The Nostalgia Trap

[An essay on memory, culture, and the danger of living backwards.]

I read an interview with Henry Rollins. Yeah, I read a lot of Henry Rollins interviews–I can live without his music, but his writing’s fantastic and he’s smart as hell–in which he was talking about how he moved on from reading Bukowski. In the interview, he’s asked this:

“You’ve often said that certain books are right for a person at a certain age, and then they stop working, and one example you give is Charles Bukowski.”

And Rollins replies (let me cut it down a little):

“Lydia Lunch loaned me my first Bukowski, South of No North. I couldn’t stop reading it. I eventually read a ton of Bukowski, up to Love is a Dog from Hell, the 1984 book that documents the dying of John Fante. Then I read John Fante, his favourite writer: Ask the Dust, one of the most beautiful books ever written. A quick read, but wow, it’s special. It made me stop reading Bukowski. I’d moved on.”

And we should move on. I’m pretty good at moving on, maybe too good. If you’re not moving on, you’re not growing as a person and you end up being one of those guys that digs out a band shirt from 1985 that you can barely fit into the next time that same band rolls into town with only one original member left, still trying to pay the bills on the back of something they made forty years ago.

And yet, plenty of people do it. My Grandmother died with some kind of dementia going on. One of the last times I saw her, I listened to her tell me about all the people she went to primary school with like it was present day. I don’t know if this was genuinely happy recounting or a vicious loop her brain had her trapped in. I like to think it was the former, but I’m not so sure. It’s a cruel disease but I know plenty of people who talk the very same way now about music, but because it’s about music, it seems like it’s dementia in disguise to me.

I too have read John Fante and much prefer Wait Until Spring, Bandini, but I am in total agreement and handily, I came to Fante in the same way as Rollins - via Bukowksi.

When you love something, discovering the master behind the master can be a tough pill to swallow. For the longest time, I thought Alice Cooper was the most original guy to walk the planet but then I saw a video clip of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins performing I Put A Spell On You and yeah, you have to come to the conclusion that all masters have masters. (Here’s a great quote from Screamin’ Jay: “I didn’t want to be a singer, so I took what I knew about the sax and the piano, stuck it in my throat and used it to destroy songs”). Knowing this didn’t dilute my love for Alice, but it’s good to know your roots.

Hand on heart, I’ve never read a single book more than once. For all my sins—and there are probably many—that’s one I’ll proudly claim. I think it’s a good way to be because there are always, always and forever, new books to read and they might not all be great but they all sure as hell give you the opportunity to grow in some way. Even one new sentence is worth finding as opposed to reading The Shining for the eighth time (good as it is).

The most likely reason for this is time commitment. Books take time. You know before you start that you’re committing a few days, minimum. Music though? That’s straight in there—like a Snickers you bought at the shop but couldn’t wait to get home before shovelling it in your mouth.

There are also always new albums to listen to. Millions of the damn things and yet, it’s more acceptable all round to spin an album hundreds of times. Since I’ve been streaming music - I’m not holier than thou - I listen to at least one new album a day without fail. They’re not always keepers but some are. Today’s new album was by a band called The Creeping Candies. I think they’re from Germany but don’t sound like it. Their singer obviously has a thing for the style of Lou Reed, in that speaky/melodic kind of way used by people who can’t officially ‘hold a note’, but in context, the band is great fun and I’m pleased to add them to the arsenal. If you’re using this as any kind of road-map for new things yourself, the album is called Summer Is Over.

Treat yourself.

Doing this every single day is a surefire way to avoid “letting the old man in.” (That’s a Clint Eastwood quote, but I wish I’d thought of it.) I don’t want to be stuck in the past with music. I want to be that ever inquisitive 14 year old I used to be because that’s what music is for, otherwise it’s like coming home from work every day when you’re fifty and reading a Famous Five book.

But it’s not easy. Nostalgia’s got this velvet grip, you know? You think you’re putting on an old record for comfort, but blink a couple of times, it’s three hours later and you’re halfway through a YouTube deep-dive on “Where Are They Now?”, contemplating buying that reissued band tee from 1987 even though you swore off merch years ago.

It doesn’t take much either. One second you’re sitting there wondering if you misjudged a Tears For Fears album that a friend liked but you hated and the next, you’re scratching their logo into the dining room table with a butter knife.

You have to stay vigilant and keep the antenna up. I listen forward, not backward, because there’s too much good stuff ahead (even if it’s old stuff you missed) to get caught playing reruns. Doesn’t mean the past wasn’t great. It just doesn’t get to be the only party I go to. I think it was Julie Burchill who wisely said, “If the past was so great, how come it’s no longer here?”

Henry moved on from Bukowski. I moved on from Bukowski. Hell, the world seemingly moved on from Bukowski once it figured out he was a bit of a dick, but let’s be honest—if Lydia Lunch loans you a copy of South of No North, you read the damn book.

You just don’t have to live there forever.

It’s not good for your soul.