The Piano Man

You may have noticed from my most recent entry that my soundtrack this weekend was presented to me by Billy Joel. (In fact, he just finished singing the last few desperate words of "Pressure" in my ears.)

Every generation has their musical poet. There are those that say Bob Dylan holds this title, and maybe he does. I could never get past his voice to actually listen to (or even decipher, at times) what he was singing. I've been told it is moving and meaningful stuff. Maybe I'm thinking too hard about "what the hell did he just say?" to be moved.

Today, with close to 4,000 songs on my iTunes account, I have categories that possibly didn't exist when I was a child. What artist would I possibly categorize as "Funk Polka"? How would Scott Joplin feel to know that he's musically listed between Norah Jones and Keane? John Legend, John Lennon, Annie Lennox and Jerry Lee Lewis may wonder who the hell their musical neighbor, Lifehouse, is but thus far things seem calm enough.

I can't even say that Billy Joel is the musical poet of "my generation". I still fear that me and the rest of the 1968 children are unclaimed, generationally speaking. Musically, I missed the 60s and only became aware of so-named popular music in the mid-70s. I not only remember when MTV played music videos but, way before that, I remember thinking that Daryl Dragon was super dreamy, even with the hat.

Oh just shut up.


I'm about to shut this machine off for the evening, but I'd like to share this with you first. While it is clearly a song, I'd suggest reading it as a poem.
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In the beginning,
there was the cold and the night.
Prophets and angels gave us the fire and the light.
Man was triumphant,
armed with the faith and the will
that even the darkest ages couldn't kill.

Too many kingdoms,
too many flags on the field.
So many battles, so many wounds to be healed.
Time is relentless - only true love perseveres.
It's been a long time and now I'm with you
after two thousand years.

This is our moment
here at the crossroads of time.
We hope our children carry our dreams down the line.
They are the vintage.
What kind will they live?
Is this a curse or a blessing that we give?

Sometimes I wonder
why are we so blind to fate?
Without compassion, there can be no end to hate.
No end to sorrow caused by the same endless fears.
Why can't we learn from all we've been through
after two thousand years?

There will be miracles
after the last war is won.
Science and poetry rule in the new world to come.
Prophets and angels
gave us the power to see
what an amazing future there will be.

And, in the evening
after the fire and the light,
one thing is certain: nothing can hold back the night.
Time is relentless and, as the past disappears,
we're on the verge of all things new.
We are two thousand years.
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