Confessions of a Fanboy

The first guest appearance by any writer on Confessions of a Fanboy happened when Dawn Olsen and I collaborated on a Thanksgiving list of songs we’re thankful for. Dawn described COAF so well when she cross-posted her list. She described this as a site not just about music but as a site about music and life and where those things intersect. That description has stuck with me in the months since and I’ve been reminded of it by a book I’m reading.

Mark Saleski, another co-conspirator here at Fanboy, recommended I read Natalie Goldberg’s Old Friend from Far Away. Old Friend is something of a writers’ toolkit designed to help people who are trying to write their memoirs. That’s not exactly my goal but as Dawn mentioned, I’m writing about life and music and more specifically my life and “my” music. I’ve found it helpful and inspiring and my hope is that help and inspiration will become more evident around here.

One of the ways Goldberg seeks to help writers is by challenging them to remember. She instructs readers of the book to write about their memories. The way she does that is by instructing us to write about everyday things, allowing hidden flourishes of detail to bubble to the surface from the subconscious to the conscious. Mark is going to be forever tied to this book because it was his suggestion. I’ll remember buying this book at Barnes and Noble on a Sunday on my way to a family gathering at my sister Ronda’s place. I’ll remember stopping in the Starbucks cafe inside Barnes and Noble and picking up a white chocolate mocha; a drink my brother suggested to me. I’ll remember the scruffy-haired clerk behind the Starbucks counter asking me if I wanted an extra shot and answering “yes” even though I didn’t know what he was putting an extra shot of in my mocha (espresso, I later learned). Those memories have attached themselves to this book and they’ll always live somewhere inside my head.

I bought another Richard Hawley CD this week and I’m listening to it right now. I’m going to think of Duke every time I listen to Hawley because that is who introduced me to his work. I’ll remember staying up into the late hours of Valentine’s Day, flinging songs with him and discussing them in the chatroom after that Thursday’s BSCA. I’ll remember feeling so gratified by his reaction and response to the Mark Lanegan songs I was sending him. I’ll remember my astonishment at each Hawley song he sent me and how excited I was to order Lady’s Bridge. I’ll also remember firing off a quick e-mail to him to let him know I ordered Coles Corner, which I’m listening to now.

I’ve been described as a bastion of cynicism, and it’s true. It doesn’t take much for me to feel jaded and bored, yet somehow I’ve never lost the feeling of awe when a great song or a great piece of music crosses my path. There are days when I’m so trapped inside my own head and the tedium of life and even if I never specifically give voice to it, a part of me wonders if I’ll ever experience the joy of excitement; and then it happens. I’ll meet a new musical friend or get reacquainted with an old one and that passionate explosion of wonder and emotion will take control of me, compelling me to move and cajoling me to evangelize someone — anyone — about the feeling and who or what awakened it inside me.

The best pieces I’ve written for this site have usually come when I’ve related the stories and memories permanently engraved in my memory about the songs, albums, and artists I’ve listened to over the years of my life and not when I write about music as notes on a page or sounds captured on a plastic disc. Music, for me, has always had a physical presence in my life. It’s been a constant companion; a companion with multiple personalities, which is good because I jokingly refer to myself that way, too. Music is more than an art to me. It’s my sidekick. It’s my #2. I’ve driven cross-country with nothing more than a fistful of CDs to keep me alert and alive. I’ve sat alone in darkness with only the light of the digital display of my CD player to keep me company. I could talk to music when there was no one else who would listen. I could listen to music when I felt the visceral pains of loneliness and it is at times like that you need unconditional love and acceptance from someone or somewhere. As low as I felt, I wouldn’t have traded the arms of another if it meant forever giving up music. I’d take the life with long, deep valleys and occasional peaks. Music is that important.

So thank you, Mr. Saleski. Thank you, Dawn. Thank you, Duke. Thanks to Hawley, Lanegan, Goldberg, and Starbucks. I’ve been wandering through one of those desert valleys for the early months of 2008, but I think I feel the familiar burning in my legs that only happens when you’re walking uphill and everything is finally coming into focus. The view is certainly better from up here.

Filed under: Music of the Moment