Content Warning: This article discusses death
I’ve never been a fan. True, I’ve seen her in concert and, yup, took notes at a press conference. All work, of course. Hand on heart, I don’t spin her stuff, don’t own any of her records or merch and that ain’t about to change. One thing I’ll say about Britney Spears is that we share something, one single thing, in common. We both need a little “me time,” because of our fathers.
Last Thursday morning, the pop music world hit a little road bump when Brit announced she would step away from the spotlight, for good reason. Her dad suffered a life-threatening colon rupture last year, and his health problems apparently haven’t abated.
Actions speak volumes, and Spears made a big call. Not for the first time. Back in January, the ‘Toxic’ singer pressed pause on a lucrative Las Vegas residency, for the sake of her dad. There’s no timeline for a return. Clearly she has important issues to crack on with.
All the glitter in Vegas means nothing when your people are sick. All the money in the world won’t bring them back when they’re gone.
Brit made a big call, and the right one. I’m firmly ensconced in her camp on this. My own father died recently, without warning. What I would’ve given for some extra “me and dad time” time before he left us.
Dad left us on a Thursday, Feb. 28, and I was a functioning mess for weeks after. He was 81, with a mind sharp as a laser. I figured he’d live another 10 years.
At least I was sure he’d match his dad, who died in his hometown of Winterthur, Switzerland, aged 86. Or him mum, Emma, who despite losing a lung to cancer in her younger years, pushed on to 93.
I’d seen dad, Max, the previous day. He appeared to be in fine form, talking about politics, George Pell. Big issues. He was a retired professor, there was nothing he didn’t know or couldn’t explain.
Given the right wind up, dad could speak at great length on history and culture, art, and flesh it out with names, dates, all of it accurate.
He could lecture in five languages, which he did professionally when he ran the Institute of Modern Languages at the University of Queensland for many years. That’s just showing off.
The son of a postman and a farmer, my old man arrived in Australia on a boat in the late ‘50s. By the end of it all, he’d published more than 20 books — he was working on a final tome when he died — and was twice honoured by the Queen.
His death was a total sucker-punch, hitting about three months after the loss of my childhood buddy Deva, who succumbed to cancer in his mid-40s. His mum worked with my dad way back in the day.
here’s something about shock, or “ground zero grief.” It’s nasty. You can’t outrun it. It’s an awful stink that hounds you all day, and into your dreams.
You just can’t trick yourself into thinking you’re swell. We’ve all done it when we sweat over a presentation or consider balking on a party. You punch through. This is different.
Many of us have considered that worst-case scenario, a sudden death of family, and how we’d manage. Perhaps you’d shut off the phone, lock the door and scream in a pillow for a week. Or maybe turn into deranged stand-up comedian.
Those first few days after tragedy strikes are like nothing else. You won’t hear about it because your friends and family with experience either don’t remember or don’t want to remember.
That first stretch is no time for quiet reflection. It’s no voyage of personal discovery, as much as you want to spin it. It’s like an anvil dropped on your head from a great height. Crushing. Your body and brain are battling trauma.
I experienced a bad trip for a week. My memory was a drain. Driving was out. I managed to leave the stove on for two hours, so cooking was a no-no. Headaches, no sleep.
There was something else I didn’t expect.
For me, music sounded different in that early, strange stage of grief. I wrapped my world with “comfort food.”
Favourite music and movies, the good stuff. Those go-to records I’ve lived with, that are embedded in my DNA. And none of them sounded the same. Duran Duran’s magnum opus Rio, an album I obsessed over as an 11 year old and still do, somehow wasn’t right.
Stream Duran Duran’s Rio below:
A record I’d heard 100s of times now hit my ears like it was blasting from a mud pit. Boards of Canada’s Music Has the Right to Children now sounded grey and lifeless. William Orbit’s Pieces in a Modern Style sounded like it was recorded in a big old room on a single mic.
It was like an insult to injury. When you want your favourites, your head can’t accept them. The only tunes that would stick were Aphex Twin’s ‘#3’, a track so melancholy your own problems now seem to have a friend, and Jon Hopkins’ minimal monster “Collider.” Apologies to Stardust, but music sounds better without grief.
Stream William Orbit’s Pieces in a Modern Style below:
Mercifully, the cloud lifted after and the bog-standard, relentless “conventional grief” did its thing. It’s still there. My many friends who reached out with their own experiences tell me it’ll always hang. Another thing I learned from all this: death certificates look just like birth certificates.
Back to Britney, I’m still not a fan but I’m a fan of her decision. Family first, as it should be. Prepare for the worst, and prepare for the best. And yes, get some “me time.” Get all you need. Your fans love a “comeback.” And if that musical “comfort food” doesn’t go down right, just give it some time.
Lars is off this week, getting some “me time” with family and friends, watching movies and soaking up music which sounds exactly how it should.
