"We're just going to have to admit this might be as good as it gets,"- Billy Bragg
David Foster Wallace wrote about the absolute horror of success and accomplishment. The talented writer took his own after failing to move past the worst kind of crisis-the existential kind. Foster was brilliant. There is no doubt. But his brilliance sprang from his gift of being able to line words up that speak to anyone who has ever wondered why we hurt or who have struggled to see any semblance of logic that might compel them to get out of bed.
Bragg's lyric is less melancholic and realist. Today, the day where my credit card debt mounts, where the girl I fancy doesn't return my call, might just be as good as it gets.
Hurt, disillusionment and pain are universal and timeless. But in a more mechanized and computerized world these problems morph a bit and frankly lack the space to be properly experienced.
Music can sometimes be the greatest equalizer. We eat up human interests stories about Susan Boyle types who blast away at every disadvantage the genetic lottery has left her with.
As a teenager I didn't have heaps in common with the frumpy vocal powerhouse but I still found refuge in music. My flavor was punk rock. I would go to Gilman Street in Berkeley or the the now defunct Cattle Club in Sacramento. I met Jello Biafra. I saw Dick Lucas (Citizen Fish) electrify the crowd and oddly enough noticed nary a scuffle. When they happened it usually involved a recalcitrant Nazi type.
In Berkeley especially when you fell in the pit you got picked up. It typified a sense of community.
It was in that spirit that I went to visit James La Vigna, a front man for a pretty solid San Jose punk band called Betty's Love Child. I was there to interview him for a zine that couldn't have had more of a circulation than 40. He has generous enough to let me stay for a few days.
One night James invited the owner of Pirate Cat records over for some beers. I wasn't much of a drinker but it didn't matter I was richly rewarded by the conversation. The record store owner talked about his impending business failure. James and the other guy talked about legendary San Jose bands. Ones, I had mostly never heard of. The beers dwindled but the conversation continued. The record store owner talked about some of his military experiences.
Suddenly James truncated the conversation and headed indoors. He went to his turntable and put on a record. He asked either of us if we recognized it. I tried. It sounded Irishy, but it was more than that. The words I could make out seemed to be divided between the sacred and profane. Finally the Pirate Cat guy nailed down the name: The Pogues.
I stayed up until four listening to all of "If I Should Fall From Grace with God." I could picture myself on a coffin ship and as a broken immigrant while simultaneously being a success.
I love punk rock and am still fond of Gilman Street but the Pogues led by the sincere hedonist Shane Macgowan relate to me like no one else. "If I should fall from Grace with God let me go boys."
