Refrain Yourself

I often curse myself for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.   
Well, really, I guess it’s more like not being in the right place at the right time – or the right decade.

I’ve missed far too many earth-shattering musical events by virtue of being born in the tail end of the ’80s, being left to wistfully watch commemorative DVDs or re-runs on VH1.

Celebrating the 40th anniversaries of Woodstock and the release of the Beatles’ “Abbey Road,” this year reminded me once again that I missed out on a major social and musical movement and the actual existence of my favorite band, not to mention the glory days of Motown, the British Invasion and events like Monterey Pop that also thrived in the ’60s. 

I missed out on the development of the punk movement in the ’70s. I wasn’t around to see Elvis in his heyday. I was too young to appreciate the bulk of great underground music in the ’90s and, instead, discovered it years later, realizing far too late what I was unknowingly missing.

Can you imagine anticipating the releases of albums like the Beach Boys’ “Pet Sounds” or The Clash’s “London Calling”, being there to see things grow and experience the magic as it happens?

I’ve only seen Bob Dylan in his later, less-intelligible years. Legends have died in my lifetime. My musical heroes can only remain in my mind as figments of my imagination, pieced together from what I’ve seen and heard second hand.

I can kick myself again and again, even though it is by no means anyone’s fault. It’s really just the curse of a music lover in general – no matter how many life-altering shows you’ve seen or bands you’ve grown alongside of, it always seems to pale in comparison to those epic events you missed. Multiply this by 1,000 if you’re a fan of anything that predates your mother’s high school graduation.

I guess this should be a lesson to myself to stop wanting what I can’t have and envying my authority figures for merely being alive in decades when such wonderful music was being made.

It isn’t that I’m terribly unfortunate. I’ve seen that less-intelligible Bob Dylan twice. I saw a Freddie Mercury-less version of Queen, but it was Queen nonetheless. I can’t even recall all the bands I saw in my high school treks to Warped Tour.

I’ve been a part of beautiful, burgeoning music scenes made up of the passion of people my age, stowed away in basements and tiny venues for only us to remember.

I’ve seen wonderful artists and experienced great new music in my own time that, generations from now, younger kids might envy.

So while I still yearn to know what it feels like to be a contemporary of my beloved musical heroes, I guess I can be content knowing that I’m the contemporary of music heroes of the future. I cannot wait for the bragging rights.