Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out.
Now that’s a song, a blues. The real item. Not to be confused with the cookie-cutter, paint-by numbers, copycat slop that most people think of when they think theyre thinking about the blues. These days, it seems, anything goes. Anyone can sing the blues. And they do. Its not unlike whats happening all over the place, to all types of music: there are no prerequisites or apprenticeships; there is no perspicacity, and no shame. Like so much of what passes for music today, it lacks that dirty authenticity, and conviction. There is, in short, no soul. It’s clean, polished and feeble. In a word, it’s fashionable. The point being, you arent going to find many folks who really know the blues. Of course, you dont sing the blues to talk about someone else; you speak up because you feel obliged to account for yourself. Whats it all about, then?
The Blues Ain’t Nuthin But A Botheration On Your Mind.
Yeah, what he said. Listen:
I’ve been down the road and I’ve come back
Lonesome whistle on the railroad track
Ain’t got nothing on those feelings that I had.
Doesn’t that make me sad? (You don’t say). No. In fact, exactly the opposite; it helps. Life might leave a mark, but music is always medicinal. Make me sad? No; happy movies make me sad. Manufactured moments sold on shelves are too easy to see through. Sparkly-toothed simpletons who tell us how to live leave me cold. Too-cool commercials give me cancer. And, of course, the ingenious march of a million soulless pixels remind everyone of everything theyll never obtain. Reality is never enough, so sometimes anything approximating art will suffice. I would, for instance, love to instigate some excitement into my own humble narrative. Unfortunately, a fight scene is not feasible; a car chase is too much to ask for, and a love interest would appear to be out of the question. And so: its just the music and me, as usual. As always, this isnt all that I need, but its more than I should expect, especially at night.
