and Words
A hundred days have made me older
Since the last time that I saw your pretty face
A thousand lies have made me colder
And I don′t think I can look at this the same
But all the miles that separate
Disappear now when I’m dreaming of your face
I′m here without you, baby
But you’re still on my lonely mind
I think about you, baby
And I dream about you all the time
Lyric excerpts from Musixmatch.
A few days ago, I observed news stories as they rotated through the carousel on my home page. As I watched the images, I saw a picture that I recognized. That was the picture of the vocalist for ‘3 Doors Down’, and the story was that he passed away. I clicked on that link. Brad Arnold died from cancer at age 47. I honestly don’t know much about the band, nor did I know the vocalist’s name.
I’m not sure precisely when I started to listen to 3 Doors Down, though a band name with a number amuses me (as did Matchbox 20). I imagine that I first heard their music on the radio, but much like anything, listening to music is strongly mood-driven. Eventually, several songs caught my attention, and I picked up this album, ‘Away from the Sun’.
As with most CDs, I initially played them physically, swapping out the discs to play the music. Once we developed the ability to rip music (turn it from physical media to digital media), then it all became more accessible.
Upon finally listening to “Here Without You”, and I mean really listening, it crushed me. The words transport you into a moment of longing and agony. I bear witness to the pure suffering. Strangely, he neglects to mention precisely why they’re apart, merely that they are, though that’s enough. However, those words mention “a hundred days” and “all the miles that separate”. I can only speculate that they separated so that he could go on tour, though he never explicitly says it.
Though honestly, you don’t simply bear witness; you endure his pain. His agony painfully engulfs you like wet clothes on a cold, rainy day. You can’t help but similarly find yourself in distress. In the span of under four minutes, you are drawn into his universe. Your heart weeps for his, and your mind longs for resolution. Though there is none. You’re left in a cliffhanger without its bookend.
On a lazy evening, as I listened to this song, I wondered what the music video was like. I opened a browser tab to YouTube and found it. While the song itself masterfully paints a picture of his longing and agony in broad strokes, the video crystallizes it. The video starts with Brad Arnold saying goodbye to his love. It starts with this gaze as they look at each other, but it turns away in its sheer intensity. His bandmates patiently wait for him, literally flipping a coin to pass the time. You see him slowly walk from the front door to what we presume to be a tour bus. Not once does he turn to look back.
The next scene transitions from a photograph of him boarding this bus to a wall covered with photos from their past. If you look closely, several photos depict them as a couple at a wedding, giving the quiet impression that they’re married. In the next snippet, he sits quietly on a chair shoved into a corner. Notes and music cover the wall where none of it is visible. A dim floor lamp, impossibly placed between the wall and the chair, barely illuminates the space as he writes into a notebook. A makeshift table holds a modest bouquet and a lit candle; the latter provides nearly as much light as the lamp.
This portion of the video is immersed in darkness; there’s as much shadow as there is light. The lighting matches Arnold’s mood, dark and troubled. The few colors we see are strictly earth tones. We hear the voice and feel the agony, but we can’t see the expressions on their faces as they are concealed in shadow. As the bridge hits, the room is bathed in light, not as bright as daylight, but bright enough to see their faces. While the darkness merely alludes to his anguish, the light reveals it. His pained expressions speak more crisply than this silhouette and body language in the shadows.
The video subtly ends with the bus departing. The viewer may interpret this as their reunion or their continued separation.
As the years passed, this song remained in my persistent playlist. However, it wasn’t until recently that I realized that it resonated with me for two reasons.
First, humans feel emotions. That’s all humans, not just the women. Sadly, many men find it taboo to express their feelings. It’s cultural baggage that we have seared into our minds. Ever heard the expression, “Boys don’t cry”? Brad Arnold did not challenge that rule with his profession of love; he ignored it. He professes his love for this woman and agonizes over her absence. He doesn’t care about others’ opinions.
Second, we navigate our lives as hundreds of people similarly conduct their lives around us. Some are friends, even loved ones; others are strangers. As I look out the window and see the pedestrians walking the streets or the people in the surrounding cars, I remember that we don’t know what they’re going through. Yes, some may have just gotten engaged or married; others may have just gotten a big raise or promotion. However, others may be enduring anguish from a prolonged absence.
It humbly teaches us two lessons. First, be who you are and feel what you feel, without shame and without apologies. Social norms and expectations be damned. Second, we don’t know what anyone else is struggling with. We have no insight into their burdens. To borrow the sentiment from my wife, if you can be anything in this world, be kind.
When I discovered that this album was recorded here in Seattle in 2002, I pondered if I might’ve seen or crossed paths with Arnold somewhere in the streets of this city.
As I mentioned above, I knew next to nothing about the band or Brad Arnold. Nonetheless, hearing this news deeply saddened me. I know only what I observed. People would not necessarily have recognized him if he were out in public. He didn’t dress any differently on stage than he would’ve out in public. He dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, much like I dress on most days. Though honestly, I doubt that I’d ever wear a t-shirt with the word “Jesus” boldly on the chest.
I’ve sat down at a bar and struck up conversations with strangers next to me. I could see myself engaging in conversation with him. While I base this on nothing more than appearance and body language, he seemed like someone whom I might’ve called a friend, a “salt of the earth” person. We’re now here without him. His death saddened me.