I Was Depressed and Now I'm Not

Why is 28 such a milestone? I've been 28 for over half a year now, and
it still affects me deeply. 21 was nothing, 26 kinda hurt, but 28!
Given that 27 is the classic Rock Star Death Age, I've outlived
countless rock heroes (Cobain, Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison), who were in
their prime when I was just getting hints of what "prime" actually
meant. Now here I am, playing guitars and drums every night, courting
dreams of rock star glory, laughing in the face of the youth-obsessed
pop AND alternative cultures. Last night, I saw the Pixies and the
Violent Femmes rock Red Rocks, both with members will into their late
(?) 30s and even 40s, but with plenty of the rockist vitality which
made them face (even if their hairlines were a little more sparse). Can
one rock if one is old? Once one becomes old, isn't it time for more
"adult" forms of performance work, especially stand-up comedy? Rock
stardom seems almost tailor-made for vain youthful romanticism, whereas
comedy is the poetic vehicle of the jaded oldster, the man nearing
middle age (not that, uh, 28 is anywhere middle age), the man who's
seen it all and can only shake his head at the laughably naive ideals
of the Kids with the Guitars.

But then, what about Guided by Voices? The Dayton, OH indie legends
never even became a band until well into their 40s, but once they
did--hot damn! I mean, "Alien Lanes"? Greatest album ever made. Ditto
"Bee Thousand." Sure, their latter stuff proved to be wanting, but all
is forgiven with "Lanes" and "Bee", and damn it: the odl bastards put
out a new album every year--sometimes two! And the live shows! No
20-something punk could drink as much as GBV frontman Robert Pollard,
and no one rocked the mic with 60s-tinged British Invasion indie guitar
pop the way he and his oldster pals could do it.

I vividly remember two summers ago, jumping up and down in a 2-3 inch
puddle of beer, blood, and broken glass IN MY FLIP-FLOPS, shouting
along to every damn word spewing from Mr. Pollard's loud sloshy mouth.
"Echoes Myron", "Motor Away", "Teenage FBI", "Tractor Rape Train"--all
the classics were in evidence (some of them twice, those drunk fucks),
and with arms around pals both new and old, I echoed back the
unceasingly compelling rock drama the five-piece culled from their
PBR-drenched bodies and mechanical extensions. Pollard swings the mic
chord, sweat sprays and bounces off the cieling, arm pits release a
flood of Live Exixir, and all wounds are healed, all wrongs forgiven,
all misdeeds taken back, buried, smothered, erased, forgotten, and let
go of/released.

Yes, Rock is the Language of Pan, but Pan is not an energy or a
lifeform available only to the young. Pan--the rock star energy--is a
divine archetype, an energy being/vortex sitting outside the stream of
time, available to all who put his practice into place, who invoke his
unquenchable passionate rage-tastic mania for LIFE. Call him KUNDALINI,
call him the SNAKE, call him BAPHOMET, call him the WORLD SOUL, the
DIVINE FEMININE, the INFINITELY SMALL DOT FROM WHICH ALL IS DERIVED.

Just don't call him too old to rock.