Rivalry

(This was planned as an e-mail to my friend Mac, but it rapidly became too long and literary and I moved it here instead. The “you” is still him, but I think it applies to anyone who has a sibling.)

We look similar; same blond-brown hair, same almond-shaped gray-green-blue eyes. We both have deep voices and a dry, sarcastic sense of humor. Beyond that? Not much in common. I love him, but I don’t understand him at all. This fact has caused a lot of friction between us in the past. I remember you describing the last time we met how you had followed after your brother in so many ways, and wanted to do something for yourself. I have the opposite problem; because my brother does something, it makes me want to do the opposite. This is especially true when it comes to listening to music. I am slow to get into individual bands in the first place, and if my brother loves them, I am even more reluctant to listen to them. For some reason, because he’s my older brother, it lowers my opinion of the music. Utterly stupid and irrational, but that’s how it is. Usually, when my brother gives me a recommendation, I’ll push it to the back of my mind, and then, maybe, eventually, start listening to the band months, or sometimes years later.

And so, today. I was at home in Cupertino, in the middle of a holding pattern before I leave for Scotland in less than two weeks. My brother is currently backpacking in Europe, and my mode of transportation is his car, a Ron-Paul-bumper-stickered grey sedan full of empty cardboard boxes, random papers, and other bits of trash. It’s not completely abysmal, but not ideal either. But the car came with something else; my brother left his binder full of CDs on the passenger seat. Before I start out on the day’s journey, I peruse his collection of Pitchfork-approved albums. Kanye West, M83, Hercules & Love Affair, TV on the Radio. I settle on Boxer by the National. The National are my brother’s favorite band, bar none. He had started singing their praises all the way back in early 2006, but I had initially shrugged it off and continued listening to my angular indie post-punk. After Boxer came out, I came to like a few songs, but the  whole album was something I knew vaguely but which I’d never listened to straight through. I slipped the CD in the player, and the opening piano chords of “Fake Empire” filled the hot car as I pulled out.

The big moment only came a while later, as I ran the last of my errands. I pulled into the grocery store parking lot, and the CD clicked over to track 10. A fall of acoustic guitar pluckings flowed from the stereo, joined by the singer’s crooning baritone and a river of piano notes. It was…sad. Nostalgic. Tired. It drew me in, wrapping me in luminous chords and soft words. I parked the car, but couldn’t bring myself to get out just yet. I sat there in my brother’s car in the middle of the parking lot, my hands still on the wheel, closed my tear-stung eyes,  and listened. And as the last notes evaporated in the warm air, I said aloud, even though he couldn’t hear me, “I get it, Will. I get it now.”

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