Who Cares (or Confessions of an Aging Romantic)

No one cares. Okay some people care. You care. But there's only so many of you. What I mean is that the older I get the more I realize that so much of what I have considered to be of existential importance is of no interest or importance to the vast majority of people: Art, music, poetry, non-institutional spirituality, etc. Now, this would appear to be painfully obvious. But, the pursuit of these truly struck me as the highest calling, the best use of a life, the way to play for the highest stakes. And so it has been. 

Part of what I'm saying is just the way things have always been -- life purposes have always been varied and art has always been a specialized pursuit -- but I think part of it is that matters of culture were more important socially 40 to 50 years ago, when my character was forming. Consider universities. Cultural literacy and learning for the sake of learning currently are victims of a squeeze play, with identity politics and woke-ism exerting pressure from one side and stark vocationalism from the other. Is this wrong? Well, it's not my preference, but it's the way things are, for many reasons. I do feel grateful, however, that when I did my graduate work some 35 years ago professors were still venerated for their stupendous knowledge and keen insight. But I'm a romantic, full stop. I will always consider getting lost in reveries sparked by a Dylan song or an Emerson essay a sacred calling. Why not? I was that kid that took it to heart when the Beatles said that money can't buy you love. If you are reading this blog there is probably at least a bit of that you. So let me reframe my opening in more positive terms. I'm sure we're not the only ones and there will always be people who want to come and join us.

But hold on! Maybe we don't actually want too many people to join. I think I let my desire to continue the Beatles thread there distract me a bit from the truth that I prefer it where it's less crowded. This blog is about trying to turn readers on to the really good aesthetic and spiritual stuff, stuff that frequently and almost by definition isn't going to get a big audience. I mean, Milton Babbitt? Who am I kidding? He even wrote an essay called "Who Cares if They Listen?" For the record, I certainly do want more readers, but my orientation is toward that which can be best appreciated with a little work and on a more personal or intimate scale. My greatest love is jazz music, yet I don't especially like jazz festivals. It's nearly impossible to get the unified quality of listening that the music -- and the performers -- require to achieve lift off or get to the desired place of complex invention, investigation, and interaction. Jazz is club music, where it's loose enough to take chances and small enough so everyone can get properly dialed in. It also works in moderately-sized theaters or halls. But outdoors in summer with people roaming around or lazing in a daydream? Not so much. If the performer plays it right, and focuses on groove-oriented, melodic pieces, it can work well and be fun. But there are limits. 

Honestly, I've had more peak listening experiences in the subway than I've had at festivals. There was this guy named Mustaffa who used to perform in the Harvard Square T stop. He had a voice like Nat King Cole's -- truly that good, and quite well suited for subway acoustics. And he had a certain aura. His was not an ambitious repertoire; it focused on songs of the early folk years, especially those of people like Harry Belafonte. He might do some Beatles songs. But he could cast a spell. I really feel he was a bodhisattva blessing all of us weary and stressed out commuters. He might be singing for just a few of us, but he was doing God's work, and he made me both thankful for music and glad to be alive in that dirty, subterranean place. Oh, and I always threw a couple bucks in his case. Always.