And with the early dawn
Moving right along
I couldn't buy and eyeful of sleep
And in the aching night under satellites
I was not received
Built with stolen parts
A telephone in my heart
Someone get me a priest
To put my mind to bed
This ringing in my head
Is this a cure or is this a disease
Nail in my hand
From my creator
You gave me life
Now show me how to live
Now show me how to live
When I was younger, I used to look at my musical heroes as mythical figures who were practically gods. I always figured they were way happier and better off than me, channeling those elemental forces with such unexplainable skill and magic.
If these people had such power, they must be superior beings, right?
What a strange thing it is, this relationship between artist and fan. The artist pours their heart and soul into a song which moves me deeply. For which I pay...what, 99 cents? In the last decade, not even that. We stream it for free. And in return, we give the artist....what, exactly? Admiration? Adulation? Adoration? Some other A word? And this helps the artist...how, exactly?
Maybe it offers some temporary validation, making the artist feel happy. For a while. But then...what? Expectation? Entitlement, really. We say: more! Make me feel that way again! Only this time...more so!
If the new songs don't make us feel as good as the old songs, there is disappointment which we express in all kinds of ways, most of them not very nice. We label the artist a sellout, poser, has-been, washout, or one-hit-wonder. We might even express an anger and disgust which is rather out of proportion to the very minimal investment we have made in the artist's actual life and well-being.
This is not a friendship. When you think about it, it's actually a very one-sided relationship. The artists job is to be brilliant, give everything, sacrifice all, so I can feel good thanks to a song I do not even pay for. In return, I might pay big bucks for a live show once or twice, and cheer adoringly. But in the end, I go home, move on, get on with my life.
What does the artist do?
Pours out their heart and soul, night after night. On the road, living out of vans and buses and hotels, far from family and friends and any type of normal rhythm of life which enables most of us to live halfway stable and non-pathological lives.
Meanwhile, what do these channelers of ecstatic experience do to come down? What is it like, stepping offstage back into the mundane world of bottled water and ashtrays and Subway wrappers? Knowing that very soon, they will have to exercise their high priestly role again somewhere else, on another night, and another?
As I grow older, I no longer envy the music heroes. In fact, I kind of feel bad for them. I feel complicit in a system in which we seem to set them up to be used and discarded. I feel like we can almost be vampires, sucking them dry of their creative blood and then moving on when it kills them.
What's even more messed up is how we 'glamorize' and romanticize the excesses of their lifestyle, which in actuality are often just the coping mechanisms they have adopted to sustain the unreasonable expectations their creative genius and we, the fans, place on them.
And on the other hand...
Here's what 'biography.com' says about his early years:
Born Christopher John Boyle on July 20, 1964, in Seattle, Chris Cornell was one of six children born into an Irish Catholic family. After his parents' divorce (the children adopted their mother's maiden name, Cornell), Chris began using drugs and stealing—and learning to play the drums. By age 15, plagued by bouts of depression, Cornell had dropped out of school to play music and help support the family.
Like most of his fans, I never met the man. I used to fantasize, actually, that he would somehow discover me on the internet, have his agent call me up (or call himself) and say 'Hey this is Chris Cornell calling. I sing for this band called Audioslave, and I dig your guitar playing, and it's cool that you're a priest. I was wondering if you would do this collaboration with me.' (Yes I know...)
But in all reality...
Behind the rock icon was a man. Just a man. Flesh and blood, the good and the bad, the agony and the ecstasy. A kid from a broken home, full of pain and longing and hope and sadness. A man with a wife and kids, and friends, many of whom he saw self-destruct. A man blessed with a one-in-500 million talent, whose brilliance made him a symbol and an icon, getting him mixed up in all kinds of things most people are never equipped or asked to handle.
A man with a nail in his hand, crying: 'Show me how to live.'
A man asking for a priest.
I wish I could have met him. I wish I could have been the priest he had a chance to talk to. Years ago I actually thought about trying to reach out to him and say, 'Hey I listened to your song and you said you'd like to talk to a priest.' Then, of course, I thought of how ridiculous that would sound, and gave up the idea.
Chris, I mourn your loss. I'm sorry for using you, for consuming your product but forgetting to ever much think that there was a real person behind your music, a man whose well-being and happiness I really should have had more of a care for.
I'm sorry I never sent that email. I promise to try to be more generous and kind toward the artists who so move me and who are able to say through their art what I could never articulate through my own feeble voice. I promise to pray for your family. May you Rest In Peace. I hope you meet the true Priest, Jesus, and that his love is now consoling you as he tells you how pleased he was that you shared your gifted voice with the world.
I hope your burden is gone and that, for a change, you can relax awhile as you kick back and hear that great almighty Song our hearts were created to hear.
