‘SIT DOWN’, VULNERABILITY, AND THE TOUCH OF MADNESS
Hearts were opened en masse. Hooligans hugged and peace descended upon the youth of the land....
We were the iron boys. Tough, invulnerable.
No tears permitted. No cry-babies allowed.
Fighting when we should’ve played. Dirty little gladiators in flares and platforms.
Later there were Friday nights in pubs where people threw empty pint glasses into ceiling fans.
At any moment you could get a kicking for looking at someone the wrong way.
You were hyper-aware— bristling, sweating, and fidgeting inside your invisible suit of iron.
Fast forward.
Someone hands you a pill in a club and love fills you from your finger tips to the ends of your toes and you become, for a night, an open book.
A blessed song comes on and for the first time in your life you sit down.
Do you remember where you were when you first heard it?
Those who feel the breath of sadness, sit down next to me.
Those who find they’re touched by madness, sit down next to me.
Those who find themselves ridiculous, sit down next to me.
For a lot of young men-- and women too— this song was a license.
A hymn to vulnerability.
A celebration of the foibles and weaknesses we all share.
A gorgeous sonic act of communion.
We could take off the suits of armor and finally get close enough to really hug each other.
It was a beautiful thing.
‘Sit Down’ by James, I would suggest, is the defining anthem of the ‘Second summer of love’— that chaotic, ecstasy-fueled, Thatcher-era remix of the hippy movement.
It was a watershed moment in UK cultural history— not just because of the revolutions it engendered: the DJ as lightning conductor, the idea of an overground underground, the hybridization of rock and rave— but also because of the spiritual and emotional group catharsis that took place.
Hearts were opened en masse. Hooligans hugged. Class barriers disintegrated. And peace descended upon the youth of the land.
There were victims too.
Some found that— with a monkey on their back and a dealer whispering in their ear— they were indeed touched by madness.
But wasn’t it worth it to feel alive and unafraid?
My suit of iron is a vestigial artifact now. And my family are the gateway drug I use to access my vulnerability. My ridiculousness.
But occasionally my fists clench and I’m that tungsten child again— facing a granite infant, enclosed in a circle of fight! fight! fight! and I have to close my eyes and allow those balm-like lyrics to wash over me again—
I’ll sing myself to sleep, a song from the darkest hour.
Secrets I can’t keep, inside of the day.
swing from high to deep, extremes of sweet and sour.
Hope that God exists, I hope, I pray.
—and suddenly I’m connected to my own humanity and everyone else’s.
And if God moves in mysterious ways then this might be one of them.