The Folly of Youth

Look Blue Go Purple - Circumspect Penelope

Where I’d love to be this Monday morning:

Driving along the coast in New Zealand, 1986. Windows down, 1961 Humber Super Snipe, hopefully with Tartan upholstery. Smell of the sea in the air and wind whipping my bangs across my face.

I’ve never been there, although I know a guy who just moved his small young family back from Canada. He has a 1980s Chevy Van, not a 1961 Humber Super Snipe and even if I did fly the ungodly distance of length and time to get there and drive along the coast with him and his small young family, we’d most likely be listening to either Black Flag, Black Sabbath, or something strangely offensive and American circa 1997.

He and I have had a few conversations, when we knew each other in the same city, that would start with beers and pleasantries and end with shots and us yelling in each others faces about how “fahked” I am because I didn’t agree with him about how great America is. These we never political conversations because we both agreed fully on the awfulness of US politics. It was always with regard to music, culture, literature, the history of the Beats, endless road trips and places like New Orleans...I tried to explain that we were all sold on the fantasy of our exceptionalism too, but then I couldn’t also disagree either that American culture and it’s cities all have their own weird, twisted, ugly beauty and I could move to New Orleans or buy a car and drive for days and days and visit all the places in On the Road, so it was always: him in my face about all the great things about America and me agreeing, then disagreeing in the same breath; A perfectly Kiwi, “yeah nah”, come to think of it. Indecisive as can be.

And I always left the conversation feeling a bit like I was ungrateful and entitled, but all I could ever say to him was that I’d so much rather be from some place like New Zealand and not be burdened with the weight of America, which then made me sound even more spoiled, and even condescending, and to which I always was met with “yeah nah, bro’. Then, a round and back to talking about Thin Lizzy or some other neutral ground.

This song came out in 1986 on the NZ label Flying Nun, who for years and years and years I associated with a former co-worker I didn’t like, and who loved the groups on Flying Nun and all these other jangly inoffensive (to the point of being actually offensive to me) bands like Ballboy, who were actually Scottish.

I digress.

This song is really pleasant, and the fact that I listen to it as frequently as I do really says that I’ve matured as an adult in that I can get past these small and strange biases, and actually appreciate a good song for being a good song. Part of the reward of growing up is going back to enjoy all the things my younger stubborn self callously dismissed, and discovering Flying Nun records is one of those things.

Got any other Flying Nun suggestions? Drop a dime, mate

SERMONS! is brought to you by Jamie Ward, a multidisciplinary artist currently in Texas. You can also find me on Twitter and Instagram.

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