We can (and should) talk about late-stage capitalism and the sickening disparities it has accelerated; we can (and should) talk about the poisonous effects of bigotry and anti-immigrant rhetoric (always political, always cynical, and a sadly recurring theme in American cultural history); we can (and should) talk about good old fashioned misogyny and the ripple effects we see there, destabilizing everything from health care to education, domestic peace and beyond…there is, in short, no shortage of explanations for how we got here and what we need to do more (and less) of to get back on a more stable & sane path.
But the thing that always occurs to me, when I look at men (always men) like Trump, Musk, Bezos, et al., and the connecting tissue of their myriad antisocial psychoses, it’s this seeming incapacity for joy, for humor, for the proverbial things that money can’t buy. And I wonder: what must it feel like to have literal millions to burn and not only deciding that you can’t/won’t do anything (anything!) to improve the human condition, but you have to triple down and hurt as many people as possible, but to not know what it’s like to read a great book or see a great movie or listen to the oceans of amazing albums and recognize that this is why we’re here, this is what makes us special: the curiosity and empathy and passion to explore our obsession with story & creativity, and the truly beautiful things this provides.
Writing earlier this year about Led Zeppelin’s Physical Graffiti on its 50th anniversary, I offered up this meditation, but it could apply to much of the art that has encouraged and inspired and saved me. And I can say, with absolute sincerity & certainty, I wouldn’t the humble bliss of savoring these things for all the money I’d never be able to count. Peace.
I feel grateful for the capacity to not only adore and savor the glory of musical expression, I consider my life blessed in all the cliched (but unassailable) ways, where no treasure or conquest, no acquisition that flatters or empowers, no material gain or personal triumph could begin to approximate the deep joy and enduring satisfaction this music delivers. It hits the unbridled pleasure zones, but also consistently satisfies the human (and, I’d suggest, humane) impulse to connect, to feel we’re part of something much more substantial than ourselves, linked and associated—by virtue of being cognizant and capable—with other beings who suffer, question, despair, exult, resist, unite, and do whatever is at their disposal to bear witness to this messy, awkward, sometimes extraordinary journey we’ve all been invited to take, through the luck of being alive, aware and being, for some fleeting moments that seem like forever, in the light.
