Intellectually, I understand that it’s healthy to express emotion. I’ve read Brené Brown. I’ve watched Inside Out. I get it. But it’s hard to express emotion when I’m barely conscious of feeling it.
Phoebe’s Fall, and the emerging genre it is part of, raises questions about the public who feast on the undeniably gripping stories, and the voices we cannot hear in these podcasts—those of the victims, mostly women, most likely killed by men.
Jimmy is, of course, fictional, but as a character he reflects (albeit sometimes exaggeratedly) a broader cultural problem. That we don’t know what to do with male vulnerability.
Although perhaps not always overt, the idea that men are responsible for carrying on surnames still seems to be pervasive.
Forster was knowingly out of kilter with our expectations of what a rock singer was meant to be, to look like, how one was meant to speak and act. He was his own man, and a different kind of man at that.
When one male speaks out about his mental health experience, he is a role model for others, normalising it and inspiring others to do the same.
When we justify the mosh pit dominating the primary space at a show, we hold back musical community from its cathartic potential.