Illegal Foreign Object

A particularly infuriating phone call last night had me searching for something familiar I could lean into for a few hours. Traversing the technological tightrope for tacit truth, I stumbled across Cameron Crowe’s Almost Famous, his semi-autobiographical, Academy Award-winning ode to the early-70s rock n roll scene.

Crowe has a history with me — his 1992 film Singles, a flick set in Seattle during that time we all remember and loved, was one we loved as teenagers. All these years later, it remains a go-to when I want to feel like I felt during the days of movie-watching parties, wandering hands under a blanket, aimless meanderings with friends, and fuckin’ figuring it out, man.

I’ve probably seen Almost Famous 25 times — it’s never anything other than exactly what I need it to be at the time.

Every last character in the movie is on their own odyssey, fraught with Medusas, Kalypsos, and angry gods galore, all under a cloak of various human frailties seeking to drag individual and collective down into the muck.

Penny Lane and her merry band of “Band-Aids” are battling perception during a time when women were raising a middle finger to convention.

Wide-eyed rock scribe William Miller is pushing against his innocence, chipping away at his very form while stretching out as far as he can, seeking growth, freedom (and maybe an answer or two). In the end, he realizes the chains of youth he endeavored to eschew are a warm blanket he decides to wrap himself in for a while longer. The years don’t equal fewer problems, just different ones.

Russell Hammond, the brooding-but-heartened guitarist of Stillwater is navigating the knowledge of being the true star of a band of brothers he knows limits his creative freedom.

His frontman, singer Jeff Bebe, is battling Imposter Syndrome.

Anita, William’s older sister, is frantically trying to escape their mother’s protective clutches while their mom is doing everything she can to keep her kids safe in a rapidly changing world that has already claimed her husband.

The flick was what I needed last night. It’s funny where it needs to be funny (Philip Seymour Hoffman’s take on Lester Bangs is inspired — “You’ll meet them all again on the long journey to the middle“), serious when it’s called for (“Most people are just waiting to talk, but you listen”), and always leads with its heart (“The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool”). Crowe has always written dialog and characters that resonate.

Born in ’77, I missed out on this era of history (save for what I’ve gleaned from tunes, books, documentaries, etc.), but its siren song has always called out to me. The bands I grew up loving all grew up loving Sabbath, Zeppelin, and the like. And so it goes, the rolling wheel of life, love, and rock n roll, no?

In this decaying Age of Influencers putting forth fool’s gold, I mine for the real deal. It ain’t in abundance anymore, but the odd nugget can still be excavated, provided your eyes are open, your back doesn’t bite, and your mind’s as sharp as your pickaxe.

“It’s all happening.”