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 perhaps in the perfunctories of an average existence that befits the template of Corpocracy and Consumerism?
Every answer to this question is equal to how it’s read – yes, the lens may well dictate the reaction. What it does is open a Pandora’s box of allusions, illusions and testaments, all wrapped up in words desperate to find commonality with the suffering of our terrestrially-bound brothers and sisters.
Oh, shut up, man! I mean seriously, what are you on about? Yeah, waffle is cheap, but still more worthwhile than living under a continent-size cache of physical, emotional, and spiritual B.S. the current world troughs up each day. And yet we buy, it, swallow it, idolize and become it. So, where does the diamond of solace exist, then?
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to your life. The infinitesimally small portion of existence afforded to you that will undoubtedly be peppered with joys, despairs, unwordables and so forth. You’ll quantify it, qualify it, try to define it, and fail, over and over again. It’s fun to do this – try accord yourself a mantle of validity – but come the Day of Un-Reckoning, you’ll be ground to the same unforgiving dust that all bipedals experience on their way to the grave.
%^&* man, what’s with the depressing tone? Well I say “%^&* man, what’s with the depressing state of existence?” History is written with lashes of injustice that cannot conceivably be eradicated without a single-foul-swoop paradigm shift (or conveniently-placed Hydrogen bomb!) With that hardly forthcoming, we must continue to eke out breaths from beneath a global culture predicated on producing, buying, and consuming S@#+ which completely nullifies any reasonable attempt at garnering ‘meaning’ from our time here on Earth. Instead, we’re dished up fake celebrity brain-farts, ads for machines we value more than our friends and families, and happily dilute our chemistries with foods, drinks, and other poisons that cause our organs to fail prematurely and turn us from pure potential into pure lard. This again gives rise to the point: Solace, Solace, where art thou, dear Solace?
80’s music. Yes, I repeat: 80’s music. In spite of it being forged in the throes of yuppie cocaine-dom and littered with enough product placement and triviality to bother mentioning, it offers a shining light in that it accurately – dare I say honestly – mirrors the absurdity of existence. To jam to the unveiling tragedy of Consumerism while doused with hair spray, pyrotechnics, and lyrics about lost love that’d cause a mole to dream in color is indicative of the human spirit, emblematic of the very denial that has caused us to inflict such widespread social, environmental, and psychic destruction. Yes, getting plugged into an 80’s music cavalcade will indeed anaesthetize you from the ills of modern life, it an effective antidote against injustice, racism, genocide, and most importantly, thinking.
I mean, if ever the annals of Homo erectus were to be writ and saved for future incarnations, could you in good faith object to it taking on the eponymous name Journey (read whilst listening to the planet-shuddering Separate Ways?) Its content could chart the gamut of history, whether it be the crucible of identity via Milli Vanilli (insert any song here), the emboldening of corporate culture via The Bangles’s Manic Monday, and even offer noted aesthetic appreciation via the well-worded ZZ Top opus, Legs. Yes, the Philosopher’s Stone that is 80’s music will undoubtedly engender joy in the darkest of hours, again and again. And know – with immeasurable confidence – that as soon as your Motley Crue-laced playlist gets rolling, you’ll truly be Beyond Giving a Proverbial %^&*.