NOISE F.M: William Card
Just as I mentioned last week, my life teeters on the fine line between perfection and absolute dumpster fire. I can safely say that these last couple days have felt like a verified, coarse, Bob Dylan sounding, smoldering dumpster fire. Though, is it justified to feel like a flaming pile of trash for more than two weeks? Seems like a spell of bad karma to me.
In recent headlines, Bob Dylan was announced the recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize for literature. The Nobel award is an internationally recognized award and carries significant weight in the value of someone’s legacy. Personally, I couldn’t help but be wretchedly reminded of Bob Dylan’s whiny, hoarse, and strange voice. Too many times I’ve loved a song, and then learned it was a cover of a Dylan song, and slowly sank into displeasure.
Example A: Adele covering “Make You Feel My Love.” Wicked song, ornate delivery, and meaningful exhibition. Example B, Dylan performing “Make You Feel My Love.” Nasally semblance, dehydrated delivery, and irksome intonation. Being the butt of many jokes as a kid, hearing my professor supportively compare my voice to that of Dylan’s didn’t come as much of a compliment, but as a morale-destroying declaration.
The summer bridging my senior year to my first year at CU Denver was merely a period of pimping out my self-confidence: “you’re going to school in Colorado, kid!” I told myself before orientation, “you’ll be the next Marcus Mumford!” Students introduced themselves, where they’re from, and briefly listed their catalog of personal enterprises and projects. That begun the unfortunate ungluing of my perfected pimping period.
The semester lead me through highs, lows, and in-betweens as I struggled to find my own identity as a songwriter. Grappling with a severe intonation problem, I was even diagnosed in a performance class in front of my peers as having pasmodic dysphonia, or a jerky-hoarse-vocal-disorder. “Just think of unconventional songwriters,” my professor said reassuringly, “not everyone needed to be loved to be a star.”
“Forget your history,” I grouse to myself. “Forget your past.” Times like these make is tempting to forsake your path. Recognize your struggle, and embrace it as your own. My professor was right. Not everyone will love you, but at the end of the day, we need to love ourselves.