there’s something truly poignant about a middle aged guy using the perfect pop of the world’s highest selling record to work through his heartache.
or I’m just old.
but what I’m certain of is in the 21st century terms like indie and pop or authentic and artifice mean absolutely nothing and sales or lack thereof are no indicator of artistic merit.
we as music fans should celebrate.
and Taylor Swift will get the recognition she deserves as a song writer and Ryan Adams will get some mainstream notice from people who mistake him for Bryan Adams.
Oh yeah, and this cover of Out of the Woods is good enough to be on Heartbreaker.
plus changing “you’ve got that James Dean day dream look in your eye” to “you’ve got that Daydream Nation look in your eye” in Style is pretty slick and one of the many small pleasure of this album.
and I’m just probably old.
I want to believe Dean didn’t abandon Sal to a Mexican sick bed;
I want to believe I can still feel the green ecstasy of a leaf;
I want to know people aren’t bad or good;
They are just waiting to be understood.
if each time you came out with a new record people expected a masterpiece, what would you do?
well, you’d drop your next record for free with no fanfare, put a silly cat pic on the cover and give it a ridiculous title tossing it out like so much digital ephemera in our brand new disposable age.
are you lowering expectations or just allowing listeners to hear your music without prejudice?
or are you an album oriented band that is working out how to present your work to an audience that now consumes music in a very fractured way; sampling one tune here on youtube, another torrented down, a couple here on Spotify, etc. And never really listening to an album all the way through?
maybe what you ended up creating, something that sounds tossed off and lacking any unifying theme, is really the fragmented masterpiece (whatever that word means anymore) for our ADHD times?
seeing the words ‘Now a major Motion Picture’ on the cover of The Great Gatsby like a sunspot gin blossomed stain on a flapper’s face makes me want to chuck it out the window of the bookstore, past the entire aisle dedicated to various versions of the Bible,
and the single shelf of poetry.
I like to drive till the refill light wakes up orange day glow on my car dash before I fill my tank,
because I have hope
You and I will get back on the field,
Rubbing against each other’s armor till a spark files,
Becomes translucent blue;
A blue light in a dark that spreads around nothing;
A movement of nothing coiled,
Fighting for nothing and burning for nothing,
Burning burning boy.
A gyre of flame licking the black sky.
Am I the only one who can ride by night?
I can because I bite my lip till it bleeds blood red,
But the horses smell blood and get nervous,
And you yelling brown tree bark,
Till it scratches my ears;
But I can listen away because I know,
There is a love potion like in the old tale;
A calming balm I can slip into your drink,
But for now I still hear the teeth gnash like,
King Mark’s chain mail,
But there is no King,
There is me playing god and I don’t even believe in god.
I’m lost and then I’m angry.
Sitting in a restaurant eating pizza with Tristan while Van Morrison played in the background pink lemonade cool in our sights talking trash about PlayStation and comic books all nervous 9 year old energy while stillness grew in me like a bath filling up with warm water
Now I knew how the Green Arrow felt sinking into the Lazarus pit
And it stoned me to my soul.
Seriously your life will improve in ways you didn’t know it could.