Or perhaps I could ask why did he have such an affect on my life that now, gosh is it really 40 years later, my memories of him make me cry. Why do I have to have memories at all? If it turns out that all of that music that shaped me into who I am today was rubbish, then why did it find its way into my synapses and tear ducts?
If you’re given something that affects you profoundly, then in the future, when you look back, how can it be something worthy only of hate. Why does it make me cry? Why, when I listen to music or watch videos from that time, do I feel such tremendous loss?
Music is more than a background noise to me. Of course it is. It’s important to almost everyone. Just take a look at the television lineup, at all the music competitions that we’re sucked into like so many junkies. But music is not my drug, it is the force by which I create other things. And composing it is the greatest joy on earth that I can find.
Here comes the rub. Wait for it. Wait for it. If I’m a Christian, then how can music have that kind of power in my life? And so it goes, does it become my idol and thus something I have to shun? And if it’s forbidden, then why can’t I graduate to the next level to learn what better things are waiting?
Every time I hear Mick Ronson play, whether his own solo projects, Mott the Hoople or the years with David Bowie, I want to cry. I long for a time when life was more simple. I hurt for the awkward child I was. I simply had no owner’s manual for a teenage human who cared for little more than my horse and my ever growing album collection. People thought I was a snob when in truth I was no more than a frightened child clinging to what I could understand.
I’m not sure if I understand it now.