Corduroy
The Story
I have yet to see the Smiths perform live. I say “yet” because all four members are still alive. I don’t, however, think they will ever reconcile their differences and perform together. Even for a huge paycheck.
I found the Smiths in high school — 10 years after they called it quits — and have been listening to them ever since. Morrissey has been active since the Smiths broke up. His solo output has varied from impeccable to forgettable. And his personal antics have made him somewhat loathsome. But he’s consistently played Smiths songs live, which has been one of the reasons I’ve trotted out to see him in person a handful of times.
This story is about an encounter with one of the other Smiths — bassist Andy Rourke. I met Rourke at a club in Cleveland in the early 2000s. He was touring the US doing some DJ gigs. It’s easy money — you show up at the club, hang out for a bit, autograph things, take pictures, play a few hours worth of songs from your crate of vinyl, and get a cut of the entry fee that people pay to get into the club. And you move on to the next town.
I went with my girlfriend (now wife). I had no idea what to expect. We showed up early and the club was mostly empty. Rourke was hanging around, and my girlfriend went up and asked him to come talk to me. He came right over and said hello. I remember him being enamored with my corduroy blazer and bald head. I had no idea what to say beside, “thank you for making records that changed my life.” I think we probably chatted about Cleveland, where he was headed next, and then we took a few pictures and he moved on.
I remember being absolutely frozen by the encounter. What do you say to a person whose art you cherish? Particularly when that thing that you cherish was done a lifetime ago. All artists and fans must deal with this same challenge. What would you say if you met Mick Jagger? Would you tell him about your love for 1965’s “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” or would you ask him something about 2016’s “Blue & Lonesome”? That’s a fifty year difference. (For what it’s worth, if I ran into Mick, I’d strive to ask him about something very obscure. Maybe about his last “Saturday Night Live” hosting appearance.)
The Lesson
There’s an old axiom that’s often uttered when someone sees a person they haven’t seen in a long time — “they haven’t changed at all — they’re still the same person they were in [high school/college].”
That statement has always struck me as painting with too broad a brush. We all change in small ways. All the time. Whether it’s mental (“he’s really changed his outlook on life”) or physical (“I don’t remember him being that buff”). But let’s not dismiss that axiom as entirely false. There is a degree of truth that we can’t overlook.
The more we change the more we stay the same. Some elements of ourselves are literally frozen in time. Whether it’s a record we keep coming back to throughout our lives, an artistic achievement, or some other experience. It’s an indelible imprint on who we are as humans.
Pearl Jam — “Corduroy”