Is Twenty-Seven the Perfect Time to Start a Band?

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The popular conception is a hard thing to qualify. It is difficult to define a common view because there are so many common views. Yet it can be done. At least insofar as setting the stage for social, psychological, historical, and philosophical analysis.

There do seem to be pervasive opinions that though rarely vocalized may as well be set in stone.

For instance, everyone always expects artists and musicians to be young. At least no older than thirty. This is strange.

It might be because most bands that society is currently familiar with made their mark in their twenties.

There may be some biological reasons for youths blessing of artistic endeavors.

Neurology and the endocrine system come to mind. Then there are the social and psychological variables.

First there is the naivete that’s fertile ground for creative exploration, then there is abundant energy to till that ground, and finally, there is a drive to define and prove oneself. Society also fosters and encourages young creators* whereas there is a greater onus on the mature to be ‘responsible’ and ‘settled in.’

All these factors seem to wane as people age into their thirties. So is it meant to be? Should everyone north of thirty settle into the proverbial accountant’s office and repair their gutters on the weekends?

No.

First, there are many examples of artists who didn’t ‘make it’ until ‘later’ in life. Andreas Bocelli and Leonard Cohen to name a couple.

Second, there are many examples of artists who continued creating masterpieces throughout their lives. Bach springs to mind. As do Johannes Brahms, Richard Wagner, and Stevie Wonder.

Third, if one decides to view life as having many stages, then each stage of life has its own music its own landscapes to offer.

To begin the analysis of creative stages of life let’s examine the art of the young.

The case can be made that the young are too histrionic to produce anything of lasting value. As evidence, one can cite the similarity of subject matter and delivery of bands in the last century.

First, there is the sex, drugs, and joyously cacophonous ROCK starting somewhere around the time of ‘The Doors’ and lasting well through the eighties hair-metal scene. Libidinous excess and boundary flaunting tests of one’s limits through psychedelics and alcohol aren’t the only tritely recurring sins of the young.

There is also the angst and neurotic introspection of Grunge, Alternative, and Progressive genres that cropped up in the late eighties and still hold sway into the era of whistling ironic ukulele hipsterdom. Are maudlin sentiment and bitter emotion really the best subjects to set to music? The young musicians of the last three decades seem to think so.

Given its subject matter and focus, the art of the young has unsurprisingly taken a morbid turn. The 27 Club is ‘a notional roll of remembrance’ that pays homage to the fact that many of the 20th centuries musical luminaries died young. Numbers can be mystic things and the fact that Jim Morrisson, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse all died at 27 lends an air of tragic magic to that arbitrary figure. Hence the ‘colloquialization’ of ‘27 Club.’

Death has a certain finality that often lends weight and perceived substance to the art of those who passed. ‘The good die young.’

The audience ‘knew’ these folks as an explosion, as a passionate flame that burned too bright and quick, and suddenly there is the mystery of eternal silence. What more would they have made would they have said? What secret pain, what uniquely anguished insight not accessible to average joe, did these brilliant people harbor? What was it that made people who wrote such tuneful and evocative things so self-destructive?

It would be wrong to characterize these artists as immature. It is a silly business indeed to hover over history like a daft-shrink-bog-wraith psychoanalyzing the minutiae of the lives of its actors. Yet there does seem to be an air of self-fulfilling prophecy to the art of the young.

The deification of such art, the raising of it to some sort of deep expression of the human condition, while at times valid, can also be foolish and dangerous. It is the former because foolish and dangerous things are indeed a part of the human condition. It is the latter because despite the melodic and lyrical finesse of such works they were tainted by hormones and substance abuse. A tainting that leads to a sort of ‘Opera Buffa‘ where those who gained much admiration and success, freshly minted aristocrats in a sense, weren’t sated by such things and chose to become a tragedy for a convoluted sense of authenticity or psychic chaos magnified by chemicals and overcharged emotions.

The creative stages seem to fit pretty neatly into the categories of the prodigy, the rockstar, the craftsman, and the master.

  • The Rockstar has already been discussed, the rockstar is the art of the young, it is somebody that might very well be talented or not so talented but they have something to say and by God, they will say it.
  • The preceding ‘Prodigy’ is a precocious child with uncanny technical skills and well-directed enthusiasm.
  • The Craftsman is a stage that comes after prodigy and rockstar and is a person dedicated to the disciplined acquisition of skills and diligent creative output who has a broader repertoire of life experience to draw from and can do so effectively and judiciously.
  • The Master is the craftsman after many years of practice. One can look to Bach responding to the challenge of Friderich the II, improvising a three and then six-part fugue on a theme presented by that monarch.

The space of this essay will only allow the exploration of two out of four of the stages of creative life. So in light of all the information considered which would be best to unpack?

Since the ‘rockstar’ has been addressed it seems fitting to move next in line to ‘the craftsman.’

As the world approaches the cusp of a new decade, is it not fitting to promote a new sort of ‘27 Club’? Why not popularly consider 27 to mark the beginning of careers rather than looking with perverse expectation towards the demise of heroically dysfunctional musicians?

Twenty-seven may, in fact, be the perfect time to start a band. One still has abundant energy which can be used in conjunction with greater mastery over one’s emotions to select which insights and life experiences to magnify through art. Further, it is a time when hormonal needs and spastic bursts of energy will be less of a barrier to serious practice. Your bandmates are more likely to show up on time.

Why disparage the rockstar and highlight the craftsman?

The prodigy, the rockstar, and the master need no encouragement. They will do what they do as a matter of compulsion. The craftsman is the most suspicious of compulsion. As a person moving further into adulthood and feeling the weight of experience, the craftsman becomes wary and guarded, sensing a profounder need to be ‘serious and secure.’
Sometimes this need to be ‘serious and secure,’ to be a steady sort, manifests itself as studied avoidance of creative endeavors. Partly because one is keenly determined to avoid wasting time which has greater weight than ever before. Partly because one wants to avoid seeming gauche.

The truth is that music and art are never a waste of time. They sharpen all the skills and faculties necessary to succeed in work and relationships. Communication and synthesis are two skills most readily and deeply refined through creative endeavor. Atop this boon, there is another in that the magnification of life through art makes you very appreciative of even the most mundane and prosaic aspects of living.

There is nothing gauche about loving life or succeeding in relationships and the workplace.

These stages are of course guides rather than rules. Some may find themselves at a place of overlapping stages. Whatever stage you’re at…what are you waiting for?

Go forth and create.

*There will soon be another essay on the unique challenges of creative youths in the present college and structure obsessed society that purports itself to be a bastion of free-thinking creativity.

Related Links and Reading

https://www.digitalmusicnews.com/2015/08/03/18-musicians-who-made-it-later-in-life/

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4OtouQnfnZU

Keeping the Flame

Summer Wine Demo


Since I haven’t had the time to write an essay or record new material today I:
Thought I’d share something I recorded when I actually had a mic. This is far more ‘minimalist’ then what I posted here: Mirror Pond Demo

I really like the recording quality I got with the little Focusrite kit that I bought. I also opted for using Ardour (an open source DAW) instead of ProTools. Just cause FREEDOM!

(Disclaimer: I’m not being paid by anybody. I just really love the ability to record fairly decent sounding takes without breaking the bank too much and hope sharing this will help others do the same. Go out and compare and contrast things, maybe you’ll find something better. But the most important thing is to just keep creating and having fun.)

Ray Manzarek gets fun:

I know it’s sort of cringy (to mention) but I find it great when people you admire and whose work you use as a benchmark have similar thought process and feelings to you.


Lyrics

 

Wasted days and

Golden rays of

Sunshine

When will I rise

and tow…

The drowning line

Long blonde hair

Wicker chair

and

Summer Wine

Such malaise

The milieu

It won’t be fine

Without a Name (Poem)

Image result for rosy sky above the ocean

 


 

You are my sweetest sunshine

You are my favored one

And clearly…O so clearly

We are far from done

Out where the sky is purple

Out where the sea is seen

I’ve locked within my fleshly chest

The record of a dream

My soul is calling fiercly

Crying loudly out for an embrace

…Of the fire that animates

The memory of a face

The tawdry passing of the years

Has worn away the monument

Yet nonetheless it still does stand

As testament

That the tears are not in vain

Despite this strain

Ah, how you loved a rosy sky

How its subtlety caught your eye

I gaze now at such a firmament

With bittersweet lament

With heaving sigh

And toilsome anguished cry

The lock is sprung the chest is rent

Engulf the crimson with a greater flame

With prosaics pierce through the Gordian knot of eternities sophistic trane

There entwine

All for the sake of those

Who loved

And died without a name

The Circus and the Wood

 As per the schedule I posted, I am supposed to have written something fictional today. I’ve taken on new responsiblities this week and wasn’t able to write anything fresh. I wrote this a year or so ago. I feel this story is quality enough and that most of my readers haven’t stumbled across it before. I hope you enjoy.
Jack London is a huge influence and I love forests.

The goal of this is atmosphere. I feel that atmosphere has its own value.


The bears danced.

I am the wolf and I watched.

The bears danced and ate honey.

I hunted hares and kept the pack in check.

Every fortnight I’d come by the circus tent.

To see the bears loafing about.

On one such occasion I finally spoke. “Hey, bear. Hey. Why are you there? Aren’t you bored? I miss stealing your kills”

The bear rolled one way than another. Then with a grunt of much effort roused himself up. It seems that riding a unicycle had wrecked his natural motion. Swaying to and fro he pressed his face against the bars.

“O it’s the thief. There’s no moose here. Go away.”

I laughed.

“So bear why don’t you answer my question. Why are you here?”

“Don’t you see these bars?”

“Sure. But bars can’t make you ride a unicycle.”

“Still unpleasant I see.”

“Not true. I am as pleasant as the frozen wood, as kind as a bright moon, and as lovely as a spring meadow. It is you brother bear that is unpleasant like iron bars, unappetizing as rotten fish, and as sickening as stale honey.”

“The winter kills, and your kind robs my cubs of meat, here I know that I will live.”

“You call this living? Complain as you may about me feeding my pack with your spoils but I see no cubs here. You have no legacy. There are no young bears for me to teach the art of watchfulness. The winter and I have made you strong and clever. Yet here you are abandoning a million moons of sorrow paid wisdom.”

“You call baying at the moon a wisdom and dying in scarceness strength?”

“I do not bay brother bear. I sing songs of raising myself from the inert earth to move triumphant over her surface. If the cool mist of morning brings no game and I return to inertness than others will run over me. Young pines will grow from my body and bless the earth with air. Yet here in this gaudy place you are inert before the earth has swallowed you. You have become an abomination. A living death.”

“I disagree strongly I’m afraid. Here is water, here is food, here is shelter.”

“This may be so but here also is slavery here also is castration. Listen, this spring has not born me many sons. I tire of hares and foxes. The numbers of my pack are not sufficient to bring down a delicious moose.”

“What business is it of mine, gray thief?”

“Your cousins can not sustain themselves either. The men on the floating pines have taken much of the salmon. I sat outside many dens. The she bears fear for the future. Your cousins offspring is scrawny and the chance of enough fill for hibernation scarce. Mighty moose is great in number. It is odd that mankind does not consider him to be toothsome meat. But herein lies the point brother bear. We can thrive again on the gallons of red nectar that run through moose. Let me break you from these bonds and return you to your kin.”

“You want to release me so that you can steal from me?” The bear chuckled.

“For a spell yes. When my pack grows strong we will take our own moose. This is the way it has always been.”

“No not always thief.” The bear continued chuckling. “But though you are a thief at the least you are an honest thief.”

“So you will come with me?”

“What would one old bear add? Are you not as you have described a mighty force of nature? Why not use your clever nose and your quick jaw to snag your own game?”

“Here there are three bears. You know that. You know also that even as you sit in iron confines so I too follow the iron laws of the wild. But the difference brother bear is that one iron sharpens while the other dulls. One brings strength and the other decay.”

“Your tongue is as silver as your coat, thief. And for my cousins sake I may leave this place. But I give no guarantee that I will not return here. Me and the others here are no longer accustomed to that life which you describe. And why should we trust ourselves again to wild winters and gray ghosts?”

“You know why brother bear. Deep in the caverns of your chest the beating of your heart is pulsing with our common earth. But words are cheap. Let me show you a wolfs cleverness.”

With these words I disappeared as silently as I had come.

Over the past month I’d been dividing my time between my own pack and the huskies in the town.

Some of these dogs were part wolf. So my appearance shocked none. After several members of these serfs had been dispatched in the wood just beyond their fence a fear spread among them. I doubted that in this isolation the men would bring new dogs soon. Without an alpha, and with few sufficient males, the advent of spring made sure that the bitches were in heat. I filled the niche of alpha here as well as in my own pack especially since I had the great good fortune of the men being especially inattentive. They even petted my head, fed me fish and called me “Stump” just as if I were the dog that I had killed.

Now the providence of mother earth knew no bounds. She wanted me, her priest, to bring balance. For my great good fortune went even further than what I’ve so far described.

There was a boy. Who was very soft with the bears. He was as gentle with us dogs as were the women folk. This boy who the men called “Charlie” had wide eyes and a weak chin like his mother.

He was nothing like his father the trainer of the bears who himself was more akin to bears than to mankind. However ill-fitting the son was to the task of managing these lumbering beasts it seemed that the father was set that he follow in his footsteps.

This as I have said was a great boon for me. For as the night after my conversation with brother bear wore on and Charlie came coo cooing softly to open the cage and dote on the bears I rushed him. None of the other dogs dared to intervene. I’d taught them not only fear but love.

He fell to the ground with a startled squeal.

“Wat ‘r ya doin, Stump! Git!”

I sat on my haunches wagging my tail.

“Brother bear, now is your chance.” I said as the beasts were lazily rising to see what the commotion was all about.

“Hrr..hmmm…” Said brother bear.

Charlie was getting agitated by the motion of the bears. Somewhere in the back of his mind a primal fear had been awoken. He was not in control of adorable friends. He was at the mercy of beasts and without a club.

I read all these things in his quivering voice when he tried in a vain attempt at authority, “Stump! Git! Get outta here!” He was walking towards me clapping his hands.

There was no sport in wounding him grievously. But I wanted to impart a gift of the wood. I ran up to him as if to play then leapt back.

He laughed.

I rushed again and delivered my gift to his calf which was as soft as the underbelly of a baby rabbit.

He howled such a plaintive and pitiable cry that I actually halted mid slide and cocked my head.

This unnatural sound was loathsome to all free beasts. It roused the bears. All three dashed from the cage as well as their decadence allowed them to dash.

Calmly I started to walk towards the door myself. Just before I made my exit I turned to look at poor Charlie as he sat on the dirt bleeding and whimpering.

“You…you’re…you’re not Stump at all.” He said as realization filled his eyes.

I took off at a light trot.

‘No, I am not Stump. I am not a stump at all.’

The Sketch of Sam Monroe

The Green Cathedral

The whole place had a bizarre sort of sentience.

We filed down a path lined with gnarled roots and dense vegetation. The smell of damp earth pervaded humid air. Fireflies lent mystic luminescence to the primeval scene. Every now and then bits of stone, arranged in vaguely intelligent patterns, would make us pause and ponder. Until a shove informed that we must troop on.

Sam’s tan baseball cap bobbed prosaically, just feet from my line of sight, intermittently obscuring my view of a darkness that was surprising for mid day. The canopy was thick, stretching some hundred feet above,vaulting cathedral like, assuring the sun dared not defile an eternal vesper.

The hush among us Americans was certainly church like, much to the amusement of our guides, who laughed and sang in a mix of Portuguese and Arawak.

I could tell that Chuck was much annoyed by the insouciance of the natives.

He was a true believer. With his shaggy hair, ginger beard, pale blue eyes, and antiquely rounded spectacles, he could pass for a head freshly plucked from Haight Ashbury. An effect which I found humorous, given that he was younger than me, and I could barely vouch for being birthed in the eighties.

We were shameless hipsters, everyone of us. Despite my studied avoidance of facial hair and engineered unkemptness, I must confess that my very dedication to being a square was itself filthy avante-garde hipsterism. I am ashamed.

Like all trendy fools trekking through a place we had no business in, we were after the Vine.

The whole expedition had been birthed after a smoke session. A ritual of psychedelic transcendence punctuated by an obsessive review of Mckenna recordings and dick jokes.

The Fibonacci Five

Sam had dramatically called for a pause. He then ran to our grungy kitchen (which served as his studio) to fetch his sketchpad. A pretty frequent occurrence.

“The inspired artist!” We cried in unison.

We were our own religion you see. The Fibonacci Five. A church built on pretension and a deep misunderstanding of mathematics.

We weren’t expecting much.

The last masterpiece had featured a surprised looking penguin floating past the horse head nebula, and sporting an erection.

Our da Vince had seemed legitimately surprised when we’d informed him, ‘Penguins don’t have dicks, Sam.’

This time though he really took a while. Our normal silence during his fifteen minute stretches of ruining a perfectly innocent bit of paper, was broken by heavy sighs and passive aggressive bong rips.

At the end of two hours we were so catatonic that Graham asked Lucas to pull Graham’s cigarettes from Graham’s pocket. Locomotion was apparently a chore too great. Stoned in the truest sense I suppose.

It was our rule that no one speak, or halt the process, of anyone under the influence of the ‘Divine Flame.’

Finally, after the course of three toxic hours, Sam rose anticlimactically to his feet from the dusty wood panel floor, and traversing the brief distance to the couch handed me his sketch.

My eyes widened. I held the thing for some minutes. I looked at Sam who was beaming, the deep browns of his eyes dancing with pride.

“Jesus, pass it along will you Alan.” Chuck demanded.

“Hold on a fucking minute you spectacular shit.” I exploded. “This is..this is…fucking good Sam..”

Chuck snatched the thing out of my hand almost tearing it. I had half a mind to sock him and nearly did.

I was not a head. Not for years. Panic attacks had made whiskey my substance of choice. Fortunately for Sam, my vice produced poor aim, and I broke my knuckle on a support beam of our rustic Bohemian lodgings. Though I wouldn’t know of the fracture for a few days.

Chuck was too enraptured to notice my attempt. He sat there staring at it next to Graham, who would have been annoyed had he not been asleep.

“Alright pass it on hog fuck,” Lucas said with calm vehemence in his characteristic mellow tenor.

“Dude, it’s like I’m there.”

“Right?” I said.

“Right…” we all assented.

“Well Sam what the hell is it? You made a photograph with your hands just there. Of something in the jungle. Something wild.”

“You guys know not to question: ‘The Flame‘… just abide. Just mellow.”

“Mellow your ass, fuck-wit, and cut the flame shit, it is s a tool not a thing. Expound the process!”

“HASTILY!” We bellowed stamping our feet.

Graham started awake at this sudden outburst. He started awake and began to scream in a bizarre falsetto.

We were momentarily taken aback. Then having regained our composure, started laughing, as Graham continued to scream.

I threw a fresh tumbler of Jim Beam in his face.

“Relax you nancy…Or at least you’d better, Jim’s expensive.”

“You guys, holy shit, holy shit, I saw a Jaguar.”

“The Jags in the garage Graham. Candy nose Graham. Cause you ran my dads car off the road Graham. You’d better be fucking screaming at seeing a Jag, Graham.” Lucas said wryly.

“What good’s a car untested? …and besides,” he said rising to his lanky six feet six inches.

A height made more comically prodigious by wildly curling locks of sandy hair.

“…and besides I saw a cat, a jungle cat. Black like midnight in the wildest place!”

We all froze. We all knew.

We all knew that Graham had not seen the picture.

”A jungle cat you say?” Sam queried in an unsettling tone with an equally unsettling smirk.

There was something not native to his character; the way he held himself just now.

Lucas wordlessly passed the sketch to Graham.

Who held it momentarily before he began convulsing.


More To Come