"April is the cruellest month" wrote T.S. Eliot in "The Wasteland," arguably kicking off the Modernist poetry movement with these choice words. The modernists were full of cynicism and thoughts of urban alienation and experiments in stream of consciousness. Because, why not? World War I had made orphans out of many children, widows out of many wives, and cripples out of many men.
Mr. Tom
But back to April...
The month of April has flexed its violent tendencies throughout history as Washington Post reporter Michael S. Rosenwald uncovered eight years ago in "The strange seasonality of violence: Why April is ‘the beginning of the killing season.’" [Be glad you encountered a paywall; a depressing and frightening read]. The short version, TLDR: a lot of bad stuff happened this month like Columbine, Waco, the Boston Marathon bombings, and Hitler's birthday (I refuse to date these despicable events).
But the rainy month has also welcomed Shakespeare (April 23rd) into the world along with red-headed Aries Natasha Lyonne (April 4th), two of my favorite geniuses and two of the twenty-five people I want on a roadtrip.
And then April saw mayhem which resulted in good: The first shots of the Revolutionary War rang out at Lexington and Concord (April 19th). And the Good Friday Agreement was signed on April 10th.
But forget about the violence and the infamy and the diplomacy.
Back to Mr. Tom Stearns Eliot---he scribbled that heartbreaking line not to be a surly hipster, but to show the reader what the Buddha taught: that all things beautiful and precious and delicate and strong would soon perish with time. Whereas that fact free the Buddha's mind, it left Mr. Tom and the rest of us mortals with a sense of despair.
So this month's negative playlist belongs to shocked divorcees and jilted lovers. Nothing quite stings like rejection, or worse, abandonment. As Duffy (a sensitive cancer, born on June 23rd) sings "my love for you has turned to hate." Let my April playlist be the break-up album where all the plump and dewey roses turn to compost and nourishments for the next batch of beauties. Tis a month to affirm one's anger and honor one's despair. In April we witness beauty bursting forth while keeping in our pocket the knowledge that in due time that beauty will fade.
But the winter has been long so let's take a different tack. Heed the words of one pale and frail recluse who noticed the blue-jays and robins and finches returning to her backyard. ""Hope" is the thing with feathers," penned poet Emily Dickinson (born December 10th, the rare reclusive Sagittarius---still waters run deep).
So, ever the optimist,in the spirit of Miss Dickinson I've included one or two ballads that she would fancy. The great majority, however, belong to heartache and the crotchety Mr. Eliot. Because there is no greater balm than sad music on repeat.
April 2024 of Tommy’s Top Twenty-Five Tracks: The Cruellest
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