Fred Jones, Pt. 2

I went to see Ben Folds at the Sage last year. I’ve seen him a few times. He’s one of those artists that never disappoints. Not only is he a wonderful songwriter, but he is witty, engaging and performs like he’s having a ball and cares. It’s important for me that an artist appreciates their fans.

All Ben Folds gigs are special events, but this one had something extra. He was performing with the Royal Northern Sinfonia orchestra and part of the show was dedicated to a concerto he had written. Ben had never composed a concerto before, but had been approached by someone to write one. There was some reluctance at first, it was a big leap into the unknown, something he’d never thought about doing. It seemed a huge undertaking. However, Ben worked out that if he wrote a certain number of bars of music every day then at the end of the year he would have a concerto of the required length. Ben accepted the commission and I’m glad, the concerto was fantastic. You wonder why he ever doubted himself, but you so often do. Self-doubt is the biggest barrier to creativity.

At the time of the concert I was about to leave work and embark on writing my novel. Ben’s approach to composing his concerto was the same I had decided to adopt for my writing. I had a daily target of at least one thousand words and aimed to write between eighty and one hundred thousand for a complete first draft. One hundred days was all it would take to write it. Hearing one of my musical heroes say he had taken the same approach reassured me. Perhaps this was how all creatives worked. Break it down, piece by piece. Don’t be overwhelmed by the long journey, just focus on each stage at a time. I’d never thought of myself as being a creative before, but I wanted to be one. It wasn't just about writing a novel. It was about finding a different kind of purpose, a new me, a deeper happiness.

The remainder of the concert was filled with some of his classics, the orchestral backing giving a new dimension to the songs. There was also the delight of seeing Ben write a new song on stage, building it step by step using fragments of melodies suggested by the audience and members of the orchestra. It was stunning to watch this process and exhilarating to be a part of the creation of a new song. It took audience participation to another level. The term genius is too often thrown around, but in my view of the few that deserve the description I’d class Ben Folds as one. It astonishes me that he isn’t better known. Fame is seldom the best indicator of class.

The concert had a profound effect on me. They usually do, but this was different. It was a one off, but it also came at a tricky time in my personal life. I was in a transitional moment, one of those major life shifts. I have too many, but they’re usually of my own making so I live with the consequences. ‘He not busy being born is busy dying,’ one of the many great Dylan lines, and the one I had adopted as my mantra for life. Change is good, and it was time for another. I was about to give up my job, and I felt more vulnerable than I wanted to admit.

Then Ben played the song. That song. The one I hoped he would play, but part of me wished he hadn’t. The song was ‘Fred Jones, Pt. 2.’ It’s about a man who is retiring from his job of twenty five years. It’s a moving ballad with only a piano backing Ben’s fragile delivery. The lyrics describe Fred’s last day in the office, his feelings of sadness, how things have moved on, and the people have changed. Few of his colleagues know who he is anymore, none seem to care that he is leaving. Fred reminisces about his first days in the job, the sense of excitement we so often feel when we embark on a new career. It’s the time we are still filled with the optimism of youth, and blinded by the endless possibilities.

The years roll by and we convince ourselves we matter to the organisation. Without us the place wouldn’t be the same. We are important, an essential part of what makes the company successful. Age brings wisdom and perhaps the realisation that we are important, but never as much as we’d like to think. Yes, the organisation needs us. Without people companies are nothing but ideas, or names. As individuals we bring special skills, drive, our own ideas and personality. Organisations need that. People are their greatest asset. Then the day approaches when we see the end, and realise we are expendable. Replaceable. Whilst we are important, there are others who can and will do what we do, and will fill our roles when we’re no longer needed. The organisation needs people, but it will survive without us.

For some that is a slow and creeping journey that leads through to retirement. Perhaps, they leave more fulfilled and content. The pension probably helps. For others the realisation is more immediate and shocking, delivered with the cold brutality of redundancy. In my case it was a bit of both. I’d spent fifteen years in the sector and was leaving by choice, albeit one that was forced to some extent by the dwindling number of funds and options at the Council.

Despite my choosing to walk away and take a positive step to try something new the lead in to my departure was tougher than I’d imagined. I became almost invisible, overlooked, humoured. On a personal level I was still respected by my colleagues, but on a professional level I felt under-valued, even worthless. The phone stopped ringing, the emails dried up, the invitations to meetings dwindled. I still had all the knowledge and skills, but had no resources, no power, no influence, no future. I no longer mattered.

We define a big part of ourselves through our work. By necessity it can dominate our lives. There are bills to be paid, holidays to save for, things to buy, Christmas is never far off. It’s better to sell your skills in a role you find rewarding and feel valued. Some are lucky enough to find those roles. So often work takes over. Even in those roles of our choosing we become seduced by aspiration, promotions, the drive to succeed, the desire to prove ourselves. In turn, we can sacrifice other things, the most precious of all being time. If only I had more time. As I’ve gotten older I’ve come to know myself better. Self knowledge costs nothing, but is priceless. I have come to realise that time is thing I crave most of all. Time with my wife, Julie, my four boys, my wider family. Time. Before it’s too late and the day comes when we realise we are all Fred Jones.

When I got home from the concert I couldn’t sleep so I wrote a poem: His time has come He sits and stares

Redundant screen

Alone a crowded room

Second hand ticks onward

Conducting birth to tomb

They carry on

Regardless

Truth is no one cares

On the desk a box lies waiting

His life for thirty years

Career packed up

And filed away

Making way for someone new

Never thought it would end like this

None of us ever do

The gifts, the cards

Best wishes

Empty thoughts all melt like snow

Awkward laughs and whispers

Guilt they dare not show

Thirty years before

This day

Sat in that same seat

The joy of his potential

World knelt at his feet

In blinkered youth

We all believe

Our path the chosen one

Then we come to pack our boxes

The day our time has come

Beware that empty pathway

Promise never

As it seems

Be busy being born each day

We are the stuff of dreams