Irony, Sincerity, and the Quiet Work of Becoming
I used to think sincerity and irony lived on opposite sides of a line.
Sincerity felt like childhood. Open windows. Music played too loud. Letting things land without first checking how they might be received.
Irony felt like adulthood. Distance. Taste as armor. Knowing how to belong without revealing too much.
What I understand now is that irony is often sincerity that learned how to survive.
That realization came back to me unexpectedly while watching a movie scene I thought I already understood.
A few days after seeing Song Sung Blue, Pearl Jam posted an old clip from Milwaukee Summerfest. Eddie Vedder onstage with Lightning & Thunder. A moment that, viewed through today’s eyes, feels uncomfortable. A little sharp. A little knowing. The kind of posture that reads less like generosity and more like performance.
It landed differently for me than it once might have.
Not because I wanted Eddie to be perfect.
But because I no longer believe people are frozen at their worst moments.
I felt disappointed, yes. But more than that, I felt certain that what I was seeing was not who he is now.
And that certainty said something about me.
THE LONG BRIDGE HOME
An Essay About Music, Place, and the Quiet Work of Becoming
If you had asked the younger version of me who I was meant to be, I would have said something confident, rehearsed, and completely wrong.
I was a Boulder kid who went to Boston to major in music — the kind of student who imagined himself under stage lights, whatever success was supposed to look like back then. I believed, without ever articulating it, that real art lived in big cities, in big scenes, in places with reputations.