Okay

Emerson once wrote that ‘In every work of genius, we recognize our own rejected thoughts; they come back to us with a certain alienated majesty.”

With this definition in mind, songwriters are a particular type of genius creators. With a melody and relatively few words (usually between 100-300), the best have a rare ability to sing to us as if the words were moving from our own minds to mouths.

As most people who I’ve ever shared a home with will attest to, when I find a songwriter who speaks to me, I wear them out. Listening to their music repeatedly, leaning into each word. Blasting it in my ears, my house, my car until not only do I know most of the lyrics but so does anyone living with me.

Recent lyricist binges have included Joy Oladukun, Noah Kahan, Zach Bryan and Jelly Roll.

When I first heard of Jelly, I dismissed him and his music. His name was ridiculous to me – not realizing that it was a term of endearment from his mother – reflecting his habit of having a jelly donut after church every Sunday.  I couldn’t understand why someone would have that many tattoos, including multiple face tats.Then I learned that he got his first tattoo at 14 in memory of a friend who died of AIDS. The teardrop on his face represents his time in jail, the cross on his face, a hopeful act of redemption.

I was judging the book by the cover.  When I saw him speak for the first time, he was a guest judge on American Idol. He was kind and compassionate to the contestants and his advice was spot on. More than anything you could see the joy he felt in helping others.

It wasn’t until last week that I had listened to any of his music in earnest, when I heard him on Saturday Night Live. In one song, referencing his first trip to rehab, he sings,  ‘Everybody here’s felt the same defeat / Nobody walks through these doors on a winning streak.’  Fifteen words packing a powerful punch.

So that sent me down the Jelly Roll rabbit hole on Spotify the next day.  It was during a particularly difficult week, when I listened to his song, “I’m Not Okay.”   It broke me.

It is a song of sadness (“I am not okay/I’m barely getting by”), struggle (“I’m hanging on the rails/So if I say I’m fine/Just know I learned to hide it well.”), community (“I know, I can’t be the only one, Who’s holding on for dear life,”) and ultimately hope (“When it’s all said and done, I’m not okay, But it’s all gonna be alright.”)

Alienated majesty indeed.

Song after song similarly resonated with me, each for a different reason. Music’s ability to connect us to others and ourselves is unique and remarkable.

He refers to the invaluable role that music has played in his life and what he hopes his music does for others in this interview.  Saying “I’m constantly writing songs to show people that it’s OK to be a work in progress… Music was always there to give me a hug. So I just want to do that for people.”

Thanks Jelly for the hug. It is all going to be alright.

Recommendation for the week:  Listen to “I’m Not Okay.” 

 

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