I had the chance to see Richard Marx in concert for free the other night in LA.
I can't say I'm a huge Richard Marx fan, but I grew up listening to his music and know all the words to all of his pop hits, so despite not being a huge fan, I still showed up first thing in the morning the day of the show to collect VIP credentials that would place me in the front row, put free vodka drinks into my gullet, and give me access to a meet and greet after the show.
I don't often want to meet celebrities. I don't want my bubble burst. But I found the idea of meeting Richard Marx appealing, if only to ask him one question:
How can you possibly write such romantic lyrics? Do you actually feel that way, or are you just able to channel some kind of fantasy emotion for artistic expression purposes only?
I mean, this guy can't be for real, can he?
This is the guy who has penned some of the most popular wedding songs of all time, "Hold On to the Nights" and "Right Here Waiting," and whose B-level singles are equally as romantic but somewhat less overplayed.
I'd give my life for one more night / Of havin' you here to hold me tight
- "Endless Summer Nights"
After the show, we stood around the backstage area for a while, being encouraged by security staff to leave and come back, my feet aching in my heels, our group getting antsy as the dinnerless evening wore on.
I didn't need an autograph.
I didn't need a photograph.
I just needed to ask him if he could possibly actually experience the emotions that he so eloquently was able to write about.
But we left unceremoniousy, in defeat, tired and ill-equipped to deal with the crowd, my question unanswered.
Now that I've accepted that I may never be able to get Richard Marx to answer my question, I wonder whether the answer matters. If he's not documenting actual emotions, isn't he still providing me with a way to experience possible emotions that haven't entered my life otherwise?
Are such emotions even possible?
I grew up with parents who constantly reiterated "It's just a movie" whenever my sister and I witnessed something violent, lascivious, or otherwise untoward on a screen large or small. But with little experience of real life (thanks to those same overprotective parents who never let me fall upon the thorns of life and bleed), I had little else but movies and TV to teach me the ways of the real world.
So, I'm apt to believe that every love story and love song are, likewise, just as fake as those dramatizations that my parents tried to protect me from. Love must be a lie, a fantasy, a figment. I've never seen it in real life, and I certainly can't trust the likes of Richard Marx as a documentarian of real encounters experienced by nearly everyone else but me. It must be that those that report on such romances are simply making them up for entertainment value.
Because no one wants to listen to a song about not being in love.
