Rock fictions

We are all our own myths now: presenting a story of ourselves piecemeal, through tweet and Instagram and text. Still, fiction fascinates, despite — or perhaps because of — this blurring of lines. (If fiction, as we have often been told, is a lie that tells a truth, are these reports we make from the front lines of our lives equivalent to truths that tell lies?) We want to make some kind of sense, of ourselves and of others, and as humans we’re hardwired for stories.

Like good songs, stories are both escape and reentry: taking us out of ourselves, emphasizing the epic or magnifying the mundane, then returning us to where we were, wiser or happier, more resilient and less alone, for the excursion. Perhaps this fundamental similarity accounts for the proliferation of stories about songmakers, which on the face of it should not be that widespread a phenomenon (aren’t rock stars at least half fictional already? Isn’t David Bowie almost as much a work of the imagination as Batman?). And yet pop culture is littered with examples of fictional rock stars, from Don De Lillo’s Bucky Wunderlick to Scott Pilgrim and Sex Bob-omb. Less frequently, imaginary rock stars also become real rock stars, as with Gorillaz, or arguably Daft Punk.

Fiction and music are almost always on my brain anyway, alternating or together, so it was only a matter of time before I thought up my own fictional rock star, which I did three years ago, when I wrote about Kay Ventura, the lost Pinoy rock goddess of the ‘80s, who did a handful of legendary live sets and disappeared into utter obscurity. Here’s an excerpt from the end of that story, which I published disguised as nonfiction in a monthly magazine:

“Kay would be in her early or mid-forties by now; certainly not too old for a comeback, if she were so inclined. A video surfaced on YouTube a couple of years ago, half a minute of her singing karaoke at home with a little girl, presumably her daughter. It had been filmed and uploaded by a California-based cousin of hers, apparently. I messaged the cousin, and received no reply. The video itself was deleted soon after.

“Somebody once said that ninety percent of life is just showing up. That makes me wonder what happens when you decide to stop showing up. Of course imposing one’s expectations on others is unfair as well as idiotic, but then perhaps we are always unfair and idiotic when it comes to those we choose to cast as heroes of a kind, personal or public. Whose business is it to save or condemn anyone? Nostalgia and a vague sense that things could have or should have turned out differently are not the best things to steer one’s life or thoughts by. It’s a matter I can’t readily unravel when sheer dishonesty prevents me from determining exactly who or what it is I’m disappointed in.”

It probably says something about my state of mind that even when writing about a mythical rock star, I found myself wallowing in disappointment and failure. But just like the superstitious enumeration of accidents to prevent their ever happening, perhaps that is another function of fiction: as a mechanism for organizing and thus controlling our fears. Think of that next time you scroll through the truths and lies on your feed.

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The Number Line LP. To be launched this Saturday night (Sept. 7), Anthology is a limited edition, vinyl-only compilation featuring the artists of acclaimed independent label Number Line Records. Executive produced by Jay Amante of Blanc Gallery, it includes brand new tracks from Tarsius, Similar Objects, Some Gorgeous Accident, and Slow Hello, and remastered tracks from Eyedress, Outerhope, Multo, Modulogeek, and others. It’s great stuff, and you should get your hands on one.