The purpose of the entertainment (((industry))) is to corrupt everything it touches, starting with the talent that it recruits. In exchange for our balladeers’ souls it gives them the world. The Highwaymen, four talented men who made their careers in the diabolical industry. Kris Kristofferson likened Jesus Christ, approvingly, to
Barabbas Che Guevara. Johnny Cash spent much of his long life extricating himself from the wreckage of his youthful hedonism. Willie Nelson pushed marijuana. Waylon Jennings never forgave himself for telling his friends “I hope your ol’ plane crashes.”
“Freedom’s just another word for…” That was then. There is always something left to lose. What follows is now.
… I walked five miles to meet a friend at a pub. This was at the height of last summer. Things were heavy after Charlottesville and there was an eclipse coming. At first, the heavy clouds to my south looked like they will pass me, but they were getting closer and blacker, taking on the greenish tinge one sees before a tornado. I walked in just as the downpour hit.
My friend arrived by car at the same time, as planned. We sat at a table by the window, with the thunderous pounding of the rain drowning out the conversation. He was in as somber a mood as I was that day. Our waitress stopped for a bit of small talk and shuddered, looking through the window. If anyone had asked me what’s on my mind, I’d have thought about if briefly and said: ___
The walk took place in the summer of 2017. That thought was completed for me in the comments:
so it will be before the walls of Gondor, the Great Battle of our Time
Songs about the rain with no mention of the two greatest, November Rain and Purple Rain:
Adele, Set Fire to the Rain. One of the few fine recordings from the past 15 years.
how does [art] become? I think there are three elements. One: the artist’s sub-rational openness to the transcendent; you can also call that authenticity, or sincerity. Two: artist the man as a medium; his purity or corruption, his originality in filtering the intangible on it way to material expression. Three: his technical skill [in delivering] the artifact faithfully to intent.
The artist is also susceptible to being manipulated by his handlers.
The Alarm, Rain in the Summertime. Northeastern Europe… childhood memory of birds singing after the summer storm passes.
Edie Brickell, A Hard Rain’s Gonna Fall. Vocally, she’s to the song’s writer Bob Dylan as a mammal is to a scorpion. I haven’t listened to this in decades until just now and it was nice to hear it again.
Late 1980s, “Tommy” and I worked in a restaurant after school. Brickell’s What I Am was playing and the manager, a charismatic woman, said something flippant about that song. Tommy chuckled and said “Yeah, she thinks she’s God’s gift to alternative music.” I made friends with him earlier in high school. He had just moved in from another state and got sat next to me in math class. His intelligence as measured by the SAT was stratospheric. Soon enough he showed me his notebook of original poetry. There was an ode to the moon. Good times hanging out in his mom’s house, philosophizing to Pink Floyd (no drugs).
He dropped off the radar not long after high school. A mutual friend gets in contact with him thirty years later and learns that he had recently gone through a sex-change operation. If you knew Tommy, you’d not be caught off-guard by that. His once deep, resonant voice now sounds like a woman’s. He went to an extreme of self-injury seeking peace.
Willie Nelson, Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain. Shania Twain performs the vocals here, with the Old Master himself backing her on his own song. The highlight is Willie Nelson’s guitar solo halfway through the song. Talent is rare and you know it when you see it.