He walked into the bar, dressed in the typical
garb of a tortured poet, black turtleneck, black
pants, black biker jacket, and combat boots. His hair
was reminiscent of a mop-top Beatle, and he carried
the serious air of someone that was important, or at
least thought he was. I faintly heard him breaking
down the way the night would play out to the members
of the opening act, the number of songs that they
would play, amount of time they were allotted. I
hadn't heard him play a note, yet I was prepared to
hate him.
The opening act went on, a youthful Rockabilly
trio. They were talented, less than polished and fun
to watch. The sparse crowd, made up mostly of their
friends, spurred them through a mix of time-honored
old Blues and Rockabilly standards. They had their
ups and downs, but I found myself cheered by their
effort and enthusiasm. I clapped with the rest when
they finished up their set, and vowed that I would
see them again.
That nervous, restless time between sets arrived,
and I had nothing better to do than to watch the two
bands in transition. The Tortured Poet had lost his
turtleneck and jacket, and replaced them with a button-
down work shirt. His gestures alternated between
hitching up his trousers (about fifteen times) closer
and closer to his armpits, and pushing his mop-top to
the side. He looked more like an accountant than a
guitar hero, and I expected a pocket protector to leap
out at any second.
I saw a glimmer of hope in the fact the sound-
person pulled two of the microphones off the stage.
If I had my druthers, 90% of all music would be
instrumental. At this point I still had no idea what
was on the way. The first strains of the two guitars
brought a smile to my face. As did the words from the
front man, "Let's go surfing." I've never been a big
devotee of surf music, but it really got the juices
flowing. They swept me along in a wave of the soaring
guitars and crashing drums. I thought I had died and
went to heaven. Tortured Poet became artist, and his
looks no longer mattered one whit.
I guess the point I'm trying to make is that art
comes in many forms. The baker who creates a masterpiece
of a wedding cake is an artist. So is the architect
that designs the one-of-a-kind house, the builder that
follows his instructions, and the carpenter that drives
the nails and miters the corners to perfection. As long
as one person can appreciate these creations, that makes
them art.
What do I appreciate? I appreciate the painting
that jumps off the canvas to capture my attention, and
the one that is remarkable not from its totality, but
for its singular brushstrokes. I appreciate movies that
attack my senses, though their visuals, dialogue or music,
not to shock, but to enlighten and paint a picture of
the place that I am visiting. I appreciate the wordsmiths,
who can turn a phrase and pique my curiosity, allow me to
escape into their world for a few short minutes. I
appreciate music that can arrest with a single chord,
bring bliss with a combination. I appreciate the anonymous
person down the block who turns his daily task from work
into art and lives his life the same way.
Art is what keeps us all from becoming automatons,
living, breathing computers. Today's society is trying to
craft our children with a cookie cutter, turning them all
into clones that can spell C-A-T, can add 1+1. Children
are losing the opportunity and ability to find their own
art, be it calligraphy, cartography, or finger painting.
There is a certain art to living life and being at peace
with one's self. Some of us never find it. I'm still looking.
Tortured Poet may not have an art for being a stylish
dresser, or as one friend of mine puts it, "being fabulous,"
but he has his art and that's all that really matters. If
his playing makes one person happy, then it is truly art.
He has done the time and crafted his music. I applaud him,
and all the others who share their art with the rest of us.
It is them that make this world a truly wonderful place.
Terry Bowman
Editor
twenty-first century times
