I’m a longtime supporter of the troubadours, the bards, even the rakish mountebanks who proffer wisdom and humor for the people. To quote one of the great beacons of my more writerly habits, Tom Robbins, “Humanity has advanced, when it has advanced, not because it has been sober, responsible, and cautious, but because it has been playful, rebellious, and immature.”
The reason I like ’em all is because they tend to be virulently anti-fascist and anti-imperialist in their creative work and public character. And they’re often very funny. This matters quite a lot to me. A keen wit and an incisive humanitarian commentary are how I arm myself and revel in life with my loved ones.
(Why am I writing this? Why is any of this happening?)
Take Raffi Cavoukian, for instance. He helped kick-start my interest in music back when I was knee-high to a scruffy mutt, and I haven’t stopped listening to whatever sonic innovation and good-time grooves I can find. It’s how I spend my time, collecting perspectives and knowledge and jokes. Music is a terrific vehicle for all of the above, as are things like “books.” I’m not sure if that word means what I think it means in your modern tongue, but “books” convey ideas and narratives and fantastical visions of what once was and what might one day be again. Selah.