To Have Everything and Own Nothing
The giant bag of matchbooks in my parents' attic, an alternate version of one of my tunes, + the record of the week
I’m working towards a full-length record. It was a spiritual decision I made, not a rational one. If I was being rational or market savvy, I’d heed the advice of those who’ve told me attention spans are ever-shortening. That my audience isn’t big enough. Stick to singles and EPs, unless you’re Beyonce. And make sure the vocal comes in within’ the first 13 seconds or they’ll skip you entirely.
I’ve vacillated between scoffing at evolving market trends, and heeding the advice of those who want to help my music reach a broader audience (because at the end of the day, I would like that as well). But sometimes it’s necessary, for better or worse, to ignore all of that and make a spiritual decision.
A spiritual decision is not about God or healing crystals; it’s a middle finger. It’s saying fuck you to your own mortality and doing something to etch your name in stone instead of sand. Even if no one ever sees it, you know it’ll be there long after you’re dead and gone.
My mortality has been rearing its head, which has likely been the result of spending time with my new nephews. I used to look across the table and see my brother and my father, but now that my brother’s twin boys have joined us— I see three separate generations of people bearing my family name. The exciting arrival of new life also comes with a reminder that we all have to depart this place at some point.
And so I question what I want to leave behind. If I end up having children of my own, there’s a good chance they’ll grow up and go digging through the boxes in the attic. That’s where you learn the real stuff about who raised you. That’s where I found the giant ziplock bag of matchbooks that my father had saved from all the dates he’d gone on with my mom. Notes inscribed on the inside of each one, detailing whatever memories he could fit on that 1x1” space. It’s also where I found the photos of my mom’s brief stint in California, when she and my Dad split up back in their dating years. She never intended anyone to see those photos— my grandparents sitting across from her on the couch, staring with judgmental eyes, my mom’s expression looking miserable as ever—knowing she’d made a mistake.
I feel like I’ve been building with sand, but I don’t blame myself. My generation is one of impermanence. We’re the generation that made it possible to have everything and own nothing. We’re the ones who keep building castles and hoping the ocean won’t wash it away. I don’t want to be a part of that. I want to stick my middle finger up—not at market trends or the music industry, but at my own mortality. To say “you can get rid of me, but this thing I made will be here forever.”
At the bottom of this newsletter, paid subscribers will find an alternative version to my song, “Sweeter Bitter,” which I may or may not like better than the released 2018 version of the song. This is the fun of digging through your own boxes in the attic.
THE RECORD CLUB
Last week’s selection was Rancid - Life Won’t Wait (1998)
You can find our conversation on last week’s record in the comment section below.
This week’s selection is…
Week #3
The Beach Boys - Pet Sounds (1966)
Sweeter Bitter (original version)
This song was supposed to be included on what would have been the LP version of the red/green EP, before I split it up into two releases (yes, as per my manager’s advice, I caved to compete with shortening attention spans). I don’t know why it didn’t make the cut, but it’s clear that my inspirations changed between this version and the released version, as I seemed to take it to a much more modern place. Was it the right decision? We’ll never know.