I wish to address an inquietude that has been vehemently placed upon my powers of observation as of late.
I drive a 1985 two-toned brown, 4 door Toyota Camry (relatively rust free). Now I am not naïve as to the negative and down right aristocratic criticism and disdain that the Audi drivers and the Mercedes owners of Calgary may feel for my little car, and dare I say even for me. I feel that my car mechanically pigeon holes me into an unfair stereotype of poverty and overall self- nullification on my part. With the weight of this knowledge upon me, I still face the bottlenecked, construction strewn streets of Calgary day after day, with as much pride and dignity as my character allows me. Having said this, I wish to address the so-called “Bourgeoisie” or “Elites” of the Calgarian population.
Now, upon returning to our great nation from a year and half absence, I was exultant upon the discovery of above average and down right “good” radio stations gracing the Calgary airwaves; the most recent, and by far the best in my personal opinion, being 90.3 Fuel. I have found myself on more than one occasion, caught up in the euphoria of the great music of our history. I hear the first guitar riffs of ‘Stairway to Heaven’, or ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ and I am alight. Sometimes, should I feel compelled to do so, I even shout out a felicitous cry of collaboration with the DJ’s and their good choices. I ready myself…the music gives way for the words…
And there I am, alone, singing in my car. Not just singing...jammin’. From the dashboard drums to the air guitar, it’s no ordinary drive home. But I stop, perhaps disconcerted by the motionless, soundless scene which surrounds me left to right. No one else is jamming. No one else is jamming, guys. They’re just staring straight ahead, praying that their eyes will not be veered even a fraction of a degree and cause them to make any sort of eye-contact with any other human being. Mouths closed, eyes fixed. On what, you ask? NOTHING! ON NOTHING! Why do we pretend that we are bound by propriety, and could never bring ourselves to the “self-degradation” of rocking out alone (which is a point that shall be argued shortly) to our favorite songs? Do you think that Led Zepplin (may it rest in peace) meant for its songs to fall upon cold, lifeless ears that dismiss it as background? If you want to sit and think pensively, than do it. But don’t mock the Gods of rock by demeaning their creations to mere filler.
Look Jack Uptighty McTighterson, you can’t fool me… I know that all you wanna do is lose it when you hear ‘Billy Jean’ come on the radio. You curse the conventional vehicle and its restraints to the dancer inside you. So go on! Don’t be frightened. Let it start with lip syncing, then you can add in the “whoa”s, and then my young chiquito, it will grow into a incomparable pastime that will fill your world with joy and possibility. With time and practice, you’re looking at a lucrative karaoke career.
So I will not stop rocking out to my favorite tunes on the radio. Send your stares; send your disapproval and mockery! I will not be moved! One day you too will catch yourself in a wicked head rhythm trying to hit those notes that only Freddy can. And someday, maybe we can overcome this vice that divides us, be joined in music as a community…as a family. And I promise you on that day that you break out of that futile shell, you’ll look over to the car beside you, and there I’ll be, smiling, with a single tear running down my cheek.