T’was In The Merry Month of May
Be careful what you wish for: a few weeks ago, I framed my rejection letter and ticket to commemorate the long, winding road I traveled to get the Grateful Dead Fare Thee Well show last July. I also framed a Michael Hurley illustration that same day and ruminated that I did not yet have a tale of overcoming great odds to see him, but hoped that I someday would. I decided that I needed a long drive to clear my mind, and Michael Hurley was the only one there to keep my company as I played his albums on repeat down those two-lane Virginia back country roads. I watched the sun rise over the Blue Ridge Mountains as Sweedeedee played in the background and although I was profoundly alone, I also was not.
Soon after I got home, it was announced that he was coming to play a show in Louisville for the first time in eight years. Since that day, nothing else has mattered. The pre-sale sold out in six minutes, and not unlike the Fare Thee Well show, the pre-sale did not treat me well. I started crying at work, which seems to confirm that I’m kind of dramatic, something that’s recently been brought to my attention. I agree, but will defend that I feel that I only get worked up over things that matter. Music is the only thing that’s consistently made sense in my life, which may sound juvenile, and maybe it is, but it’s always seemed bleak to me that disconnection with art and beauty and a sense of self is a mark of maturity. It’s a bridge over the gap of existential isolation, a balm that soothes the forlorn ache of the distant star, a brief reprieve from the horror of human existence. Ever since I was four years old or so, I remember listening to Simon and Garfunkel on cassette and feeling what the Irish call “yarragh.” There’s only been twice in my life that music couldn’t reach me and those were absolutely the most terrifying times that I hope will not come again.
Michael Hurley is an artist you either get or you don’t. I discovered him accidentally – I moved back home to Kentucky and felt like I didn’t belong. I spent most of my time with an old friend who also felt a sense of spiritual homelessness. He’d had a rough year and we’d lie on the floor and listen to Michael Hurley and talk about all the ways he’d dreamt of dying. And it may sound strange, but I remember it fondly. The people who keep you company as you claw your way up from rock bottom know you in a way that others never truly will. I didn’t realize that Michael Hurley had crept into my being, it just happened. Here I am at the peak of my obsession and he’s come to town. I am overwhelmingly grateful. I feel that if someone’s music and expression have touched you so deeply, it’s important to give them due reverence.
