In a dark, vile, sick world, where does solace lie?
Does it sew itself in the fabric of transcendental becoming, the depths of hedonistic indulgence, or in the dulled millings of an everyday existence befitting the template of Corporate Consumerism?
Answers to this depend on how the question is read; yes, the lens dictates the reaction. At the same time, a Pandora’s Box flings open: allusions, illusions, and testaments spring forth, wrapped in words desperate to find commonality with the inherent sufferings of existence.
Oh, shut up, Nick Pansegrouw! What are you talking about? Yes, waffle is cheap, but it’s more authentic than the continent-sized cache of physical, emotional, and spiritual BS the world dishes up each day. And yet people continue to buy, swallow, and idolize the pop stars, the dramas, the fake news…
So where’s the diamond of solace, then?
Ladies and gentlemen… your life. Your infinitesimally small portion of afforded existence will undoubtedly be peppered with joys, despairs, unwordables, and so forth. You’ll quantify it, qualify it, try to define it, and fail… again and again. It’s fun doing this – trying to accord yourself a mantle of validity – but come the Day of Un-Reckoning, you’ll still be ground to the same unforgiving dust all bipedals experience on their way to the grave.
Man, what’s with the depressing tone!?! Well, what’s with the depressing state of existence? History is written with unjust blood that cannot conceivably be eradicated without a single-foul-swoop paradigm shift (or a VERY big bomb!). With that (hopefully) not on the horizon, we must continue eking out breaths from beneath a global culture predicated on producing, buying, and consuming ‘stuff’ that nullifies any reasonable attempt to garner true ‘meaning’ from our earthbound lives. Instead, we’re dished up fake ‘celebrity’ brain-farts, ads for machines we deem more valuable than our friends and families, and we willingly pay to pollute our bodies with foods, drinks, and other poisons that cause premature death.
Again: Solace, Solace, where art thou, Solace?
Eighties music. Yes, eighties music. Despite it being forged in the throes of yuppie cocainedom and littered with enough product placement to bother mentioning, it offers a shining light that accurately – dare I say honestly – mirrors the absurdity of existence. To rock out to the unveiling tragedy of Consumerism while doused in hairspray, pyrotechnics, and lyrics about lost love that’d make a mole dream in color is indicative of the human spirit, symbolic of the systemic denial that’s led us to inflict widespread social, environmental, and psychic destruction. Yes, plugged into an eighties music diorama will anesthetize you from modern-life ills, this an effective antidote against injustice, racism, genocide, and, most importantly, thinking.
I mean, if ever the annals of Homo sapiens were to be saved for future incarnations, could you in good faith object to it taking on the eponymous title Journey (read while listening to the planet-shuddering Separate Ways)? Its content could chart broad swathes of history, whether it be the crucible of identity via Milli Vanilli (insert any song), the emboldening of corporate culture via The Bangles’ Manic Monday, or even offer noted aesthetic appreciation via the elegantly worded ZZ Top opus, Legs.
Yes, the Philosopher’s Stone that is eighties music will undoubtedly bring joy in the darkest hours, again and again. And know – with unwavering confidence – that as soon as your Motley Crue-laced playlist gets rolling, you’ll be Beyond Giving a Proverbial Donk.