I've got to back up a bit for this one to July 2016 when I attended my first Lollapalooza as a grown up and left that show having fell in love with another man. My husband knows, it's okay, we've talked about it.
The 1975's frontman Matty Healy and the band itself, The 1975, became a source of some borderline obsessiveness for me for nearly a year. I say nearly only because I didn't allow myself to start really getting into the band until about February after seeing them in July. Not that I didn't think about their performance at Lolla every single day, or the way Matty worked the stage like he was the only one at the entire event, or just how weird he was in a very attractive way.
I'd never even heard of The 1975 before Lolla let alone watched them but sometimes the experience of watching a band or a performer for the first time with no preconceived notions is the best way to really experience them. The show was, well, really really great, one of the best I've seen in live performances and not just because their music was catchy but because of the way Matty Healy didn't really give a shit who was watching. Talk about a walking example of authenticity, here he was living and breathing and singing and performing in a way where you just knew he wasn't holding back.
For what I do, and what I help others do, seeing people live out authentically is such a confirmation of the work I live and breathe. It embodies my soul without speaking.
So I said I had to back up a bit, but it’s also worth telling you that my obsession with Matty Healy ran so high and so fast that I booked tickets to see them everywhere I feasibly could by the time I figured out they were touring. Three concerts isn’t a lot to some people. For me, two concerts one weekend in Denver and then another in Chicago two weeks later, was proof that I was serious. But it didn’t stop there. The 1975 flowed into nearly every conversation I had with people for a solid month at least, maybe two. Someone asked me if my husband had a problem with it and to be honest, I never even stopped to think about that. Besides, he got a concert out of it too, really enjoyed it and by now, after being together for 21 years, we’re both aware of the intensity my “passion” can unfold.
I learned every song, every line and watched a lot of YouTube videos. Turned my best friend and my husband into fans. By the time the last concert was over, I almost fell into a depression based solely on the fact that I didn’t have another date to see them. Concert depression is real people, not even kidding about that. It’s October now, five months out from the last show. I’m now fully recovered and back to my normal life, thankfully. My kids were starting to really get pissed at me. Even my own mother’s obsession with Wham! didn’t compete to the amount of times I made them listen to The 1975 (without the cuss words) and my newly found British accent.
I share all this to illustrate that my love ran deep and I became a committed, loyal fan, in it for the long haul. But in May of 2017, after I frantically downloaded Q Music’s interview with The 1975, holding my breath throughout the interview, my heart sank a little bit. Right there, page 47 in pull-out quote fashion, Matty Healy says “Songs like Radioactive by Imagine Dragons…it might as well be called Pikachu Banana. It’s nothingness. There’s no space for nothingness any more.” Up until this point, I appreciated all of the political and cultural and sexual orientation commentary Matty provided on the topics through his Twitter, Instagram and FB accounts (and yes I follow all of those). When he spoke of these things at the concerts, the crowd including myself went crazy. But insulting another band’s greatest hit and calling it “nothingness” says a few things that we just can’t make room for anymore.
Every day people are criticized and bullied and made to feel shame for liking something different than someone else or for doing something different than someone else or for being different than someone else. In fact many of The 1975’s songs engage people because of the freedom of expression in being able to do and like whatever you want. Music makes people feel like they finally belong to something, like - no matter what - at least there’s belonging in this. A lot of people seemed to feel connected over “Radioactive”. From an article on billboard.com (in 2013 by Gary Trust), “…”Radioactive” logs its best streaming week yet (4.6 million U.S. streams, according to BDS). It's sold 4.3 million downloads, according to Nielsen SoundScan.” “Radioactive” isn’t nothingness to those 4.6 million streamers or 4.3 million downloaders, in fact, just the opposite. “Radioactive” is definitely somethingness to a lot of people.
The comment from Matty Healy also illustrates an intolerance for “otherness.” I would love to be a fly on the wall of a conversation between Matty Healy and Steven Tyler, two music icons who’s prolific prose are alone music. But that’s a style not everyone has or can have. It’s what makes them different than anyone else and it’s also what sets them apart from everyone else. Comparatively speaking, being different than other people and speaking to the kids that feel different than other people makes up the majority of The 1975’s audience. Promoting difference while calling out difference in someone else’s music basically sends the message The 1975 works to eliminate: Don’t be different. How about instead, don’t be judgey. Opinions can also be observations and not attacks which is something I feel like we could all take a lesson on right now in our social climate.
Expressionism is so uniquely personal and vulnerable. I teach and counsel vulnerability every single day in my practice with clients and in my home. Being vulnerable by no means means being safe. In fact, if you’re being vulnerable, you’re taking a risk every single time to unburden your heart, de-armor your core. Not everyone will respond to vulnerability with open arms and that will hurt so deeply it might make you not ever want to be vulnerable again. We’re not responsible for holding other people’s missions of authenticity and vulnerability. That’s uniquely their’s and it’s one’s own journey. I do think we’re responsible, especially when we’re in a place of influence, to respect it and recognize it as such, even if we disagree with the message.
"We're only human and we're just like you man" is just one of many inclusive lines in Healy's music.
It wasn’t necessarily Matty Healy’s quote that cranked my crazy fan dial down big time. I mean, I can respect, very much, a difference of opinion on tastes and views on very many things. But “Radioactive" by Imagine Dragons is a song my two boys (nine and six) and I belt the lyrics to in the car. The five of us, my husband, myself, my daughter and my sons all - at the same time - take the exaggerated breath in the beginning and channel our inner Dan Reynolds. We join together over a song and its lyrics blow through our car, our home, all of us connected by music - this music. It doesn’t feel like nothingness to us.
My son (who’s 9) often dances emphatically to “Gold”, putting on a performance for us to witness. He knows the words to nearly every line. So when we heard Imagine Dragons were coming to Chicago, my husband and I decided to bring him and a friend to experience the love of a band - live. Then a shooter in Las Vegas killed 58 people and injured hundreds more at a concert the weekend before our show here in Chicago. There was a blaring part of me that begged me to stay home and not risk our lives. In fact we almost did. I was so scared. But music is so powerful and he was so excited and ultimately the experience of what Brené Brown calls “collective effervessence” that intense no-drug high you get from taking part in something with others over something you feel a complete connection with is something I wanted him to have, one of the gifts of living.
Imagine Dragons is a new band to me. I know they’ve been around a long time but my discovery and experience of them is still unfolding. And the last concert I attended was, of course, The 1975. At one point while Imagine Dragons was singing their second song, I said to my husband that it kind of felt like a Christian rock concert. Let me tell you the vast difference in experiences compared to The 1975 that was. The boys, they were in a trance and would break out only to dance and smile - their faces wowed - throughout the whole show.
But what moved me from liking the band, to having a deep respect and admiration for them wasn’t what they sang at the concert, it was what Dan Reynolds said at their show that gave me goosebumps, twice. First about a half hour into the show, Dan addressed the audience about Las Vegas, promising his fans that they would do everything they possibly could to ensure that their concerts continue to be safe and that fans can continue to feel safe at them. As a mom bringing the people I love most in this world, to a concert where weeks ago people who were loved by their people more than anything in the world were gunned down, addressing that was a big deal to me. The thought of a shooter terrorizing a show - something that was once unimaginable, and now a reality, nearly kept us home, and kept me searching for exits just in case, and on high alert the entire time. Dan Reynolds is not magical. He does not have the power to guarantee the safety of his fans, but acknowledging that he’s aware of what it takes to be there now, earned him icon status in my book.
The second time I felt a rush of awe and admiration at the show, was when he addressed the fans about his personal struggle with depression, right before belting into “Demons.” The coolest part about the whole montage, was his ability to identify his depression as also the source for his deep creativity and the gifts he’s able to bring into the world. He didn’t just say, “I have depression, and you’re not alone.” His message was, “I have depression.” and “You’re not alone.” and “Seek out a therapist.” and “These demons are also the source of my gifts.” A lot of people talk about depression and awareness of depression is growing. But not many talk about the struggle between the gifts they’ve been given and their depression that haunts them. There were a lot of young people in the audience that night. And I’m willing to bet there were a lot of young people in the audience that struggle with depression. That message that you can have depression and that as dark as it is there are stories inside of it, well, people need to hear that more.
I fast-forward now to the present. I still love The 1975, still really respect and admire Matty Healy’s clever, lyrical prose and his vulnerability in being so completely authentic. Being that public and authentic is, I’m certain, a difficult feat saying it incredibly lightly. But now I have another favorite band too and who would’ve thought they’d be the nothingness band that Matty Healy suggested. I’m holding space for Imagine Dragons in my heart now, and whether you like it or not Matty, you’re right there with them. There’s room for us all.