The Legend of Mystery Boy

Oh, the wonder.

Thinking about the massive tradeoffs we've made in making everything available everywhere all the time.

Perhaps mystery is what we've sacrificed on the altar of our own distraction.

Back in my younger days, we used to speak of the legend of the mystery boy (or girl).

A god damn prodigy toiling away in the basement, playing their instrument in a way the world was not ready for.

Criminally unnoticed in a landscape of talentless hacks and groomed made-to-order boy bands and laminated divas raking in Major Label payroll.

Can you imagine how much unknown talent is out there, we used to say?

Somewhere, out in the world, some band is putting on the best live show the world has ever seen and will never see again, to an audience of dozens.

Somewhere, out in the world, a girl has written the most heart-wrenching ode to the human condition ever captured in a human language, sung only to an audience of her Pembroke Welsh corgi.

Oh, the wonder.

The mystery.

Today, a finance bro vibe-composes a film soundtrack rivaling a John Williams score, but somehow without the soul. Someone's aunt posts a phone pic with a free filter that would have taken Anton Corbijn weeks to curate and produce.

A teenager sweeps 64th notes across the neck of a guitar in a time signature borne from advanced calculus. A three-year-old casually rips through Art Tatums "Yesterdays" before breakfast. A chuckling neckbeard plays flawless gravity blasts over Eleanor Rigby.

And it's all there, behind my greasy thumbprint on the glass screen.

The oracle in my pocket that shows me everything all at once like a cheap dollar menu.

There are no more legends, myths, or folklore. No more hidden corners, lost cafés, mystery dives, or unsung heroes.

The platforms that were meant to give a voice to the unheard are drowning in the mucky-muck of whomever can shout the loudest and play the fastest.

And the sheer volume of wunderkontent elicits from us a collective yawn as the four minute miles becomes three then two.

All of us, shrimp running on treadmills, burning up our spiritual caloric content for the ghouls up on Mountainhead.

Wonder boy (or girl) is dead.

Long live wonder boy (or girl).

Wherever you are.

Rigga goo goo, rigga goo goo.

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What I’m reading: Use Your Illusion 1 and 2 (Eric Weisbard for 33 1/3)

What I'm listening to: Mr. Beast (Mogwai)

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