Truth or Consequences
And the death of both.
I’m mourning the truth. Not in a sad, cynical way, but rather in a “hey, we had a good run but it’s time for something new” type of way. The truth is a rotary phone. A cassette tape. A sundial. There is seemingly no use for the truth in modern times.
I read a piece by
and it jumbled my brain in a way that has had me obsessing over the concept of authenticity for weeks now. The gist of her piece is that it’s impossible to present a truly honest representation of life, regardless of whether you’re a celebrity or a regular Joe or Jane, as we can “only present a slice at a time.” The piece spoke specifically of what we share online, but I think it can easily be applied to art as a whole and that has had me absolutely stressed.In trying to make sense of it, I’ve separated the truth into three categories in my mind: the boring truth, the disappointing truth, and the false truth.
The bulk of Caroline’s essay is devoted to demystifying her week and her writing process. It’s a great read, as evidenced by the fact that it broke my brain. She’s peeled back the curtain and shared the truth, but also turned that truth into something interesting—because that’s what she does. This may seem obvious, but I’ve worked with many songwriters (and have also fallen victim to this) that subscribe to the idea that because something is real, or genuine, or truthful—it is interesting. That’s unfortunately not always the case, and when that fact rears its head—that’s the boring truth. Some people believe the boring truth must be shared. I once had a partner who thought I was a fraud as an artist for not sharing the minutia of my life online. The “real” me. Mowing the lawn. Family drama. Sexual preferences. I am in no way passing judgment if sharing everything all of the time brings you joy, but I will never understand the pressure or need to verify the authenticity of a person by expecting that level of information from everyone. I’ve also noticed that when you demand that of people who are unwilling to give it, ironically, you end up with bullshit, or at the least, what I like to call the disappointing truth.
I have a friend who snuck into watch the Strokes soundcheck for their SNL performance. I love the Strokes. My friend reported back to me to let me know that Julian Casablancas did not sing during soundcheck, and instead spent the majority of his time pulling parkas from a suitcase and using the playback monitor as a mirror to check his outfit. I’d watched the performance before receiving this tidbit, and the first thing that came to mind was “Goddamn that’s a good looking parka.” In my eyes, Julian is a great frontman, as he just oozes effortless cool. That’s the whole brand. And then I get that tidbit, and suddenly the effortless part is tarnished because well, it turns out there was actually quite a lot of effort (I still love The Strokes…this changes nothing). That’s the disappointing truth. I do not want or need to see the magician’s tricks, and neither should any of us. Let them have the disappointing truth. I don’t need it because all it does is ruin the things I love. I know the woman wasn’t actually sawed in half and I’m okay with it. The disappointing truth is harmless. Now, if you’re being deliberately duplicitous, that’s a different story. That’s what my brain likes to categorize as a false truth.
I found this duo from Brooklyn who actually kind of sound like The Strokes. But they’re not The Strokes. They’re pretty good though. They both sing and play and I believe produce. Anyway, I stumbled upon one of their videos (they do very well on the apps) in which they’re simply singing one of their songs into a microphone. The video starts with them conversing with one another in a nonchalant way, over the intro of the song, and then they dive in. The intro conversation is present in every single one of their videos, as if to tell the audience, “this is live. We’re really doing this on the spot.” The thing is, it’s not. I’m not going to go to the extents to explain why I know it’s not live and bore you with technical terms, but let’s just keep it simple and say that some microphones are meant to pick up two people singing and some are meant to pick up one. So if you’re gonna fake it, be careful which prop mic you choose, otherwise nerds like me might blow you up on their newsletter.
I’m not talking shit. I really like these guys. I wish them the best. They found a tricky little ruse to get eyes and ears on their band and I applaud that. It’s hard out there, so I back the bit. I’m bringing it up because I believe that false truth has a line, and I believe that culture pushes and pulls that line. At one time, we had music videos and we had live videos. One was faked, the other was real. We were outraged to find out someone was lip synching. Now, it seems like part of the game. It’s now common practice to fuck up the truth. To throw it in the pot with other ingredients to distill it. Concoct something new. Reality TV. Artificial Intelligence. Conspiracy theories. I mean, wrap your head around that last one. Think about how much entertainment we have at our fingertips spread across God knows how many mediums and platforms— a truly endless amount of non-fiction and fiction. But for some reason, our culture has decided that’s not enough. We have to blend the two. I have to sit at Thanksgiving and have my uncle explain to me why the Clintons are putting 5G in the rotisserie chickens at Walmart.
The reason I found myself so stressed about all this is because the truth once meant everything to me. I had posters of The Ramones and Rancid on my walls. Those guys were the truth to me. Punk rock and hardcore was the truth. That was the benchmark for authenticity. And I really did love all that stuff, but the real truth is that for every spin of Refused’s “The Shape of Punk to Come” I was also playing the shit out of Maroon 5’s “Songs About Jane.” So, I have to wonder if these three variations of the truth have always been with me. I would beat myself up about it and trade in my punk rock card, but I know that there’s not a single soul who didn’t know I was soft as a feather from day one. I wasn’t and haven’t been fooling anyone, no matter how loud I screamed into a microphone.
I like to believe that the truth I clung to so tightly in my youth still exists, but it communicates intangibly—in the spaces between words, and in the sound of someone’s voice rather than in what they are saying. The truth has recognized that it’s difficult these days, so it’s agreed to let us have our little sleight of hand trick. The truth has acknowledged that the audience is staring at their phones, and the only way to get their attention is with smoke and mirrors, but when the fog dissipates and the house lights come back on, revealing that it’s all just a set, I believe the truth has now placed the responsibility on us to know what’s real and what’s bullshit. I can live with that.