There was a party round ours over the weekend. And there was food and booze and family and friends and it was fun and kind and there were smiles and there was laughter.
And there was chit and there was chat and there were songs. And there was much lamentation about music not being what it was. About it not being about reaching out to connect with others, to bring together, to change the world. Not like 20 years ago.
And there were disagreements about politics and there was resolution over shared pizza and then, as the fizz took effect, there was dancing and hugging and hazy declarations of love.
And then the news came in.
And then there were pictures of London, and texts from friends close by, and tears and then, in the morning, there was trying to decide what to tell the kids.
There were words, and views, and thoughts, and opinions everywhere. But all the words blurred and swirled together and started to lose any meaning, as words often do.
The overnight guests started to leave, and while we thought about them, and we cleared the kitchen of the post-party paper plates we were privileged enough to be able to put things to the back of our minds.
As another day ended, we sat down, a little tired, a little jaded, a little wishing for a less fragmented world, but we were too frazzled to fix it. Instead we collapsed in front of the TV. And there they were: the new generation of popstars and singers, who the kids seem to love but who we thought we didn’t much care for.
And they sang. And they were incredible. And they were singing with Manchester, with London, with us. And everything felt so much better, and we were sorry we ever doubted them.
Their music was our music and it made more sense of our feelings than all the words in the papers, in the facebook feeds, on the blogs.
So I stopped writing, and I turned up the radio, and I decided what I’m going to tell the kids come morning.
I’m going to tell them to sing.