silverchair

silverchair (with a small s, i would say) was the one band that i always tuned in to during my formative years. silverchair was to me is as what nirvana was to a teen in the late 80s. i never knew nirvana personally. kurt cobain had long since died the day i started listening to nirvana. until today, i am still very much taken with the death of kurt cobain and have refrained from purchasing his diaries. i don’t believe the heart and soul of a person should ever, ever be intruded upon unless willingly displayed. i become very sad whenever i look at his pictures.

silverchair, however, were very much alive.  it was important for me, as a teenager, to be able to relate to a musician who spoke the same language and felt the very same way i did.  i stopped listening to them after 2004, and only recently started listening to them again. i need good music to listen to, and i need, so very desperately, an inspiration for life by listening to songs sung by  man who personified suffering: he had reactive arthritis, chronic depression, drug addiction and anorexia. for as long as i’ve known myself, i’ve always been fascinated with those who suffered and wrote beautiful things stemming from their misery: Sylvia Plath, Kurt Cobain, Virginia Woolf – Schadenfreude, if you will, or some other twisted notion to that effect. but the thing is that i don’t derive pleasure from reading about their miserable lives; i am simply fascinated by the process of day-to-day living that pushed them to suicide, so much so that even the love of another could not save them. “Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can’t go on spoiling your life any longer. I don’t think two people could have been happier than we have been,” Virginia Woolf wrote before committing suicide on March 28, 1941. oh, how i wonder about the thoughts and consciousness of Mrs Woolf. that, i guess, is fodder for another day.

but here is that said song performed acoustically, the best version i’ve ever heard. it still haunts me.

Please die, Ana
For as long as you’re here, We’re not
You make the sound of laughter
And sharpened nails seem softer
And I need you now, somehow

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