Solace in decay, or who needs action when you've got words?
We've listened to Meat Puppets ll a few times this week at home and in the studio. What is it about his voice? It's ... not good. I played bass for years and sang here and there and I really, really like to have things in tune. I am viscerally offended by distorted church bells. But, his voice. It's not good. But it is great. It's sincere. It's passionate. It's plaintive, pure. It's his voice. I find solace in that. I'm fed by that.
My dearest joys in life are exceptions to the rule — exceptions that elude solid explanations. Unlikely things, shit that doesn't add up. Endeavors that don't work on paper, but there they are, so who needs your paper anyway? Do you think his guidance counselor in high school suggested a life on the stage? Nothing of value will ever come from someone else telling you what you should do. (I'll double down on that: Nothing. Of. Value.)
Look, everything's falling apart all the time. We can despair or accept that. On any given day I do both. We can also choose to patch things together along the way and find deep satisfaction there, even if we know we're just delaying the inevitable. Or, sometimes, especially because we know that, right?
So I don't know. Is there really anything left to say about the beauty inherent in decay and imperfections? Do words help? I don't want to fetishize it. But I'm still attracted. Mostly I still want to have my hands in there, on there, wrapped around real things, tending to holes and tears, playing my part in moving objects along on their inevitable path. I find value there, and solace.
Solace In Decay: