There was some weird business going on between The Cryptic Corporation (the management company of The Residents) and La-Ni Lithman, the daughter of Philip "Snakefinger" Lithman, who collaborated with the group in their early years. Details were sketchy, but it seemed that she was claiming her father was the main creative force behind the band, but at the same time was asking for all references to him to be removed from their website. I know, it's weird and strange and makes no sense. I personally think she just wants nothing to do with The Residents, which is understandable because here is how I'd probably meet people if I were her:
"Hi, my name is La-Ni Lithman. I'm a musician, just like my father, Philip."
"Oh my crap, you're Snakefinger's daughter?!"
"His name was Philip."
"Tell me who The Residents are!"
"They are a group of people who keep me from having my own identity. You can piss off now."
Anyway, I'm not writing about that. What I am interested in is a related post on The Residents' website, which is gone now, but here's a distilled version:
Fast forward to 20 years after all The Residents are dead. Let's guess 40 or more years from now... What has happened to all these recordings we take for granted today?
Where will your stuff be 20 years after you are dead? Not trying to be morose. It is worth thinking about the big picture once in a while.
Everybody dies.
What will happen to my stuff? Being even more obscure than The Residents (I don't release my music in traditional channels, I'm not touring a show or in any way attempting to grow an audience), I'll be more dead than they'll be when the next century rolls around. They've got plenty of recordings distributed over the planet. Not a lot, but enough to survive some major neglect and/or destruction.
As for me? A few hard drive crashes will wipe out all evidence that I did anything while I was alive. Few people, if any, will remember. Fewer still will pass on their antique mp3 files to their children. And the kids wouldn't know what to do with them, anyway.
But one important consideration trumps all of this: does it matter? What difference will it make whether or not I am remembered when I'm gone? There are plenty of musicians from the past we have only vague clues about. Are we really that affected by them? The Forgotten Delta Blues Man is revered in some circles, but was he really that important? Wouldn't somebody have better documented him if he was?
I'm not saying Forgotten Delta Blues Man was not great. Perhaps he was. But we don't know, and life goes on. And the same will happen to me. There will be scant evidence of me, and perhaps some strange twist of fate will grow my legend to astronomical proportions. But why? I'm just some guy who plays the ukulele and sometimes wears a wig when doing it. Come to think of it, the more dead I am, the greater my immortality can become, because there will be more gaps to fill.
But while becoming posthumously famous has its charm, it's that "posthumous" part that's the killer. I'll be dead, so there's no reason for me to care about it. Beethoven has that kind of immortal fame. But he's not enjoying it. He probably doesn't even care what people today think of him.
All I can (and should) hope for is to brighten the lives of those around me, here and now. That brings a return on investment immediately back to me, something I can make use of. Dead is dead, and living is living. Only one is worth persuing.