The Songwriter and the angry American

04/15/23- Mike is very angry, credit card bathrooms, and a moment of levitation

Mike (name changed just to be fair) really hated my latest newsletter/email. Really, really, really hated it. He hated it enough to write me an “all the media is biased” right wing talking points email. He even said I was “soo (3 Os!) full of shit.”

And 90% of the email was reflective of the opinion that people who play music should shut up and sing. I can’t guarantee anything, but I’m sure he feels pretty unhappy about Colin Kaepernick, too. “Shut up and play!”

That’s nice company to be in.

Here’s an actual quote: “Just because you have a platform doesn't mean you know shit, and you clearly don't. Shut up until its show time, play your tunes, say thank-you, get of the stage.” I know he meant “get off the stage,” but when you’re pissed off enough to type an angry email on your phone, I’ll cut you some slack.

Now, I get this from time to time. And unless I got this wrong, this guy is a guitar player in a small local group somewhere. I can’t find any example of their music, so I don’t know if he’s any good. All I know is that he thinks I’m sooo full of shit.

Of course, I’m flattered that he thinks I have a platform, because that’s ridiculous. I’m a songwriter, sometimes prose writer, and an occasional performer, whose entire audience fits easily into just the lower level of a small theater. And I might even be soo full of shit.

The Tower in Den Haag (The Hague)

Mike’s screed showed up in my email between sets at one of my favorite venues, Acoustic Alley, in The Hague. That’s the curse of instant communication. I was checking my phone for anything from home, or my school teacher daughter, when, there he was, angry Mike.

I’m afraid I can’t return Mike the favor of MY anger. I don’t need to meet him to know that he’d give anything to feel like somebody was paying attention to him. If he was on stage, with a “platform,” he’d be so happy that he’d be expressing his gratitude at every opportunity.

I want that for Mike. I want him to be so happy that he doesn’t type off hasty emails full of resentment and typos. I want justice for Mike.

Mike wants to “own” me but that isn’t what’s happening.

If there is anywhere on earth more associated with Justice than The Hague, I don’t where that is. I’m in awe of the place. So many things have happened there that are part of the history of a societal crawl toward kindness and equity, justice and forgiveness.

My songs feel weightier there. My responsibility, however small, to the unheard and overlooked feels greater.

It’s good to feel small when placed in the shadow of history.

I have to believe that’s also what Mike was pissed off about: that I had the nerve to want life to be better and safer for other people.

I even want Mike to have a great life. Why not? A happier Mike isn’t going to spend any of his precious life sending me angry emails that, because of my overly self-reflective nature, cause me to wonder if I am soooo full of shit after all.

That would be better for both of us.

Mike doesn’t know how good he has it. He lives in a country where it isn’t against the law to send an email to a stranger opining on the quantity of crap he is able to store.

Mike also doesn’t have to use a credit card to use a truck stop bathroom. They’ve always charged for the toilets at the highway stops in the Netherlands, but it was always a coin. Now it’s a scan your credit card entry system. Which absolutely stops everybody over 25 in their tracks. You can see them saying “what the heck, don’t these people know that I have made a great effort to keep coins in my car for just this occasion.” Their world, and mine, will never be the same.

The machine was designed in such a way that I spent 1 and 1/2 Euros instead of 1/2 Euro. Boris Johnson would have seen this as another reason for Brexit, above and beyond he and his friends getting wealthy.

Photo from Acoustic Alley by Selma Krips. Stagewear by Lenore Romano

For Acoustic Alley, and in honor of being in The Hague, I added back some songs for this tour. I have a few that are more in keeping with the 60’s folk protest aesthetic than my usual catalog. It seemed like the right time for that kind of clarity, so I played “Raise Your Fist” as one of my encores last night. It’s not a subtle song, meant to evoke the image from the 1968 Olympics of Tommy Smith and John Carlos on the podium, with black gloved hands skyward. It’s also a tip of the hat to the history of protest, and how much we owe the people who came, and in some cases, died, before us.

Last night it seemed like the right song. There was a brief moment where I could feel space between my feet and the stage.

Not really, but you understand.

Death be not proud

But merely death

That stills the voice

and steals the breath

As men we rise

As ghosts we go

And join the bodies

That lie below

It can’t go on like this

So raise your fist

From “Raise Your Fist” - from the album Love>Fear, 2017, Angry Stick Records

It seems that no matter how hard we try, it does go on. The angry Mikes of the world, the Grand Wizards of the old parties, and so many unhappy young white men can’t let go of their anger, their fear and their certainty that they always come last. I know. They always come first. But they really don’t know that.

It’s too damn bad. They have so little to lose. They could be happy.

I’ve seen it in the world of people who aren’t afraid to be part of this amazing, ever changing, universe.

There is room for everybody, even them.

I don’t know how to reach them. But I should be trying a lot harder.

I owe Mike a debt of gratitude. He reminded me that even though I try to reach people, I need to do a better job of reaching all people.

So thanks, Mike. Maybe, in some small way, I am sooo full of shit.

I’ll work on giving more of a shit. About EVERYBODY.

Love Somebody,

N