| September'99 | . |
This Journal |
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If I'd been born in The South, that deep well of American dreaming and dread, I'd be on my way to some profound misery by now. I'd be howling a wild song into the darkness cuz all my brightness had gone out. I'd be strumbling minor chords at three a.m., wondering where love had gone - and knowing it was all my fault. I'd know all about Red Sammy's Famous Barbecue, old trains, bad fishing, and creepy religion. I'd have a pal named Carlisle who's trying to read all of The Modern Library and rents a crummy house across the tracks from old Bubba Petrosky, who claims he used to drink with Hank. And I'd have that voice full of smokey red dirt, whiskey and hard days. If I'd been born in The South you'd be singing along by now, reading my raucous poems, wishing you could find and afford my funky mad primitive visions in house paint and bottlecaps. If I'd been born ... But I wasn't. So today I hit the bank to replenish the checking account; then headed off to Target for brown wrapping paper, index cards, shaving cream, razor blades and aspirin; and then to Best Buy where I picked up some early Dock Boggs and late Townes Van Zandt who finished just now. Do you like your voice? I'm not sure I like my voice. It doesn't have much going for it. Dock Boggs' way high Appalachian twang and Van Zandt's deep beat Texan have something perfect. (And that's pretty funny because once upon a time I remember tuning in by accident to a country station, hearing some high nasal wail, and hating it - deep down hate. Where did that come from? I was a little snob; I knew enough about hillbillies to spot their difference and to buy - and hate - the stereotype. Took me quite a bit longer to spot my own ignorance - and figure out what I'd beeen missing. That same hateful music has become my teacher.) You can't fault people for wanting a safe, clean place to live and raise a family. No blame there. But for human art there's something undeniably useful in the dirt and shadowmess of a tough agrarian - or even urban - culture. Am I still griping about the Industrial Revolution? Yeah, to a degree. Sure, I like all this electricity, and I'm used to all this speed; but the richest songs and stories will always come from an older place. Our past two or three hundred years of steam, steel, plastic, and zip-zap magic are nothing next to thousands of years out in the fields and forests. Personal memory is good... but damn shallow next to tribal-memory or species-memory. We've changed too quickly; our souls can't keep up. That's why these old songs (and the new ones with roots) will always feel like home....sooner or later. |
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J. G. Ballard |
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