Balls and Walnuts
more than you ever wanted to know
State-dependent memory
You have to understand, the faceless dude and the werewolf and the guy spouting technicolor blood out of his neck only make sense if you’re stoned. Then, these things make perfect sense. But not once the high wears off. Oh, you can try and write out an explanation for everything while you’re high, but you won’t be able to understand it later. That’s okay, though, since you’ll understand what you’ve written next time you’re high.
I saw The Song Remains the Same at the Rosemead multiplex, when the movie first came out. That means I was fourteen going on fifteen, which means some adult had to drive me to the movie and pick me up. Think about that for a bit. At the time, I thought my parents were overprotective, but they really weren’t. I don’t think they much cared where I went or who I hung out with. They had already conceived my brother and my sister, so I was Darwinian gravy.
Mind you, I didn’t smoke pot at The Song Remains the Same. I didn’t have to — everyone else in the theater was doing it for me. I had never paid much attention to Led Zeppelin before this movie, nor did I pay much attention to them afterwards. Still, the movie clung to me like dope smoke . . . shower and sleep it off and it’s gone from the memory banks.
I mean, I really don’t remember the chick at the end of this 9 minute snip, the one with the glowing red eyes. You’d think I would remember something like that.
Just now I was trying to explain to Jake that the merit of The Song Remains the Same is that it deepens one’s appreciation for This is Spinal Tap. But now I’m not so sure. The Spinal Tap movie made sense.
We got off on this tangent because for some reason, my boy had discovered The Great Stairway to Heaven Backmasking Controversy (with audio of the relevant passage played backwards and forwards!) Remember when subliminals were a big deal? Remember when there was so little else fucked up in the world that subliminals could be something even remotely big dealish?
I remember those times.
Several days ago, quite out of the blue, my subconscious pushed the words into my forebrain: who will remember our works. I’m still not sure what it means. But it strikes me that the nature of art is that is remembered, while crap disappears with a shower and a good night’s sleep. This is as it should be. Otherwise, the clutter would be horrific.
D.
I liked that when the werewolf was shot only dust puffed out.
There’s more to art than memory, surely. But I would argue that if a work (be it music, film, literature, or one of the graphic arts) leaves no impression on its viewers/listeners, it can’t be art.
Necessary but not sufficient.