For such a long time I gave my heart to someone I thought understood me.
Someone I believed was the same as me.
I used to proclaim, loudly and often, of how much I loved him.
Can I be honest with you?
I think I said it because I didn’t know what else to say.
I didn’t really know who I was and so I used this other as means of convincing myself, and more importantly, other people that I had a personality…that I was someone.
To know that I was already someone.
That time feels wasted now.
I feel betrayed.
He wasn’t like me.
Or if he was…he isn’t.
Hmmm…the Pope of Mope.
Then I stumbled upon the realisation that he wasn’t the man I thought he was.
Slowly, I realised there was someone else who was more deserving of the time and emotion I had flung away…a band worth, and worthy of, your love.
Sometimes it takes finding something real to make you realise how fake other things are.
I thought I was in love with someone else once too…not the adoration I felt for “him”…but romantic love.
I wasn’t in love.
I didn’t know that until I found real love.
The point is this, something and someone real is always, always, better than something fake.
Sincerity trumps insincerity.
Art is greater than artifice.
Love is stronger than lust…even if lust is fun.
It is sometimes difficult to convince people that pop(ular) music is anything other than disposable. A trinket in the cabinet of culture. Low brow. Lacking in the craft and care of high art. In many cases that is true. That doesn’t make pop music anything less joyous, sometimes you need something disposable, something frivolous, something that requires no more effort than to move in time to the beat.
But sometimes, very rarely, something from the world of pop transcends the narrow limitations of that label, elevates itself to a higher plateau than “Can’t Get You Out of my Head” by Kylie (a magnificent song from a pop icon in case you were wondering) and cements itself as worthy of the label of art. Something…beautiful.
Such a moment arrived today when Tim Booth shared a link on Twitter to a performance of “All I’m Saying” recorded by Cabaret-Vert.
What takes place across the four minutes and fifty seconds that the film runs is nothing short of the most wonderfully, painfully, searingly, achingly, beautiful and honest performance of a song that is more glimpse into the soul of a man than it is anything else.
It would undermine, possibly ruin, the experience for me to say much more.
See, and feel, for yourself.