I don't care if people like Trump or hate him, if they voted for

The singer and son of outlaws, Shooter Jennings, once spoke with candor about the nature of music and the hunger of the human heart: “I don’t care if people like Trump or hate him, if they voted for him or not; people just want to have a good time. They don’t want to hear about immigration or whatever on a record or at a show.” Though framed in the turmoil of politics and the noise of division, his words carry a truth far older than any one age: that music, art, and celebration are sanctuaries for the spirit, where men and women seek not conflict but communion.

The heart of his wisdom lies in this: that beyond the banners of politics and the shouting of factions, the soul yearns for joy. It longs for a space where melody triumphs over discord, where rhythm silences rage, and where strangers can gather not as enemies but as companions, united in song, laughter, and dance. Jennings reminds us that art is not merely a mirror of division, but a refuge where humanity remembers its common ground.

This truth has been revealed throughout history. In ancient Greece, though city-states quarreled and armies clashed, the Olympic Games brought rivals together beneath a sacred truce. In that place, men did not come as enemies but as athletes, striving for excellence and cheered by all. It was not politics that bound them, but the shared love of contest, music, and festival. What Jennings speaks of in concerts and shows is this same spirit: a space where differences fade, and people remember that they are human together.

Indeed, even in the darkest times, music has lifted the hearts of the weary. During World War II, as bombs fell upon London, people gathered in underground shelters and sang. They did not sing of governments or policies, but of courage, of love, of tomorrow. In their songs, they found strength, and in their unity, they found hope. This is the eternal role of art: to give the people not more division, but relief, joy, and a reminder of their shared humanity.

Jennings does not say that issues of justice and politics are unworthy. They matter greatly. But he teaches that there are moments when the battlefield of debate must yield to the sanctuary of celebration. Just as a weary soldier needs rest, so too does the divided citizen need music that soothes, laughter that heals, and gatherings that unite. To demand constant conflict, even in the realm of song, is to rob the heart of its breath.

The lesson is clear: guard spaces of joy. Do not carry every quarrel into the feast, nor every burden into the dance. Allow moments where music, friendship, and laughter reign, so that the soul may be strengthened for the struggles that await beyond. For a people without joy is a people without endurance, and a nation without celebration soon forgets what it fights for.

Practical action lies in balance. Engage in the struggles of your time, yes—speak truth, seek justice, pursue change. But also, when the song begins, let yourself be present in it. Lay down, for a moment, the sword of debate, and lift instead the cup of fellowship. Attend concerts, laugh at stories, sing with strangers, dance without fear. These acts are not trivial—they are the medicine of the soul.

Thus, O children of tomorrow, heed the words of Shooter Jennings: people just want to have a good time. For in joy lies unity, in music lies healing, and in celebration lies the strength to endure. Let there be time for debate, and time for song; time for labor, and time for dance. In this balance, humanity will not only survive its divisions—it will rise above them, remembering always that before we are partisans, we are people, and before we are enemies, we are brothers and sisters sharing the same song of life.