Someone To Talk To

After a long day of chastising the other AP editors about their addiction to comma splices, I went home and watched The Future Is Unwritten, a video documentary about the incendiary frontman of the Clash, Joe Strummer. The DVD is pretty amazing, cutting in archival footage with private family video, live material and soundtracks of Strummer talking on the radio show he hosted for BBC World Service.

Now, subject matter aside, here's why I loved it: Director Julien Temple frames much of the narrative around outdoor scenes of people huddled around ranging, crackling fires. You don't know anything about the participants. You don't know if you're watching homeless people huddling for warmth, a refugee camp, a gypsy caravan, or old friends having a clambake on a beach. There's just people, fire, sparks and Strummer's voice back-announcing what he just played. Temple's cinematographers shoot to some of the people's faces and jump-cut them against people in villages listening to music performed live or on the shortwave radio.

And all I could think was, "You lucky bastards."

I thought of how many friendships (and torrid love affairs) I have cultivated in my life that began through music. I'm not talking about "friends" like having Rivers Cuomo's spiritual advisor on speed dial and could-you-get-me-plus-18-on-the-guest-list-when-Weezer-roll-into-Cle-next nonsense. I'm talking about hanging with, say, five of your longtime buds (not in the biz) and sharing music via stereo, CD and turntable (even cassettes if you got 'em. Which reminds me: I need to get that bootleg I have of the Smiths live in Pittsburgh digitized). Pulling out a dusty seven-inch from nine years ago that sounds like something Jack White is doing right now. Throwing in a classic track where three out of the five pals suddenly break into the same air-guitar pose. Mixing genres like a playlist made by a blind person. Playing something so new, someone will say something like, "Hey, that's great. I guess all new music doesn't suck." Just getting lost in the sound and actually listening to the stuff.

"You stupid old man," I hear you sniff. "I can swap mp3's with my bros in Nanty Glo, Pennsylvania; Medicine Hat, Saskatchewan; Grimsby, England and NYC, all by virtue of the internet. Stay home, dust-farter!" And I can only respond with "It sucks to be you." Because the world might be smaller thanks to technology, but it's never as snug a fit as a handful of people hanging out in the same room, nodding their heads, smiling and listening. I can tell how successful an evening was when I'm at least ankle-deep in records and CDs taken out of their respective jewel boxes and jackets. But unlike parties that require plenty of food and drink, this is a clean-up I don't mind doing.

On paper, music is all marks on lines of paper. On your computer, it's reduced to binary 1's and 0's. In my life, it's the glue between me and my friends. Forget discs versus vinyl: Community makes music sound better.