New Years… Ah New Years, a time for a jubilant culmination to another trip around the sun. The crescendo-ing celebration cresting at the stoke of midnight carrying its disciples onward to a new year, a clean slate, a blank canvas to which the brushstrokes of the previous can be built upon or fully removed depending on the previous months work. A ceremonious occasion to end the lethargic holiday season. A call to tighten up belts and adorn spanks once more, to open the remaining spirits left about the house and proceed with abandonment as by the morning ones earthly actions of yesteryear will be forgiven. The shimmering decadence of crystalized glasses sprung full of pin prick bubbles covers the nights gaudy garbed décor. Opulence surmised in flapper showmanship; the night disrupts Justices’ blind scales for the party goer, offering a glimmering nod granting one a provisional permission slip for one’s escapades…all under the Fool’s guise.
I don’t like New Years…to be honest I don’t really get it. It screams of Party City hats and carries the ripe stench of loneliness. It presents itself to the unhappy, the tired, and the isolated a reason to celebrate. It’s the bare minimum…the 300 points you receive for writing your name on the SAT, the decrepit meal of cereal for dinner. The event collects all of humanity together superficially to participate in the passing of time. Should we all stop to celebrate a month’s end? Is celebrating the weekend not enough for you?
New Years as a holiday is the equivalent to the rash purchased sports car your friends Dad bought after his wife found companionship with the tennis pro. No amount of horsepower, Italian leather upholstery and petrol can remedy that knowingly dire mental state just as no club table, bar ticket or warm Veuve Clicquot can solve one’s own self-consciousness. While Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, Chanukah and the Fourth of July are predicated upon the social nourishment of shared familial experiences, New Year’s presents itself as the black sheep, the crooked cousin who along with its sibling, Fat Tuesday, manipulate the public’s minds to seek lavish displays of self-absorption on these unholy designated days.
This New Year ‘s I took to heart the aforementioned sentiment, refrained from the Sirens’ calls of NYC and planned to plop myself on the couch watching Ryan Seacrest’s unmovable face reflect Times Squares’ LED lights, like an appointed light houses’ glass; shine its rays into my home.
However, I made an unfortunate error within the most gluttonous days of the dwindling year. Diagnosed with a festering case of the “Holidays Blues” which grew ever fervent after Christmas I came to a period of desperate self-indulgence. Propeled by wayward thoughts of seeking a cure, my supple mind encountered the wrong end of a night-in with my brothers recently graduated college friends and a communal source of high grain cost efficient alcohol. Sifting through unfortunate stories, the agreed upon newfound qualms of early adulthood, and brief forays into live concerts in YouTube; the youthful rash wisdom of my companions bestowed upon me the ingenious idea to conquer my Holiday Cold with the only earthly medicine known to cure all illnesses; an ill-advised rapid expenditure of income upon an unnecessary product.
My cumbersome hands manipulated my oscillating phone with an uneasy swiftness administering diligent scrolls through websites of all material varieties. Squinted blurred eyes cast upon jackets, plane tickets, golf clubs and every sort of ill-spoken indulgences “weighting”, as best a foolish mind could, what was feasible. Feasibility in such a state becomes a rhythmic dance, a foxtrot of sorts, between practicality and the desire for the absurd. Both take turns leading the other swirling faster upon your conscious’s ballroom floor. Each hip sway, box step and dip displaying their own appeal to you the suitor. The dance had taken form around me, rotating ever so, lost to its whims it was but the in-home concert speakers taken from the long-returned college home that made the decision for me in the end. The frame twitching base, earthly baritone notes and compulsory measures rattled the trance, tumbling on my quartet the solution. The penicillin to my lingering Blues had to be a concert and in this desperate time of need only one man in the NYC metro area suffices. Billy Joel.
No quicker had I pressed purchase did the silky veil of exhaustion pass pervasively over me, coating me in sleeps embrace.
~
Here in lies the problem with my prescription. Billy Joel and I have a complicated relationship, as is overly common for Billy in his life though the tantalizing details of ours will be the focus of some other day. The man of many marriages, few friends and public tantrums over the past forty years have positioned the blue-blooded Strong Island native as a true figurehead of his archipelago’s populus. Regardless the Curmudgeon of the Oyster Bay, even at the undoubtable age of 75 has been able to maintain the two attributes which provided for him his illustrious life: the rich tenor of his voice and the tactical ten fingers who grace the worn ivories as no other does. While Jaggers hips lie lopsided, Tyler’s tenor trembles, and Sting sings only in the most hushed tones now; Billy’s Godly gifts remain chained to his person weighing down the miniature man with their grandeur.
His Jewish-Italian New York-Metro prophetic passages of prose speak a universal tune of arrogance, shame, ambition, love both had and lost, and the desire for more from his pedestrian experiences. His words have maintained steadfast to multiple generations, simplistic in verbiage but adorned with all the vastitude of Joyce. He has struck an eternal chord with each pair of ears and even in my inebriated state the underlying call for someone to make greater sense of my feelings appeared evident.
~
Waking up after such an exuberant night becomes increasingly difficult, I have found, even if forewarned by seemingly all adults on earth; hangovers and age do not mix.
Working in what seems to be a cartel-esque scheme the wisdom gained from living scornfully administers dutiful punishment on the over-zealous. In bed elephants trampled my cranial sub-Saharan plains in a stamped spurned on by other worldly forces unknown to the local ecosystem. In their hurry, the massive mammals laid waste to partitions of crops in the frontal lobe labeled “Memory” while seemingly avoiding the ever-standing areas fenced in as “Guilt” and Shame.” Covered in cold sweats, tentatively I made the sacrifice and pulled my phone towards my contactless eyes, praying that a majority of my words and actions of the previous night were but a lucid dream brought forth by a juvenile explanation such as eating excessive sugar before bed. To my dismay the first stimulating notification to catch my eye was that of my email, which showed a number far too great to have received over the course of a normal night. Scrolling through; passing the always enjoyable spam email from a long-abandoned accounts to USA Lacrosse or Chegg I found what I had already known to be there. A concise email with subject reading to the effect of “Thank you for your purchase! Please enjoy the Show” marked sincerely by the lovely automated system at Gametime. Turning my phone over like a bad test grade I let the oncoming shutters take hold. From sleep to panic I allowed my stomach to drop the thousand floors back to earth, my heartbeat began to rev like my old 2000 Buick staring on a sharp January morning, cold sweat replaced itself with hot and I replaced open eyes for closed ones. Sleep can surely cure it all…right?
An appropriate amount of time later, post drip coffee, breakfast sandwich, screaming hot shower and a few pints of the finest tap water around I settled at my cluttered desk to understand the gravity of my previous night’s actions. It took limited time to realize 1.) The tickets were non-refundable 2.) the tickets were non-resalable 3.) the concert was at UBS arena in Long Island, not MSG and most dishearteningly 4.) the concert was on 12/31 at 9pm i.e. today. Growing warm again with the baste of anxiety I threw my hands to my traps calling a thirty second timeout and stepped outside to let the breathless cold air recondition me. Unaffected by the element’s, clarity appeared unattainable so thus I settled for a trust of heart. I had made this situation, I had to thus pay the price (And I know what a horrible price to go see a concert on New Years, but please refer back to the initial paragraphs.) Returning to my desk I laid forth on napkin my plan.
~
The rumbling of tire on asphalt only becomes more accentuated with size, the loping rurrs roll on strumming a lulling base to any quiet car ride. Stationed in the center lane for safety’s sake my brother reflects the blue dash lights not as Seacrest would have but nonetheless wore thier LED mask. It had been nearly an hour and forty-five miniutes into the hour drive to UBS Arena and the knuckles which gripped the wheel has been in a stasis of bone-white for the past hour. A New Year’s drive on I-95 resembles more a dogfight at 45,000 ft than a Sunday Cruise. The noticeably inebriated and fanatical Fast & Furious imitators braided the lanes stopping only for the brief fender bender before proceeding on their travels once more. The digital clock blinked 9:15pm before we pulled into the distance dystopia which was Parking Lot SX. The anticipatory conversations yearnfully imagining a tight 9pm to midnight show an hour ago now turned to “Well, he won’t start until 10 anyway” amongst guilted glances which spoke sternly “You’re a moron, it’s NYE and we are drove to Long Island.” Parking the car, boarding the shuttle and briefly being transported to the arena though silent raised our partial spirits loosening the developed anxiety and brought present our hearts to sharing a brotherly memory as we had finally arrived. Conversation returned sparingly but ceased just as rapidly due to upon exiting the shuttle tear drops descended from the darkness above us promptly coating the collective patrons in a frigid shimmer silk. The distant arena doors turned from vacant glass into the finish line for the world’s ever so disturbingly decadent 100-meter dash as the applied beauty of those around us was at risk to decrease by each drop.
I have been to a Billy Joel concert albeit only once and under a fine degree of pre-show libations but upon arrival into the hospital white halls of UBS Arena my brother and I had unknowingly crossed the Bridge to Terabithia, if Terabithia was an exclusive Valhalla for 50+ year old Italian-American couples and their children aged sixteen and under. Parents participating in a loving date night brought with them their kids and friends all too young to drift towards the flames of NYC, but nonetheless desiring their own formidable celebration.
We took our time casting a contemplative gaze around the foray before ultimately convening in sentiment that there must have been a missed email on our behalf as evident by the communal dress code; we looked to be foreigners in this land. Black dresses, heels, designer bags and shawls for the female constituent and blazers, circulation cutting black jeans, white shirts and swollen bellies for the men. The members of our evening presented an undecided populus of Soprano’s extras and perpetual personae found behind the counter of any half decent delicatessen. Cups of red wine were summoned by Dionysus himself, no man, women or child appeared before us with unstained teeth or the slimmest dribble of fallen nectar down their forefront. The concert resembled a cosplay convention hall. I understand the gesture by the parents to entrust their teens with a safe night out and a slice of independence by carrying them to a dressed public festival though I couldn’t help but mull the fact that this was a something far greater. Emanating from the stage out into the concourse; this was not an innocuous event but a ceremonial parental indoctrination of the teenage demographic into the islands’ culture. Baptized in sneaky sips of a mother’s Pinot while reciting the words of their prophet the ritualistic aspects of the night became ever apparent. The Protestants believe a church can be made anywhere by the gathering of its followers and this arena presented formidable proof of this elucidative belief. Weighing these thoughts, we felt it best to find our seats before wayward eyes mistook our expressions for disrespect.
(If you read that and thought no way that’s real, what an egregious generalization…I am the author it’s your word against mine)
~
I’m not a musician, though did a lovely job playing the viola until eighth grade, nor am I one to realistically critique or review a performance. I am a fan of nearly all music and believe that any creative expression makes us human, or more so it elevates our humanity. Expression lifts us from domicile animals to true decedents of the cosmos. I will not labor through a concert detailing changes to notes or how certain homages were to B-sides of Billy’s work in the 70’s or so forth, but I will try to encapsulate what I saw from him as a person, independent from the concert’s splendor.
Billy Joel is old, and he knows it. Placed upon the workman’s bench to which he sits the piano, he wipes perspiration from his chromium skull exhaling and for the briefest second a willing audience member can notice his exhaustion. Decades of wear and tear, show after show, dance after dance, clanking chord after clanking chord the wispy toad has become trapped by his own devices. He matches that of an elder statesman on an NFL offensive line, too slow to be a dynamic force but too smart to not play for stopping means he loses what makes himself unique. Billy played for over two and a half hours, including two encores. Thirty plus songs. 1:45am in the morning. He chose not to stop for stopping tonight mean one less New year’s show left for him. To play tonight was to play forever, to keep the crowd captured waiting on his every move, to share his soul through off beat story and beautified choruses to a safe space of like-minded folks…the most indoctrinated. Within the night Billy spoke about his tracks many of which escape his mind for the words hold diminishing meaning each day.
I respect Billy because he knows. Confided in the tingling keys he types a message in morse to the young. Forget not where you came, we all grow old but do so with love of the moment do not pin your love to futures worth but make of it presently when available.
~
Broken promises make us all more of a collective than New Years ever can. The night isn’t supposed to be a clean slate or the conceptual break which you bank your hopes on. It’s a time to reflect on the previous ones you lived. To celebrate the joys and miseries in equal distinction. Not to pin change on the Calander as a child does blindfold-ed on the party’s donkey but to spend the time to grow. It’s all grand to be rash and unruly to churn youth into age grasping at the fleeting days or the social existence you have, but when you gaze out the dash towards the year in front of you check the three mirrors and contemplate what has been. It might take bludgeoning oneself with anxiety or an overzealous expenditure of capital on something forgotten, but if you can find the true purpose of the action then you’re far better off than the majority. I still don’t like New Year’s, but I understand it a bit more now. At least I hope so.
In the end, to rush down I-95 at 95mph will leave you as Billy is, the old toad croaking back the years crying at the show not for his children shown upon the screen but for the chorus of 35,000 who worship him in their hymnal response as it alone can provide the temporal validation required for his soul.
There is always tomorrow, but yesterday happened don’t forget it.
K.s. Holland 