One recent Saturday, I was driving in the snow listening to a local band I'd become fond of. Upon remembering a story concerning the lead singer, my mind began to wander and reflect on how much local art has gone undiscovered and tried to figure out the reasons why.
All is quiet in a house usually filled with many noises, people talking, dishes clanging, dog’s paws patting on the hardwood floors, and the sound of Ben Patterson’s voice is haunting me. Patterson, the lead singer and guitar player of a little-known and now-defunct local folk-country band Blythe Hollow, sings nasally, but the carefully crafted lyrics are also evoking pensive thought.
The remarkably well-produced lone album, Somehow Home, has played a unique role in my life as I’m sure it has for the members of the band, who are all somewhere, I’m assuming, trying to continue the dream of being a paid artist. The CD, purchased for a meager $8 at one of the band’s shows, came to California with me as my stretch as a resident of the Golden State was coming to a conclusion. Subsequently, the lyrics and melodies of loss, lament, and whiskey drinking came with me back to Massachusetts, reminding me of all of those people and memories I had left behind across the country. The sad guitar notes produce images of both fiction and reality, but leave the listener with recollections of a time where things were good, getting better, then button-hooks into the present where things will never be quite as good as they were. The Kristofferson-like emotions evoked serve as a reminder that sometimes the present is not what or where we expected it to be, as if we chose the wrong road “ages and ages hence” and are struggling to reach the elusive crossroads that await us.
This, of course, isn’t supposed to be a review of their album, but an explanation of what I mean by Patterson’s voice providing a haunt in my life, nor is it to call to action music executives to discover the works of someone talented, but overlooked. Patterson, with whom I’ve spent some time through mutual friends around a campfire, usually drunk and smoking cigarettes, talking about life, music, and writing, I discovered, has recently moved back to his hometown. Whether or not he’s still continuing to write and make music is a question I do not know the answer to. The unanswered question is not, again, why his voice has been haunting me this afternoon.
As I’m sure it’s been gathered, I’m particularly fond of this person’s music. The genre is one that I’m fond of, the writing is spectacular, and the nostalgia-induced is also noteworthy, but I’m afraid of the loss of artistry in current society. Is this the best indie album in the world? Probably not, but what concerns me is that there are too many truly great albums I’ll never hear; that there are too many unknown artists, musicians, and writers in this world going unnoticed. In my time around all three, I’ve seen some fine artists struggle keeping their passion alive only to allow it to go to the side in order to make a living. This certainly isn’t to say that we paint, play guitar, or write poems and manuscripts to be multi-millionaires, but some recognition is eventually due. Some of the best poetry I’ve read was by friends yearning for their voices to be heard. Some of the best music I’ve heard came passionately from the voice and guitar of someone who genuinely cares about the art.
This speaks to a larger truth that most people don’t understand how to make opinions for themselves. When we go to the music store or Barnes & Noble (if we go), we’re directed towards the best sellers lists. We’re served on a platter what good art is (and how no one does it better than the masters of yesteryear), good music is (a pretty, blonde 16 year old in a tube top), and good writing is (big print, short chapters, elementary school vocabulary). Maybe it’s society’s fault; maybe it’s ours. Or maybe it’s the creators of such art.
In a multi-tasking world with fast-food drive thru’s, online shopping, and thirty-second news stories, it’s become increasingly hard to focus on just one thing at a time. With our coffee, a newspaper (or, more fittingly, time spent reading the headlines on yahoo.com); with our drive to work, a cell phone call; even with our sleep, the television blares on a 30-minute sleep timer. We have imbedded in ourselves the mindset that it’s too time consuming to look at a piece of art and make our own decisions as to what the artist was creating; it’s uncomfortable to listen to lyrics of a full song without speaking to the person sitting next to us or wandering off in thought; And if a poem is too esoteric, we mindlessly skip over the line without breaking rhythm then declare, “I don’t get it.” Somewhere along the line we’ve become too busy to observe these things, and when we do (“Look at the sunset”), it’s just an ephemeral glance before our mind goes onto our next passing fancy. Is this what we’ve become? A society of people more likely to read Cliff’s Notes than a novel; more likely to watch Sunrise Earth on the Discovery Channel than the real thing?
Another problem is that some people have become snobby about the arts. Getting interested in attending art shows or visiting museums is daunting because, akin to discussing politics, there is always someone who knows, in their own humble opinion, more and is willing to explain as much. We live in a “no” culture, where there is always someone to tell you that you’re wrong, misled, or offers something better. Like Monet? He’s no Brueghel, someone says. Enjoy Bob Dylan? You should listen to Joan Baez. Think Twain’s The Adventure’s of Huckleberry Finn is the best example of American literature? No. Someone will certainly to glad explain why Tom Sawyer was better. This has scared people into expressing an opinion on anything. We end our sentences with phrases like “you know?” and “right?” as if to say “I have nothing invested in my own opinion on this matter, but would you be willing to share in my non-existent outlook?”
Will this ever change? I’m pessimistic. Society and the arts continually get pushed farther away from one another, so much so that the Boston Globe no longer produces an Arts and Events section every day, and that section of the website is updated even less frequently.
Poetry is long gone from our newspapers with book reviews not far behind. Art crowds tend to be elitist.
And I’ll never find a copy of Somehow Home on iTunes.
March 1, 2008
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