Even in person, his bony frame and stringy hair did nothing to hint at the genius of his song-writing and human exploration. But when he opened his mouth and scrunched up his forehead to convey incomparable emotion, I was so amazed…because he was real.
(trigger warning: sentimentality and overindulgence)
I first heard Christopher Owen’s former band, GIRLS, at a really strange point of my life. It was a stark period in which I attempted to navigate through confusion and bereavement so engulfing that words couldn’t even help me. I was scared because for the first time, I was without my articulation. Writing had always been my security blanket! But at that scary moment in time, I had no words to fall back on because I couldn’t, for the life of me, express what I was going through.
I vividly remember the first time I heard “Hellhole Ratrace.” I remember seeing the music video and wondering who the voice and genius was behind the inexpressible lyrics. (“I’m all alone with my deep thoughts/I’m all alone with my heartache and my good intentions.”) Or the first time I heard “Broken Dreams Club” and was blown over by how personal it was to my own struggle (“I know you feel like I do too/And even though I’m close to you,/I can’t be what you need/You’re just as lost as me.”) I began to realize that the band’s front-man and songwriter (Christopher Owens) was an acquired taste [I had heard many people I respect discrediting the value of his voice or music.] But, to me, Owens was articulating profound emotions I personally couldn’t explain but felt so deeply.
Earlier today, I had lunch with my friend Brooke at a café on University, and we discussed how disillusioned we were with the people we once idolized. When we were both high schoolers in our respective suburbs, artists were like unreal, unattainable connections to a very new-agey enlightenment. So, when we both flocked to the city, we expected to change in some way indicative of this “enlightenment.”
But we had both realized as we had begun to work with people we admired or have very few degrees of separation with artists we respected, the “enlightenment” never occurred. We only had really gotten more disillusioned and confused by how we had previously (and still) idolize very normal people. The conversation was particularly frightening because I didn’t even know who was without the admiration I have for people I aspire to be like.
I saw Christopher Owens perform tonight at (le) poisson rouge.
Owens grew up in the infamous cult Children of God, eventually moved to a war-torn Slovenia and eventually eventually, after befriending Ariel Pink, began to explore music. He never went to school, which means he was never spoon-fed conventionalities and cultivated to be indicative of societal normalcy. Instead, he expresses very organic and completely universal emotions in simplistic form. And that’s what, I feel, is so tremendous about him.
I felt no disillusionment when he closed his eyes to croak out, “If your heart is broken, you will find fellowship with me” when performing his “Here We Go.” I felt anything but. His earnest voice and shell-shocked emotion felt more personal to me than any word that had left my own mouth in months.
An out-of-body experience, his second solo show was devastatingly personal. When I met him, I said nothing of consequence, but he had given me hope, incomparable to that of any heart to heart with a friend or any hopeful semi-autobiographical New Yorker article. I knew I would be okay because he had the strength to be okay.
I walked home and glanced at my reflection while passing by the risotto restaurant and realized that I was so fortunate to have my own stories to tell and to be the witness of such beautifully complicated people close to me. I had realized that I was proud of the person I was becoming and so unbelievably proud of the people I surrounded myself with.
It’s a weird crossing point because I feel as though I have just gotten used to this scary city and am now leaving to Ghana for five months. But these are my stories, and I am so excited that this is my life and that you’re here to read this/share your stories and overly indulgent self-reflective blog posts with me and that Christopher Owens exists to say things I can’t say.
Thank you.
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