Coming face to face with the music

by Patrick Keller

I haven't been listening to very much Floyd these days. I know. Bad Floyd fan, bad! It seems to go in cycles though, and I like to go with the flow of whatever it is that I'd like to listen to at the moment. Unfortunately, the Floyd repertoire just doesn't seem to fit the bill right now.

I suppose that, yes, the relative inactivity of band members, past and present, seems to be at play here. The disappointment at the sound quality of some of the tracks on the live Wall album didn't help. Sound quality on fan recordings may suck, but at least most of them don't have an utterly annoying buzz that runs through an entire track. If it does, at least you have other recordings of similar shows to fall back on. I'm starting to understand why the David Gilmour-fronted Floyd can be such perfectionists about their official releases of their live material. But I digress.

This isn't to say that I don't still have my mainstays at hand for moments when I can't figure out what to listen to: Wish You Were Here, The Division Bell. Albums that I know so well that sometimes they are simply the equivalent of comfort food. Something familiar and reassuring. The common thread in these albums seems to be a slightly more upbeat, though still introspective, tenor. Yes, you could argue that neither album is technically "upbeat," but I find these albums to have a glimmer of hope to them that much of the Floyd catalogue can sometimes lack.

You see, whereas I used to naively regard my mood and feelings as independent of outside influences, I'm starting to recognize the give-and-take that exists in my surroundings and the genuine effect that circumstances, behaviors, and yes, choice of music can have on my mood.

Sometimes we (allow me to be general here) listen to "down" music as a way to share feelings we're having at that moment, to lessen the burden. Other times, that music can simply be a reminder of where we've been as people (or where we could be but for the grace of God). I've used the Floyd in both ways. The Wall is a perfect example. During periods of particular disappointment or isolation, the music held up a particularly accurate mirror of what I was going through.

Unfortunately, the cumulative effect that this sort of "sharing" can have over time is that associations tend to build up around a piece of music, making it painful to listen to when circumstances are different. The Wall was there for me quite a bit when I had difficult times in my life, but now that things have improved, it gets hard to experience the music without re-experiencing the emotions that had built up around it.

This can happen with just about anything really. I have a friend who ate an entire bag of coconut shavings once as a child, got violently ill, and won't touch the stuff to this day. You can have a friend who is a great comfort in times of sorrow because they may be going through something similar, but if that friend doesn't move on with you or dwells unnecessarily, the friendship stagnates and dies. You can still love the friend without necessarily wanting to be around them.

So I'm trying to experience some new things, and hope that I can go back to the old with a fresh perspective. In particular, I've been listening to a lot of the music of Pete Townshend, both solo and with The Who. And through one of the great joys of the Internet, I've been able to access some of Pete's words and history to bring me to a greater understanding of the music and the man who produced it. Townshend is remarkable for an artist of his stature in his belief in the role and necessity of communication between an artist and the audience. Yes, Roger Waters wrote a brilliant rock opera about the difficulty of such communication, and he made some tentative forays into direct communication with his audience through his web site, but ol' Petey has jumped in with both feet.

On his web site, Townshend posts regular written and video diaries from the latest Who tour of sometimes striking personal revelation and insight. He not only discusses the events of the day, but delves deeply into the implications and effects of those events, with remarkable candor. He accepts and even invites personal and public scrutiny, not because they're inevitable, but because it allows him to gain a deeper understanding. By no stretch of the imagination can I pretend to be an artist of his depth or genius, but by opening his journey up for others, Townshend lets anyone who is willing to reflect upon their own personal journeys through his words. Which, when you think about it, is exactly what the best music should be capable of.

Townshend has opened up an entirely new level of exploration to his fans (and his detractors) with these materials. It doesn't hurt that Pete's music runs the gamut from the bleak (The Who By Numbers was once described as a "suicide note set to music") to the sublime (then again, By the Numbers also contains the gleeful "Squeeze Box"). Unlike The Wall's often unrelenting gloom, something like Townshend's masterwork Lifehouse can move effortlessly from quiet introspection ("Behind Blue Eyes") to almost goofy humor ("Put the Money Down"). Not that there isn't something to be said for consistency of mood, but that variety offers more chances for accessibility.

Without dwelling on it too much, I had, without a doubt, the single worst summer of my life this year. Before I get into any details, I should say that I came out on the other side better than I was before, but the effort it took left me in the worst condition imaginable for a time. I had so many tragedies and near tragedies packed into one span of time that it was hard for me to see when or, more disturbingly, how they would end.

The absolute worst of it was the morning that, while quite ill myself, I overheard the news that my father might have cancer. The implications were double because, not only could my father be ill, but I might have inherited the inclination towards that illness myself. My father, in his typical manner, was pressing forward, not acknowledging (at least outwardly) how much it was affecting him. I was dressing for work, mirroring the same behavior -- ignoring my own illness with as unconcerned a face as I could muster--when I just buckled. "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" had come on the stereo, and something in the music put me face to face with exactly what I was trying to avoid. Crumpled on the floor, I just sat there and cried.

I will always be grateful for that. But during the time when I am trying to get better, it only seems logical to avoid music that doesn't have those associations. Somehow, you need to move on. It would be nice to build up a new set of healthier experiences around coconut or that friend or Pink Floyd, but it takes effort and time.

Especially time.

Patrick Keller is a writer and columnist. More of his work can be seen on his website, Gernworld.com, or in the columns Fightin' Words for Psycomic.com and Stuff for Savantmag.com.

<< back to the table of contents