We now live in a world I will call 'post obsolescence'. What I mean by that is the media we consume now exists forever, looping back on us like space junk orbiting in regular intervals. We can look back or forward, and often we will see the same things regardless of the direction. While there are times it is comforting to see a reminder of a better past, it is less so when those reminders are of pains and regrets you would rather forget.
There was a time when music came and went, where after its time on the charts, it was largely relegated to the discount bins where people filled out their collections with whatever spare change they had. Today, I often get the impression we are trying to live in the past, as our memories of pop culture have more clout than the newest releases. That comes across as backwards, which might explain a lot about the state of the world.
When a song gets tied to a regret, and that song refuses to fade into obscurity, it creates something I call a 'doom loop'. When one of those arises, it is akin to watching the sun set, only to turn around and watch it setting again on the opposite horizon. Breaking free of the past is impossible, given the straight line of history, but having the dust of time cleared away so we can trace the tether is a unique pain.
Being sober in college, I was often tasked with being the designated driver to karaoke night. I'm still not entirely sure why I let myself get put in that position, since a few hours of drunk people singing drunkenly was not an appealing sight or sound. Perhaps the only positive memory I have of those times was when I was warned not to hit on a roommate's mother. I got a laugh out of that, but probably not for the reason anyone might think.
Most of the time, I spent those nights as far in the corner as I could be, my back to the wall so I could make sure no one could mistakenly catch me in their glance. I would sit at the table, amusing myself by singing falsetto versions of whatever songs were being murdered on the stage. In those days, my voice was still plasticine enough to hit rough approximations of those notes, and I figured it probably annoyed a few people, which was a bonus.
Eventually, my hubris caught up to me. While sitting at the table, I heard my name called. I had not signed up, as I never partook in any of these shenanigans. I was not proud enough, talented enough, or drunk enough for such things. One of my 'friends' had taken it upon themselves to volunteer me to sing, and not just any song. I was called to sing The Darkness' "I Believe In A Thing Called Love". To say I regretted revealing I had even a fraction of a talent is an understatement. If I had talent for violence, I would have been more likely to display that one in the moment.
I thought of running, or hiding, but another 'friend' much larger than myself was standing behind me. He used my slight build against me, lifting me into the air and carrying me toward the stage. Free will was no longer an option, and fate felt like a 'four-letter word'.
I sang the song, barely able to hear if I had even come close to doing it right. I got a few glances from people who were angry they would not be the ones to make asses of themselves singing that song that night. I would have much rather laughed at them than hate myself.
We're twenty years past that moment, and it's been probably a decade since I talked to the people who instigated any of the moments that happened at that bar. And yet, despite the time, I think about that night every time I hear the song. I do play it of my own accord, because at one point I learned to play the rhythm guitar parts, and I haven't given up the instrument as I have nearly everything else yet. Those times I can handle, because I am putting it upon myself.
On the radio, I will still hear that song from time to time. Out of nowhere, the cranked Marshall amp will hit that first chord, and immediately I feel a lump in my throat. When Justin Hawkins gets to the first line and says, "I can't explain all the feelings that you're making me feel," I know exactly what he means.
In a different time, the memories of that night and those people I still hold a grudge against would have been allowed to die. In the early days of tv, episodes were often taped over because no one thought they would ever be worth seeing again. Early films were often destroyed for the silver on the reels. Songs sold sheet music, and then we moved on when the pages yellowed. But no more.
The past is now inescapable. The Darkness recently put out a twentieth anniversary edition of "Permission To Land", and they continue playing "I Believe In A Thing Called Love" to large crowds of people who want to remember who and where they were when it was a hit. That's great for them, but every sunrise is someone else's sunset. When a regret is attached to a song, and it won't go away, it changes the way you think and act.
I have often been accused of being too self-deprecating for my own good, playing down whatever good qualities I may have to the extreme. Perhaps I do, or perhaps I learned the lesson that revealing talents can come back to bit you in the ass. Circumstances are such that I would have still would up as angry with one certain person anyway, but we don't know that at the time. Maybe one less regret would have tipped the scales toward forgiveness, maybe I wouldn't have felt the need to shut myself off even more to prevent such things from happening again.
When I hear "I Believe In A Thing Called Love", I think about all of this. I try to reconcile in my mind how I can still love a song that is attached to a memory I won't be sad about losing in a few more decades. I also think about how many times I have sung that lyric to myself without believing it for a second. I don't believe in love, for many reasons. I don't believe in people, in part because of The Darkness.
I'm the obsolete one here, aren't I?
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