I’ve had this blog for awhile now, and I know I’m not faithful in its writing. I don’t know why. It’s one of my life’s greatest joys to share my musical musings with the world at large. Or, at least, my few faithful readers. So, thank you, readers. It’s been said that a writer’s greatest joy is getting published. I’m published, and that’s not the case. Sure, I’m proud that people are reading my work, that I can hold my eight-year effort of a memoir in my hands…(I’m a tactile person, what can I say?) But it’s not true that being published is a writer’s greatest joy, and my writer friends will tell you the same. Every time. A writer’s greatest joy is just BEING READ. Knowing you’re being read, and enjoyed, is more cathartic than being published. Admittedly, a lot of times, you need to be published for people to read your work. In a sense, this blog is a “publication” of my work.
And, back to that. I’m being read. Thank you. And why is this more important to me than people reading an intimate memoir of my weird body and growing struggles as a young adult? Because music is what buoyed me through it all. Music is what makes my heart pound, my spirit jump out of my flesh. It’s what makes my clumsy ass try to headbang while I’m on the treadmill at Planet Fitness. It’s what makes me unafraid to belt lyrics out back and forth to my mother while grocery shopping. People will either smile, sing along, or look at us with a frightened curiosity. So be it. Music is my soul’s language, and I’m not afraid to admit that I like anything that might seem “uncool.” I am who I am, and music will always make me be that way.
I can blare 80s pop hits and act stupid. I can sing my heart out to Kenny Rogers (okay, okay, he was mom’s thing, and I like a various amount of old country because of mom). I can headbang to Soundgarden on the treadmill (not well). I can do hand sign interpretive dancing in the car at a stoplight to Hamilton. And I can go into a complete, meditative coma listening to Tool. Except for the heavy shifts, which I usually lean forward and punch invisible things.
And I started this blog a long time ago, in the hopes that it would help me meet the love of my life, because, if he got the music the way I did, then he’d probably get me. He did, and there have been differences, of course, but we’re not talking about that right now. Besides, he’s a music snob.
So, why did I choose the name for this blog? Well, I’m a creative type, and I’d like to say the name just came to me; essentially, it did. But one day, while listening to SiriusXM’s Lithium channel (because I live in the 90s, and I’m okay with that), I heard Helmet’s “Unsung” and remembered when my brother said, “Dude, you gotta check these motherfuckers out, this video is so bad ass.” Or something like that.
The idea that something is “Unsung.” Well, let me tell you about it. When crippling and untreated, improperly diagnosed depression reigned on me, I stopped singing. My voice became raspy. Worse, my CD player became dusty. I didn’t even–I hate to admit this–listen to Pearl Jam–who very well could have saved me from my plummet. To be unsung is to not live your life, to not let the song in your heart free, to compromise, to settle, to become silent. It’s terrible. I’ve been there, and I slip on the edge of the abyss of that from time to time. But I have an army of music, and an army of loved ones, who reach out and keep me tethered to myself, my sanity, my life, and my “song.”
Throes. A pang or spasm. I like spasm, because it’s much like what happens when I get hyper-stimulated about music and want to talk about it animatedly in short bursts of voice that are half-knowledge/half-dorky-ass-fan.
And so, in closing, I’d like to say, thanks, Helmet, for making a song that would later subconsciously influence a really bad ass name for a music blog. And thank you, dear readers and music fans alike, for continuing to listen these musical, at one time, before you clicked my url, “unsung” throes.
Be well and rock on,
And, they deserve a listen: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jBfygUiS50g