The Growth of Andrew Savage
Four albums deep into their career, my favorite band, Parquet Courts, released their most personally-affecting album. Not pushing at the outsides of art, nor self-reflective to the point of admission, Parquet Courts' fourth LP can be summed up by the song "Tenderness," which closes the album. In it, Andrew Savage, the co-frontman of the quartet tries to break down some of the scaffolding any of us have constructed by our 30s.
A distinct moment on this record occurs after a rumbling catapult from the two-part song "Almost Had to Start a Fight," and "In and Out of Patience," pummel us with the realization that there's nothing black and white about living in the chaos dimension and to look for meaning is futile, literally transitioning halfway through from mono to stereo, and addressing the idea of self-doubt and how we handle it.
"This next one's called Freebird II!" Savage announces to a faux-live audience before a distinctly throwback organ and mid-tempo rhythm bounce along, seemingly tongue-in-cheek. The song steps into the slippers of a warm past and draws upon that mellow palate to set the frame for the song, it's nostalgia in the way Parquet Courts can code it. Thoughtful nostalgia with a bit of cheek.
The music of the generation that was supposed to be there to provide tenderness for us. For some of us, it's a sort of totem, representing the shirking of responsibility we only grapple with when we come to the same crossroads and realize that the excuses we were fed in our more naive years are just that, excuses. The use of "Freebird" as a winking eye isn't just meant to be a play on the song's sound.
The last decade, as I became an adult and my mother reconnected with me -- to satisfy something in herself, appeasement of guilt or to pad a dwindling supply of enablers -- I often mistook her affiliation for affection. I misunderstood the driving force behind everything she does because I assumed (wrongly) she was like me. I assumed she cared about me as a person, and insofar as I'm a pale reflection of her, she does. And that's the extent of it.
The character in the song is an older brother and he tries to cope with his mother's legacy in his own life while contextualizing his experience in the idea of growing up knowing that this mantle and burden, which had been his, aren't his alone. ("Who was I was that name was just mine?") This idea, that a child can't possibly understand how their parents actions affect them, makes my heart break.
I will never know the dread my older brothers felt. I can't. I wouldn't want to know. I remember enough of my young years that I'll never speak of, and I can only assume it wasn't better for them. The echoes of our parents negative cycles and habits spin through us, whether we are cognizant of it or not, we are shaped by their presence or absence. There's no getting around that and, whether or not you want to accept it, you are a product of your environment. The only way to break that chain is to recognize it and consciously choose to become a different person.
So what is the right way to deal with a person like this? That's where I am. I still speak to her. I still maintain a relationship, though I keep her in a sandbox and when she kicks in the sand into my face because I don't facilitate her self-pity, I can see the sad, scared little girl underneath who never self-actualized into an adult and it doesn't breed resentment. I just feel sorry for her.
The years of anger have crystalized into something different. It's pity. I pity her for her wasted life. I pity her for her addiction. I pity her for her selfishness. I pity her for squandering the happiness she could have experienced because of her short-sightedness.
I'm in a unique place in that I can observe both of my brothers from an objective place and see how two approaches are dramatically-different trajectories: my oldest brother is one of the kindest, funniest and most genuinely good people I know. But his most commendable character trait is that he is a good father. He's proof that the cycle can be broken.
We are not prisoners. Most of us, anyway.
"This next one's called Freebird II!" Savage announces to a faux-live audience before a distinctly throwback organ and mid-tempo rhythm bounce along, seemingly tongue-in-cheek. The song steps into the slippers of a warm past and draws upon that mellow palate to set the frame for the song, it's nostalgia in the way Parquet Courts can code it. Thoughtful nostalgia with a bit of cheek.
The music of the generation that was supposed to be there to provide tenderness for us. For some of us, it's a sort of totem, representing the shirking of responsibility we only grapple with when we come to the same crossroads and realize that the excuses we were fed in our more naive years are just that, excuses. The use of "Freebird" as a winking eye isn't just meant to be a play on the song's sound.
I’ve learned how not to miss the age of tendernessWhen I was three years old, I came to live with my aunt and uncle. Their three daughters accepted my two older brothers and me with open arms and we grew up as siblings. I did not understand at the time just how this all happened, and I still don't, but it doesn't matter.
That I am so lucky to have seen once
And now that I’ve become older I’ve learned how to brush over
My history and how it’s sequenced
When I think about you I see a person who
Hasn’t existed for a long time
Before you started using, before I starting choosing
To do the same thing for the same reasons
The first name I called you is not a name at all
More of a duty than a function
Often an execution, often with deep confusion of
‘Who was I when that name was just mine?’
Like a serpent charmer negotiating harm
I live with a basket of your silence
And as the years record I can feel it growing bored
But I keep the top on in the meantime
When I pass my reflection there isn’t any question of
Where the person in it came from
When I catch myself thinking and hear the voice that speaks inside
I know where I got my brain from
Every step I’ve strayed from and followed
Led me to the same location
Every act I’ve forsake and borrowed
A delivery to now
And I’ve never wondered how I came to be
I feel free like you promised I’d be
The last decade, as I became an adult and my mother reconnected with me -- to satisfy something in herself, appeasement of guilt or to pad a dwindling supply of enablers -- I often mistook her affiliation for affection. I misunderstood the driving force behind everything she does because I assumed (wrongly) she was like me. I assumed she cared about me as a person, and insofar as I'm a pale reflection of her, she does. And that's the extent of it.
The character in the song is an older brother and he tries to cope with his mother's legacy in his own life while contextualizing his experience in the idea of growing up knowing that this mantle and burden, which had been his, aren't his alone. ("Who was I was that name was just mine?") This idea, that a child can't possibly understand how their parents actions affect them, makes my heart break.
I will never know the dread my older brothers felt. I can't. I wouldn't want to know. I remember enough of my young years that I'll never speak of, and I can only assume it wasn't better for them. The echoes of our parents negative cycles and habits spin through us, whether we are cognizant of it or not, we are shaped by their presence or absence. There's no getting around that and, whether or not you want to accept it, you are a product of your environment. The only way to break that chain is to recognize it and consciously choose to become a different person.
So what is the right way to deal with a person like this? That's where I am. I still speak to her. I still maintain a relationship, though I keep her in a sandbox and when she kicks in the sand into my face because I don't facilitate her self-pity, I can see the sad, scared little girl underneath who never self-actualized into an adult and it doesn't breed resentment. I just feel sorry for her.
The years of anger have crystalized into something different. It's pity. I pity her for her wasted life. I pity her for her addiction. I pity her for her selfishness. I pity her for squandering the happiness she could have experienced because of her short-sightedness.
I'm in a unique place in that I can observe both of my brothers from an objective place and see how two approaches are dramatically-different trajectories: my oldest brother is one of the kindest, funniest and most genuinely good people I know. But his most commendable character trait is that he is a good father. He's proof that the cycle can be broken.
We are not prisoners. Most of us, anyway.
