(no subject)
Every major period in my life has been bookended by an encounter with Phil W. Elvrum.
Eight years ago, I spent my time in the corners of rooms. It was as I discovered that I could live my life by other angles that I discovered his first two LPs. He was barely drinking age, then, and I was barely the age of majority. He was frenetic in a gentle way, and I realized that I could be too. However, making myself vulnerable led to many open wounds, and eventually, an unbearable pain.
Six years ago, he released an album as I discovered that I had fallen nearly as far as one can fall. The album was about his deepest feelings of love and affection. It turned out, not too long after, that it was about the kind of heartbreak that doubles you over for years, and that he had simply hidden the end of every song from view, leaving only the warmth of the buildup: ignoring the long tail that follows. That album was called The Glow, and it is nearly one of the best ever pressed. I listened to it every single night for a year. Along with a silly video game about driving, it became both my soundtrack and meditation for rediscovering the warmth of the world. It is entirely due to that album that I can now claim my life might yield a small measure of success.
When I was ready, I left and embraced that warmth, and in my first month away from the hovel, I met Phil in person. He was everything I had imagined, and played a set like firecrackers in my head. I made a fool of myself, but I was happy, and I knew that I could, rather than could not.
The next year I was consistently on fire. My head was a furnace and would not stop. He played a set and had us sing along. He was more frenetic, and less gentle, this time. He commandeered us as his personal army, and as he left, forced us to silence. It was as brash as he would be, and so was I. I followed that road until it reached my current dead end.
Tonight, I met him again, and I found that we were both older, more mature, and calmer. I have long since reached the peak of my hubris and somehow regressed to where I often feel as I did those years ago, unable to move, sitting in the corner of every room, and yet I age by the day. He was tired, having played the same songs for eight years, baring crucial, vulnerable parts of his soul to folks who obsessed over him (like me) day after day. He wanted only to be in a room with peers, doing what he loved: singing songs, telling jokes, viewing pictures of nature (and shit). When we finally clapped for him, he realized that it was time to leave and left us with two notes on life. In the first, he gave us one of those old songs, but with the last bit; the heartbreak he had kept hidden for so long: and then that too broke; "you're gone you're gone you're gone" went the refrain, and I realized that I, as well, was not the same person he had met before. That person was gone. I am myself right now, and he will only hold me back.
In the last, a new song, he told us that he was happy, and that he didn't have to sing old songs about his wrenched heart anymore. I realized that i was too, and that I was now ready to move on, and I knew once again that I could, rather than could not.
Good bye, Phil, and thank you.
Eight years ago, I spent my time in the corners of rooms. It was as I discovered that I could live my life by other angles that I discovered his first two LPs. He was barely drinking age, then, and I was barely the age of majority. He was frenetic in a gentle way, and I realized that I could be too. However, making myself vulnerable led to many open wounds, and eventually, an unbearable pain.
Six years ago, he released an album as I discovered that I had fallen nearly as far as one can fall. The album was about his deepest feelings of love and affection. It turned out, not too long after, that it was about the kind of heartbreak that doubles you over for years, and that he had simply hidden the end of every song from view, leaving only the warmth of the buildup: ignoring the long tail that follows. That album was called The Glow, and it is nearly one of the best ever pressed. I listened to it every single night for a year. Along with a silly video game about driving, it became both my soundtrack and meditation for rediscovering the warmth of the world. It is entirely due to that album that I can now claim my life might yield a small measure of success.
When I was ready, I left and embraced that warmth, and in my first month away from the hovel, I met Phil in person. He was everything I had imagined, and played a set like firecrackers in my head. I made a fool of myself, but I was happy, and I knew that I could, rather than could not.
The next year I was consistently on fire. My head was a furnace and would not stop. He played a set and had us sing along. He was more frenetic, and less gentle, this time. He commandeered us as his personal army, and as he left, forced us to silence. It was as brash as he would be, and so was I. I followed that road until it reached my current dead end.
Tonight, I met him again, and I found that we were both older, more mature, and calmer. I have long since reached the peak of my hubris and somehow regressed to where I often feel as I did those years ago, unable to move, sitting in the corner of every room, and yet I age by the day. He was tired, having played the same songs for eight years, baring crucial, vulnerable parts of his soul to folks who obsessed over him (like me) day after day. He wanted only to be in a room with peers, doing what he loved: singing songs, telling jokes, viewing pictures of nature (and shit). When we finally clapped for him, he realized that it was time to leave and left us with two notes on life. In the first, he gave us one of those old songs, but with the last bit; the heartbreak he had kept hidden for so long: and then that too broke; "you're gone you're gone you're gone" went the refrain, and I realized that I, as well, was not the same person he had met before. That person was gone. I am myself right now, and he will only hold me back.
In the last, a new song, he told us that he was happy, and that he didn't have to sing old songs about his wrenched heart anymore. I realized that i was too, and that I was now ready to move on, and I knew once again that I could, rather than could not.
Good bye, Phil, and thank you.