Don’t put your faith in musicians. Specifically, don’t put your faith in rock stars. Why? They’re living between the bookends. It’s the place between birth and death all who read these words inhabit. It’s the place we fuck up and it’s the place in which we discover and rediscover. The lyric writer’s prose is intended to simplify, not to clarify. We don’t find answers in songs—we find a commonality to make us feel normal. That’s a purity you find in childhood. There’s an undisturbed quality to just being a kid, before the responsibilities invade and you start answering the questions you’ve carried for so long.
The first time I walked down Columbus Ave. in San Francisco, I was just within the first bookend. I was closer to birth than death and my senses were adolescent. It was raining and I was in love. Writers, musicians, and ghosts approached me. They saw I carried a book of hastily arranged questions, some from early childhood, but most compiled as I got lost in criticism, sexual desire, and lying. Conversations were had, and loss of faith was happening in the midst of supreme happiness. There’s nothing more engaging than exploring a city, armed with nothing more than questions. The most profound and the most mundane questions take you down alleys and into coffee shops. You don’t find answers, but you find plenty of conversations.
I engaged with the city for hours, never asking to feel well or saved. I moved from door to door, window to window, glass to glass, reaffirming my commitment to not find answers. I was gliding through the long shelf of books that made up my story. I dropped my bags each time at the end of Columbus Ave., away from the proper end of Little Italy. The Travel Lodge was right up against Tower Records, which was both exciting and heartbreaking. With money for little more than cigarettes, coffee, and wine, it was a teasing reminder of my expanding interest in music. I made my way down the street, stopping in to see the familiar and wanting desperately to find the unfamiliar. There were no answers to the questions I carried. If nothing else, I walked away from the city with more questions about the place between the bookends.
You won’t find the answers in those song lyrics, so you certainly won’t find your answers on someone else’s bookshelf. If you’re lucky, you’ll walk away with more questions, and the 2nd bookend won’t seem so frightening. Maurice Sendak and Bill Watterson presented their questions in a format often considered for and featuring children: animation. When you’re a child, you’re not required to find answers, but, over time, you sense it’s a reality you’ll soon have to face.
When a teenager explores song lyrics or music culture, adults often fear they’re finding answers not approved within their parenting plan. Those same parents may falsely assume that answers need to be found quickly, both for their children and themselves. And, if those answers aren’t found, they’ll never grow up. The answers aren’t the death of childhood but, sometimes, they’re the death of discovery. If they’re forced, they can make us unhappy—we lose faith in ourselves and we lose faith in those we assumed had the answers. Never put your faith in rock stars.
Instead, believe in the honesty of the writer and find purpose in your own story. Patti Smith helped me understand why questions never need to be answered. Sometimes you just need to accept that life is messy, but you’ll find your way. If your compass is broken, a musician’s tools can only do so much, but it’s still beautiful to watch them work.
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