My favorite emotional quality in music—not so much in life—is, undoubtedly, longing, or desire—to escape, change, love, fuck, whatever.
Longing in music takes many forms, whether in the sharp whine of a pedal steel guitar, the weary cry of a muted trumpet, the pulsating digital beat of an 808 kit, the blending of human voices suggesting loss and grief—and most obviously, in lyrics.
Words give the most apparent manifestation of longing—words on a page, not recordings with vocal and instrumental arrangements. Still, recordings can enhance lyrics with particular interpretations, but when I think of my favorite instances of longing in music, I’m more interested in recordings than in lyrics alone: Aretha Franklin demanding “R-E-S-P-E-C-T” meant something different than Otis Redding’s original version of “Respect,” and as maligned as cover versions are, some covers invent new worlds, and Aretha’s “Respect” is my favorite record ever made.
In a very different way, I must admit, than either Aretha or Otis, I have longed for respect my whole life. I don’t feel like I never receive it, but at least when I was growing up, I could’ve killed for some respect from peers. I know now that I had peers who were on my side, as well as people who bullied me who have since apologized, but for many years, I didn’t know I had anyone my age that I could count on. It feels good to have more than a little respect these days.
I think the greatest longing in my own life, more than for love or companionship, has been for community. Growing up autistic and heavily misunderstood–differently than I misunderstood others–I couldn’t read social cues, sarcasm, figures of speech, and body language, which I don’t lament, but it was my reality.
And as a gay man, the longing to be a part of a greater community—longing for belonging—has never been far from my immediate desires. Where I live, I have a community of LGBTQ folks as part of a larger community that help me stay strong and flourish.
Around 2013, before I found that community, I started thinking a lot about longing. What is the cause of longing—is it “human nature”? Why does anyone long for someone or something other than what one has, whether it’s a person, property of some kind, or a “geographical cure”? Is it a function of lack from capitalism and other systems of privilege and oppression?
In a short time, I realized that at least a few of my favorite songs were “longing songs,” and I quickly made a list of about twenty that I really loved that were all about longing—often involving questions or commands. Some titles on that list:
As you can see, lots of singer-songwriters conveying different levels of desperation were on my radar (many still are). And it’s funny, as a music historian, I advocate looking at music in wider contexts, but as a daily listener, I often hear music in very literal and self-centered ways, however problematically, to my life. I can’t know what Black freedom anthems like “A Change Is Gonna Come” and “How I Got Over” mean to many people across generations and contexts, but I can hear them and draw inspiration from their layered messages, however I statically I initially read them.
This June, I still listened to songs of longing, but one of my greatest desires for community–belonging among other LGBTQ+ folks–was, for the moment, fulfilled.
I have lots of issues with Pride Month: I find that contrary to its spirit, it doesn’t include many LGBTQ+ people beyond tokenism. I’ve also heard this complaint from other queer disabled folks, queer people of color, and trans people: Pride is not for us. In fact, especially the Pride Parade functions more as a corporate party for cis-hetero folks than as anything for LGBTQ+ people–or LGBTQ+ rights.
But on several occasions this June, in a strange way, I felt like I found my people. I avoided the Pride Parade, but I attended some queer-prioritizing events that helped heal some pride deficiencies in me.
First, there was OUTspoken, the monthly (primarily) queer storytelling showcase at the gay bar Sidetrack in Boystown in Chicago on June 6. I had attended a previous OUTspoken show, but reading at it was a very different, wonderfully welcoming experience. I read this story on queer dating, pop culture, and recovery, and people found it both hilarious and touching; I saw people wiping back tears after I got offstage. The audience clapped when I said, “I don’t need anyone else to make me happy,” and one fellow storyteller—a comedian—suggested I do standup comedy!
It was a great experience, and the hosts presented me with an OUTspoken T-shirt afterwards. Speaking those last words of the story, “I guess I found my Patrick in me,” after discussing my own struggles with dating and loving myself, amidst a crowd of people who at least partly understood was an experience I’ll never forget.
Three days later, I wore my OUTspoken T-shirt to graduation at my old high school, where, among other things, I was bullied for my sexuality. It felt like reclaiming space that I always deserved. I saw a number of faculty and staff, some of whom I didn’t get along with, and they were very happy to hear about my success. It felt freeing and somewhat vindicating to return to a space that wasn’t always easy for me to come back to.
Part of the reason I wanted to attend this particular graduation was for the Distinguished Alumni guest speaker, Josie Kearns, who is transgender. Wearing that T-shirt was also a way that I could show support. Josie discussed lessons from her career experience from college and beyond, including numerous times she had wanted to quit her field (theatre). I hope the graduates got as much out of that ceremony as I did.
I met the new graduate who got the award for the highest GPA, Alec Wilson, and since then I have gotten involved in his organization, Beneath the Grief, on channeling grief through the arts. I wrote about my grief in a song for a teacher from that school who passed away.
Later that month, I attended a concert by country artist Adeem the Artist at the Old Town School of Folk Music. Adeem, who is trans and uses they/them pronouns, and I had been in touch on (what was) Twitter about different projects, and it was great to see them perform. They talked a lot, even discussing the possibility that they might be autistic, and hearing that made me relate to them more.
I may not be trans, but hearing the likes of “Middle of a Heart” and “Carolina” live made my month a hell of a lot sweeter. Speaking of which, if you haven’t heard their 2022 album White Trash Revelry, it is a welcome alternative to the complacent mediocrity of country radio and I highly recommend it. I even got to take a couple #selfies with Adeem after the show!
The month also brought some awards—I placed in a national communications contest in two categories—and I even had my first date in a while near the month’s end, and though that (mutually) didn’t work out, I was grateful for the opportunity. And though not technically in June, on July 2 I traveled to Wisconsin to see my cousin get married. We haven’t always been on the best of terms, but today he is one of my favorite people, and I would do just about anything for him.
It was a good feeling, specifically that R-E-S-P-E-C-T from storytellers, musicians, teachers, and family. In these different moments in June and early July, I felt a lot more belonging than longing. I can’t tell you how good that felt.