of my private
life, but I thought it deserved mentioning for her sake that she cares about
what happens to me. And something like
that, something genuine, well, doesn’t it deserve mentioning?
I’m not an easy man to get along with, you know, trying to
solve the world’s problems by suggesting we all just abandon our cars and tell
people ‘shape up or die’, and Lord knows I’m a terrible, neglectful
boyfriend—so when the situation has arrived that someone cares, well, fuck,
I’ve got to mention it, I’ve got to write this down so that when I look back on
these words five years down the world’s length, I’ll remember that I had this
now, I’ll remember what a blessing it was to have met her in the first
place. It was also a pretty lucky
streak to get out of bed day after day to lead up to this where I could so
stupidly just realize now that someone cared about me other than myself.
I mean, I always knew, and yet, I didn’t admit it to
I’m sitting in a dark kitchen now, my eyes only reacting to
the glow of black phosphors crawling across the screen of my laptop. Darkness has never been a good metaphor for
me—I feel more at home when there’s less light, when things are quiet and I can
think clearly, when I can rest and slow down the workings of my minds. I should
have cenetered it so that it would sound better, but, to my left, is Dave,
playing on the cd player, reminding me that Dave’s music was one of the first
things that she and I shared.
She’s at work right now, but I’m thinking of her. And not even a dark kitchen is a bad thing,
actually, it gives me a secure feeling, knowing that in thoughts I am linked
and never truly alone.