Put On Your Best Hat And Knock Some Heads Together

Halloran Parry
Mar 30
5 min read

The Compass. Or north star, or sign post, or whatever. Something that points the way. — *The Compass*. Or north star, or sign post, or whatever. Something that points the way.

“You can do everything completely by yourself, but most likely you will achieve supreme, profound mediocrity. That’s easy. These days everybody is doing that.” --Stevie Van Zandt

***

My recent reading has left me delightedly vexed, and I’ve been wandering around in a state of low-grade irritation, trying to decide what to do about it.

When I head out on trips, I like to load up on library books in advance. It being the library, there’s always a certain element of chance at play. I start with a list; the library usually has some to none of it, I grab some other stuff that looks good, and I always roll the dice on one or two titles that I know absolutely nothing about. If I do like them, I like them so much more because, in addition to liking the book, I get the surprise of liking the book, and that’s a feeling I treasure. Unexpected delight. I can’t get enough.

For a recent trip, gripped by the need for vicariously lived experience, I grabbed five memoirs, working from a rough theme of “people who’ve done stuff I like”. A collection of actors, comedians, and musicians who I know for a fact have led interesting lives and probably have some decent lessons to impart to an aspiring creative.

What followed was a parade of tedious disappointment. Four books attempted, four books discarded in bored disgust as I descended into a sort of psychic listlessness. Here’s a tip, should you ever write a memoir: leave the history texts to the historians and their ~~victims~~ students. I suggest hiring, as your editor, an average five-year-old child. Any content that does not keep said child engaged should be rewritten or removed.

The only book left at this point was the dice roll. A memoir written by a guy in a rock star band. Not even the lead guy! The guy behind the guy. I’m familiar with the band’s work, I like their stuff, and I needed something to roll the dice on, but I gotta tell you my hopes going in were not high.

So imagine my surprise when the book opens in the early 1980s with The Guy Behind The Guy being smuggled through a military blockade into South Africa as part of an effort he spearheaded to overthrow the government. And that was just the prologue.

The Guy is Bruce Springsteen, and The Guy Behind The Guy, whose memoir I was reading, was and is Steven Van Zandt, lead guitarist of the E Street Band, and also, I’m learning, political revolutionary.

Forgive me for judging a book by its cover.

This book is full of surprises. The first was the cover, the second was that whole thing with South Africa, the third was the quality and voice of the writing itself (erudite New Jersey no-bullshit wise guy), and finally there was what he chose to write about.

Behold:

“If I was going to have a solo career, I decided all my records would be concept records. I outlined five general themes that would help me investigate the world, put to use some of the books I had been reading, explore the relationships of power and control, and answer some important questions. Who has the power? Why? What does it mean? How much of the government is endorsed by the governed? Is Rousseau’s social contract being honored? Who or what controls our destinies? What is humanity’s common ground? How much of a chance do we really have to change things?” (Van Zandt 183)

Now look. I have lived a good chunk of my life in California, where we agonize over whether it’s maybe a bit gauche to eat gluten in public around the underprivileged celiac sufferers (you can have my sympathies but not my crusty bread). Out here we’ve built an entire culture tilting ineffectually at the big windmills (e.g. homelessness) while wasting endless time and energy on shit that doesn’t matter. Meanwhile, Garden State Plato over here is throwing down a stunning succession of philosophical gauntlets, all finely tailored, exquisitely bejeweled, and infused with the dual pedigrees of French revolutionary philosophy and the finest traditions of no-nonsense efficacy that Italy has ever dreamed up. With a little New Jersey grit thrown in for good measure.

I’m afraid to commit to one single painting about one small, personal experience, and this guy is tackling the weightiest questions of our age when he’s got a spare moment between gigs.

And that’s before we even get to his penchant for sticking his nose into geopolitical injustice and doing something about it.

“It was obvious that the South African government should not have lasted as long as it had. [...] They couldn’t trust their own cops anymore. They were employing the military to keep the increasing unrest down. Little old Cuba was kicking their asses in Angola. And their economy was hanging by a thread, entirely dependent on the kindness of three white supremacist world leaders. [...] I began formulating a plan.” (Van Zandt 225)

Obvious? To whom?! And while we’re at it, how many people do we know who can not only spot that teetering house of cards for what it is, but also boil down a complex web of geo-political tensions into a single readable paragraph? Was this the memo that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of apartheid?

To my readers in the software world, making a living building and maintaining complex systems: when it comes to readable analysis and communication, we’re all being shown up by a rock star’s vanity project. Fix it.

This is a guy who doesn’t second-guess his conclusions. Doesn’t agonize. Doesn’t make a hobby of beating the shit out of himself.

***

I hate the phrase “don’t meet your heroes.” If you meet your hero and your hero is an asshole, find a better one. KonMari your pantheon of idols. Because then you’ll have some space freed up when you go read this book.

I’ve never met the guy, but we did share an elevator once. It was a hotel at SXSW. I was deeply hungover and headed to the hotel lobby in search of my first cup of coffee, and so I was completely unprepared when the doors opened and six feet of E Street glare bored right through my soul. Anyway, I survived the elevator ride in silence and Mr. Van Zandt hasn’t ended up in the news for unsavory reasons, so I’m ok letting him camp out on one of my pedestals for a while. Although if the book is any indication, he’d have no patience for it.

Unrequited Infatuations is the latest addition to my collection of guidance and help. Something I consult when I’m lost. “What would Stevie Van Zandt do?” is a great question to ask myself because the answer is usually some version of “put on your best hat* and knock some heads together.” Go read the book.