Burn, Burn, Burn

I drove three and a half hours this weekend from my little piece of shit corn-cob town to St. Louis, because I’ve recently found a rebel artist who I like, he had a concert there, and I was like fuck yeah.

Yolo and all that.

So, of course, I had a bit of bubbly while I got ready, had a drink with dinner, and then decided to hop da bars until one cock hair ‘til showtime. Somewhere in between sips, I wondered if the buzz was courage or camouflage. Probably both.

At the second bar, a guy turned to me and said, “Are you here to see the concert?”

And I was like, “Nah, bro, I’m just wearing a t-shirt with his fuckin lyrics and goddamn cowboy boots.”

But instead I said, “Yesssssss I looooovvvveeee hiiiiimmmmmmm!”

The dude agreed. He mentioned things like “Amazing songwriter” and “Tortured soul.”

I lost part of what he said because he had one eye that would occasionally drift to the side and dart back, which was interesting to watch. I’m not being judgmental. I know people stare at my slightly smaller eye or the gap between my big tooth and the next one. We all have something.

Anyway, they were beautiful, blue-green eyes and the little shift made them even prettier. But then he said something so odd.

He looked at me square-ish in the eyes and said, “He’s gonna die, and soon.”

I took a long sip from my stirrer straw because that’s how I drink my bar drinks, and I thought about this for a second.

This guy had known me for less than ten minutes; we hadn’t even shared names (his was Adam, by the way—leave it to an Adam). Yet he felt he could make a prediction about a man, a young one, after hearing six of his fuckin’ songs. Sure, he’d been drinking, so his tongue was more likely to flop out stupid words, but still.

I asked, “Do you say that because his lyrics are so tortured?”

He bobbled his head in a hearty yes.

I looked down at my drink, and over at the bartender, and continued my scan. The girls in white dresses. The wasted couple at the end of the bar who wouldn’t make it to hear the first song. The girl who was jokingly offering to flash the boy next to her.

After a moment, I looked back at Adam and murmured, yeah.

I don’t know why I said that.

I took a drink. It burned.

After that, I walked to an Irish pub and ordered something called The Cosmonaut. As I took a sip, I began to ponder how we all talk about these tortured souls who died too young: Layne Staley, Chris Cornell, Jim Morrison, Elvis. Tragedies. And yeah, sometimes people just can’t handle it here. This world is a scary place. I get it.

But to predict it for someone seemed so harsh. Or maybe I was just drunk. I took another sip. It burned like hell.

Arriving at the concert venue, I grabbed a mango white claw, found my seat, and waited for the show, letting my first sip burn all the way down.

I watched the show, and all I could think the whole time was how happy he seemed. He was smiling, he was sober, or so it seemed. He was engaging with the crowd and seemed in awe of the people who were there to hear him.

Just a dude, not even thirty years old, singing for his fans.

Somewhere, my head screamed “Don’t let this be true for this guy. Let him live. Let him have children, let his lyrics be his therapy. And don’t ever let him hear the words that Adam said.”

Because when you’re at rock bottom, it doesn’t take much to push you under.

I guess I’m trying to say, a lot of us are tortured souls. Hell, that’s mainly why we write whatever it is we write. But it doesn’t mean we have to die young.

The tortured souls are some of the most beautiful.

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To know me is to love me and to hate me is to wrong me
I prefer my nights so lonely
Love blues guitar, muscle cars, and gin
‘Cause I’m a simple man, I don’t need much
Just my simple songs and some human touch
Tired now, so I’m bringin’ my ass home

So let me go down the line
I wanna feel it all, joy, pain, and sky
So let me go down the line
‘Cause we all burn, burn, burn and die

Burn, Burn, Burn— Zach Bryan

❤️—

GC