A Man of Constant Sorrow

Elmer Fudd as the legendary Germanic hero Siegfried, trying to kill Bugs Bunny in the highly acclaimed Warner Brothers cartoon "What's Opera Doc?"

“What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns, or watching violent videos, that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery, and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?” ~ Nick Hornby, High Fidelity, as spoken by Rob 

I was tempted to joke that my first introduction to classical music came from Elmer Fudd crooning “Kill the Wabbit” in What’s Opera Doc? (1957) or, later, from Alex DeLarge in Stanley Kubrick’s adaptation of A Clockwork Orange (1971), but the truth—far less surreal, though richer in its own way—is that I grew up in a traditional Italian American household in the ’70s, where I was raised with many of the greats—Scarlatti, Pergolesi, Cimarosa, and the rest. Our house was also alive with Neapolitan folk, American country, soft rock, and all the Italian American standards.

Dressed as KISS guitarist Ace Frehley
for Halloween, sometime in the 1970s

Exposed to different music outside the home, my taste began to shift—first to hard rock, then to punk, post-punk, new wave, and beyond. I remember driving my poor mother crazy by playing David Bowie’s “Space Oddity” (1969) so often that she finally went out and bought me headphones for my stereo. They were heavy, clunky, and had a long spiral cable—and, like the song, they felt like something from the future.

Rock 'n' roll was such an integral part of our angst-ridden teen years that my friends and I attended shows nearly every weekend. I was drawn to its raw, visceral energy and anti-establishment ethos. The New York City scene was electric, with no shortage of venues—from dives like CBGB to nightclubs like the Palladium and the Old Ritz (now Webster Hall), ballrooms like Irving Plaza and Roseland, and, of course, arenas like Madison Square Garden. We saw everyone from Blondie to the Buzzcocks, from the Ramones to the Pogues. I left many a show with a fat lip, a bloody nose, and a black eye—and had the time of my life.

If we weren’t at a gig, we were at a record shop, scouring the vinyl bins for the next great album to add to our collection. Whenever we did make that discovery, we would invite our friends over for a record party, where we danced, socialized, and had fun.

A relatable and genuinely funny meme

While I no longer need distortion to feel intensity, I mostly listen these days to classical, opera, chamber, and choral music. Still, I indulge in the guilty pleasure of bygone bands like Joy Division and Depeche Mode—and even, occasionally, the “newer” ones. By “newer,” of course, I mean groups still performing decades later, like the dark cabaret band Roma Amor and the raucous art-rock duo mr. Gnome. The old fogey that I am, I find most contemporary music—pop, hip-hop, dance, and what passes for country today—unlistenable.

I say “guilty pleasure” because I think of myself as a traditionalist, someone who ought to have severed ties with my less-than-savory youthful predilections long ago. Not only in music, but in other spheres too—books, films, even sports. Yet the truth is inescapable: I am a product of modernity. The very culture I often critique is the same one that shaped my tastes, gave me my rebellions, and still leaves its seedy fingerprints on what I enjoy. No matter how much I aspire to something older, steadier, and more rooted, there’s no denying the pull of the modern world that made me.

Just as at home in the opera house, the cabaret, and flamenco bar—places that blur high and low, refinement and roughness—I’ve never fit neatly into one world or another.

So what came first, the music or the misery? In my case, the misery was always there. I recognize myself in that old American ballad, a man of constant sorrow, wandering through life with heartbreak, noise, and exile as my companions. Yet even at its darkest—whether in the eerie, childlike deadpan of Su Tissue (Suburban Lawns) or the fury of Ludwig van Beethoven—music never left me in despair. It gave me release, belonging, and even joy. From Scarlatti to New Order, from chant to pizzica, music has been my constant companion—through sorrow, yes, but also toward moments of light, beauty, and something greater than myself.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, October 21st, Feast of Blessed Karl I of Austria