#SYAA2L

[ithacamafia]

SYAA2L: For Your Consideration.

      Many moons have passed since the last mixtape was posted on these here parts. I’m looking to remedy that ailment right quick, not just with the most recent "Songs You Are About To Love” mix dreamt up by Matthew and myself -- but two additional mixes as well from the past two years. With any luck, enjoyment for all of us should soon follow.

- “SYAA2L: Impact.” (2015)  A gem of a mix, possibly one of our best, where we muse on our Dads, our own roles as Dad, and the influences surrounding those orbits (wandering off into car accidents, pro wrestling, and baseball).  CLICK TO ENJOY.

- “CSYAA2L: New Plan For Stan.” (2016)  A cover song mixtape which gets pretty weird, pretty fast -- and could have, understandably, forged on forever (leaving all sorts of music genres crushed in the wake). CLICK TO ENJOY.

- “SYAA2L: For Your Consideration.” (2017)  A mix in which Matty proposes sharing songs which we are not *only* about to love -- but tunes in which, under the right circumstances, could be considered the best. songs. ever. 

We also work though a bunch of.... stuff. 

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN, continue reading the liner notes for a deep dive into our latest and greatest (ever?):

Kevin,

I don't blame you, dude. And I definitely don't blame myself. I mean, our lives are busy. There are dogs and t-ball. There's grocery shopping... and birthday parties. Hell, we've got wives, lives and and the bunker in Argonne Forest. We are busy. It's no wonder we haven't made a mixtape in forever plus one day.

Truth be told, I was close to writing this email a long time ago. I had a good list of prospective songs and an idea for a theme... something about what gets a song consideration as potentially the Best Song Ever. It was a good list and there were a few songs on there that I was really excited about. Then a thing happened that threw everything off track. The album that one of those songs was off of was suddenly and unceremoniously removed from Spotify. (Truth be told, there may have been a ceremony, but if there was I sure as hell wasn't invited.) I was pissed. Upset. Sad. I had so many questions. What would become of my mixtape future? How could I live without one of my expected cornerstones?

I figured it would be okay. I thought that the feeling would pass eventually. I assumed that if I gave it some time, I would forget about that song and remember what was important about our mixtapes. The sharing. The camaraderie. You know, being pals... I figured it was just a matter of time.

It wasn't. It wasn't a mater of time, dude. That feeling never waned and I decided to give up any hope I might have had about living the mixtape-filled future I'd always assumed I'd live. Screw sharing. Screw being pals.

But then this week something good happened! I was driving along, listening to the same old songs and I saw it - there, in my playlist - back just as quickly as it had disappeared: my old pal - this song! It was back! I figured that it must be a sign. We have to do a mixtape now, right? Right. If for no other reason than because it's a race against time before the song disappears again. This song is like mixtape Brigadoon. It only appears once every hundred years. We have to seize the opportunity!

So here it is. A new mixtape. That original idea was a variation on a theme that we've touched on before... the thing your wife said once about how you listen to a song differently when you know that it's someone's favorite song. "Well, if he thinks it's the best song ever, then... I don't know - maybe it is?!" I think the new idea was about how lots of songs could be the best song ever if the circumstances are right. You know - the song you're listening to in 7th grade when that girl you've hoping for months would hold your hand is suddenly holding your hand, that song is going to feel like the best song ever. At the very least, it's going to feel better than it is. So, with that in mind, the potential for a song to be great widens considerably. When you consider environmental factors and mood and just where you are in your head - the sky is limitless.

So, friend, I thought we could do another list of songs that we are about to love, songs that also just might be the best song ever:

SYAA2L: For Your Consideration

Naturally, my first pick has to be the song that came and went (and then came back again). I feel like it earned this slot. On top of that, these guys closed a mix for us a long time ago... it seems only fitting that I stick them in here to kick this one off. Now, this isn't a song that I would have thought stood a chance to be the best song ever (BSE) upon first listen. No part of it soars. There's no divine guitar solo. There's no pristine vocal performance. Still though, every time I listen to it, my heart grows fonder. And I know what you're thinking - you're thinking, "Matty, it's the song's absence that has you thusly ensorcelled." Well, you're wrong. This song has been in heavy rotation for me for years now... its absence is just the thing that has since moved me to try and share it with you (and the three people that listen to our mixes). There's a lot going on here and the whole thing is steeped in classic rock influences. I love it.

Give it a listen. You may agree, you may not - but I for one think it might be the best song ever.

Here's The End of That, by Plants and Animals.  

- M

==========

We're forty, Matthew.  Forty years old.  Who has time for music?  (Let alone MIXING that music with another person.  Or for another person.  For anyone.  Forreals.)

I certainly don't.  

I've accepted the fact that you and I -- we -- have reached the point in our lives where music is predetermined to become rote.  A thing.  A noice machine that plays in the background of car rides or making dinner or clicking on the compute.r  Something that just drowns out the ever-present sound of our slowly dying hearts.

This is the point we've arrived at, Matt.  You can't fight it.  Inevitable.

We're the old me whose teenage songs are the best songs ever.  And those songs are now classic rock.  No longer in fashion, beyond fashion, around the bend until they ironically become appreciated again (when our kids are about juniors in college).  Until then?  Laughable.

But cling to your last whisp of youth if you must, much like we did the same to our eroding hairlines.  Tell yourself that these songs -- your song, with the nimble jaunty gee-tar and the "fucked-up bumblebee" lyric that might have captured a younger Kevin -- might be the best songs ever.  Under the right circumstances.  Inimitable.

Thing is, I'm in the circumstance where I'm swimming in the sea, wandering, desperately tryin' to get a grip on my emotions...

I'm falling apart

You wanna get me on board?  Better be new but feel classic.  Sound joyous but exude despair.  And don't even bother knocking unless you're got a name worthy of my goddamn time.  

Dig?

Chicano Batman. Friendship (Is A Small Boat In A Storm).

... Dig.

==========

You fool. In your vain attempt to disprove my point, all you've done is embrace it. Do I want to get you on board? Look around you, Kevin. You are on board. Sure, your opening diatribe is all about being too old for this shit, but then you drop Chicano Batman on us and it's immediately evident that the old man rant you're selling is not a product that you are willing to buy. Of course, no one wants to be on a small boat in a storm - that would suck. But think of the alternatives. Would you rather no boat in a storm? Can I interest you in a small brick? If friendship is all you got, kid, then friendship just might be the thing that saves you.

So, friendship is a boat in a storm. True. And obviously Mixtapes are friendship... And everybody knows that if A equals B and B equals C, then A equals C. So, mixtapes are also a boat in a storm. There will be no argument. You're going to make this mixtape and in this mixtape, maybe, find your salvation. We've known each other a long time, and as one of your first mates, I demand that you walk away from the light. We've got work to do.

You see, we are forty, bro. And there is a good portion of life that must be set aside now for fighting the notion that your best years are behind you. But you have to recognize that what you (and Chicano Batman) have done here is underscore a central point to my thesis. That song, for all of its despairing, still might (MIGHT!) be the best song ever. And Mixtapes.... Friendship...These are the things that keep us young. These are the things that keep us alive. What if - WHAT IF! - that song is the best song in the world?! Or what if it's this next one!? That's worth living for, right? Our hearts can't be slowly dying if the next song we hear might be the best one ever!

You're not falling apart. You're not. And I will always be proud to be Irish Robin to your Chicano Batman.

I hadn't planned to use this song here, but you seem like you need a pick me up - and I serve at the pleasure of this mix's wants and needs, so here it is. Here's: Die Alone.

Like most happy songs, this one draws some lyrics straight from a 2000 year old Roman poem that Catullus wrote upon the occasion of his brother's death. The whole poem is quite lovely. It speaks about traveling across seas to provide funeral rites to his brother's silent ashes. The part they excerpt for this song means something like, "I come to a conclusion, handed down from generations… Now and forever, my brother, hail and farewell."

Oh shit. I see now that I've made an error in judgement. Um... when they're speaking Latin, just picture the scene from the end of the Grinch. It sort of sounds like that, and that's totally uplifting. His heart grew.

Here's Die Alone by We Are Star Children.

==========

Fine, Star Child.  

Fine, fine, fine.


G’head and sally forth with your new mixes and new musics.  Sing me sweet songs of friendship and dead brothers.  Convince yourself that these trifling tunes could somehow rise to the level and legacies of our fathers’ — and our fathers’ fathers (favorite songs).  On some level, in some reality, I get it.  They’re the Schrödinger's Cat of Best Songs Ever: inside the box of this mixtape, yet to be revealed to the world — all possibilities exist at once.  Each song, both the greatest pieces of music ever and also being toss-aways not worthy of bargain bin cassingles.


In a way, it doesn’t matter what I pick.  When it exists in the possibility of these moments before my selection, they are perfect.  Only once revealed, do they become a power-chord “fuck you” song.  A well-worn singalong anthem.  The middle finger to an ex-lover.   Simple formulas showing little heart past the surface.  Or a thread, a moment, tapping directly into a youthful vein as it pumps unbridled angst and fury through our collective subconsciousness. 
 I dunno, man.  I ain't that smart.  Fuck your Ivy League sweater.


Harvard.  Diet Cig.

==========

Oh, Kevin. Your armor is wearing thin. What's that you said? "In a way it doesn't matter what I pick..." Sure, and that was followed immediately by your picking a protest-too-much song about how the singer is 'completely over' the dude enduring the Boston weather. Yeah, she's so over it that she's locked in a room somewhere writing emails tosongs about him.

I always imagine the ex sitting and listening to a song like this (...a song that was, I guess, intended to prove to them that the other had moved on). I find it far more likely that the ex lover sits there and says, "Yep, all I have to do is pick up the phone."

That's you, dude. You know that the cat is very much alive inside the box. You know it. He's in here with headphones on. He just needs you to drop this pretense and accept the fact that having angst and fury pumped through our collective unconscious is pretty great. He needs you to accept that Harvard by Diet Cig might be the best song ever.

I'm not trying to tell you how to live your life, friendo. I'm brave enough not to tame you. I'm happy to sit here and let you burst into flames. In fact, I'll stoke the coals and watch you blow. This mixtape is going to be here. I'm going to stay too... and not just because I want to prove your wrong. I am going to stay because there might be soaring vocals and hand claps. I'm going to stay because we might stumble into the best song ever.

I'll stay because I want to hear what comes next (...and I know that you do too).

This is Strange by LP.

==========

There was a time, not so long ago, where soaring vocals, hand claps, and a solo piano would be enough for a song to worm its way inside my heart.  Throw in thematic messages about how we're all strange, we're all weirdos, you're not alone, blah blah blah -- and you've got yourself the bedrock of my personal musical roadmap.  But not this time.  No, sir.  I'm simply a jaded old man who only connects with such songs when they're played over ads for HBO original programming.

Speak of sweet promises like "When you're lost and you're left and it's getting worse / They're the only ones who you know will get you by" as images of Julia Louis-Dreyfus and the Khaleesi flit by underneath it.  Then, and only then, will the path be clear.  It's not TV.  It's what's left of my soul.

Go ahead, adjust the script to electronic hand claps, anthemic pre-choruses, vocals that soar so high above our mountains majesty.  Won't matter.  Lay down an overarching sense of anti-love, of brutal honesty and indifference towards those who’ve wronged you — of knowing that no one is going to feel better about any of this shit that's happened between us anytime soon and that’s just the way things are because that’s that's what it means to be an adult.

There’s grey between the lines.

Tack all that on top and I'll barely flinch.  You're giving me a very effective Audi commercial at best.  And you had best believe you cannot build what I don’t need.  

And I know. I need. To feel. Relief.

Take care.

Leave A Trace, by CHVRCHES.

==========

Hey, asshole - I don't know who you think you're talking to - but lest you forget, please allow me to remind you... I’m not just some schmo off the street that is going to be impressed by your calculated musical depression. There is no part of me that is turned on by your measured disinterest. I’m not going to sit here, starry-eyed, saying, “Oh, disillusioned TV writer… I'm totally impressed by your ability to turn a phrase and craft a snarky argument. Please, tell me more about how you’re dead inside and soulless.”

A very effective Audi commercial? Are you kidding me? Son, I’ve seen you rise from a newborn sleep to become a reckless ballerina at the moment that Brendog overcomes his stage fright and Saba kicks into gear. I’ve seen you turn the lamest of weddings up to 11 when the right song gets a hold of your earholes. These are not the actions of a man who could ever be dead inside.

I get it, I get it. You're William Hurt from The Big Chill, trying to prove it to your college pals that you have evolved past them, that your life experience has illuminated their youthful exuberance as folly. Well that would all be well and good if it wasn't such utter bullshit. This, “…aww-shucks, I’m just an old dad trying to pay bills and keep my lawn in shape…” isn’t you, and it sure as shit isn’t me. That’s common people shit. We are soul men. You talk about ‘what's left of your soul’ like the piece that's hurting is gone and lost forever. That's not how souls work.

Believe me, I understand – living the life of the common schmo is appealing. The blissful ignorance our neighbors enjoy seems totally attractive on the surface. It must be nice to be a regular guy. It is, without question, the easy way out. Your wife buys you a bunch of pocket tees from Old Navy and you are content to work 9 to 5, five days a week, forever – as long as you get to watch football on Sundays. If you want to embrace every aspect of that life, then do it. If you want to throw in the towel and abandon your search for a song that moves you, so be it. If you want to close up shop, pack it in and quietly await death, go for it. You want to live like common people? You want to see whatever common people see? Fine. I for one am going to rage against that machine with every fiber of my being, even as the circumstances of my life lead me further and further towards that abyss.

I’m reminded of a time not long ago when I was sitting with my grandfather-in-law on his back porch. We were having a cocktail and he was telling stories. In a lull in the conversation he sighed and said, regarding the rest of the family in the living room, “Ah well, I guess we’d better head back inside… listen to the bullshit.” It was, I think, one of the funniest and saddest things I’ve ever heard.

I don’t want to be 85 and resigned to listening to the bullshit. You can if you want. Go ahead. Laugh along with the Common People. (Pulp.) I'm going to keep trying to find a long that means something. 
 PS - That's not even how you spell Churches. PPS - And you know. You need. Unique. New York.

==========

No one *wants* to be sitting there at the ripe ol’ age of eighty-five, resigned to the bullshit.  But with life, comes constraints.  Families can't just be ditched because they're idiots.  Much as you might like.  We can't magically wish the world into the sort of place where Pulp's timeless rallying cry universally touches our fellow man... not when odds are the bullshit like William Shatner's version is probably preferred by most of 'em.

That being said: I want.  I want plenty.

And sure, some of my wants might be common -- standards like health, happiness, a roof over my kids head.  But not all of them.  I also wanna feel flames licking at my back as I barrel through a brushfire (but I fear being burnt).  I want to craft something so staggering with my own two hands (but I'm far too clumsy).  I wanna taste stardust, sea air, soft earth.  To flit along the threads of a dew-covered spiderweb.  To behold true beauty, eyes like mirrors, until my breath is ripped from my chest.  

I Wanta Holler (But The Town's Too Small).

Constraints, Matthew.  We can't all be Gary U.S. Bonds.

==========

*jams fingers into ears* *shakes head wildly*

DON'T TALK TO ME ABOUT CONSTRAINTS, DAMMIT! JUST DON'T!

I'm a soul man! Can't you get that?! I will listen to the bullshit, sure - but I REFUSE to resign myself to listening to the bullshit! I will not accept that the bullshit is all there is! I will continue to dream of a world that has moments - just moments, here and there, that are free of bullshit! You have to let me have that! All I have are those dreams! It's just me and my dreams and (despite what it seems) it ain't much, but yet it's JUST enough.

*plays Soulman, by Ben L'Oncle Soul* *removes fingers from ears* *stops shaking head* *breathes*

==========

You want a Soul Man?  I'll get ya a Soul Man.  But he ain't got a lot of time.  He could maybe stay for three minutes or so.  Tops.  And Chuck -- that's my Soul Man's name -- Chuck ain't here to spit sweet nothings in our ears.  He won't be spinning an effervescent number about this fun new dance he's discovered.  He's no mashed potato.  No C. Thomas Howell Soul Man.  

Nope.  Chuck's gonna stand center stage, tear open his goddamn heart, and thrust both arms elbow-deep into the bullshit.

He's gonna howl and holler and implore those of us who can hear his cries to not just *see* the bullshit before him, but to help him rid the world of it.  Chuck wails "What are ya gonna DOOOOOOOO?"  And I'm left realizing that perhaps my Old Man wallowing and resignations were misguided.  I need to be standing up with my man Chuck.  I need to purposefully step into the bullshit, and try to change it.  Change.  Change the false preachers -- Change the hate in us -- Change for the better of our soul.

We've gotta change our love. Change For The World. I've got to give you my love. Shout them lines.  Take this love. Charles (I call him Chuck) Bradley.

==========

Well, alright! This guy's somebody that I can work with! This last message - and this last song - these both seem to have my old pal, Kevin in there somewhere.  

Now we're starting to really get at this thing.... huh? So what are we really talking about then? It's circumstances, right? It's not about whether a person has made choices in life that have ultimately complicated their ability to be happy or carefree - that's everyone. That's how time works. The longer you linger, the harder it is to be happy and the more careful you have to be. No, this here is about what we do with those circumstances. Are we going to see the bullshit of our lives and be resigned to it, or are we - like my man Chuck - going to see that bullshit and vow to plow through it? Are we going to commit to a persistent evolution and say to all comers, "Just keep shoveling - I shall rise above..."?

It's because we keep evolving that our appreciation of a thing can change. I will hear a song differently depending on what I am bringing to the table. That next song could always be the best one because I am changing. My soul is evolving.

"Change for the better of our souls?" Fucking-a right. You just need to adjust your perspective. The whole world should know that if you talk to us about your circumstances, we're going to talk to you about perspective.

"It's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog." Mark Twain "It's not the years, it's the mileage." Indiana Jones "It Ain't What You Got, (*Goldust noise*) it's how you use it." Jimmy Hughes

Things are looking up.

-M

==========

Yeah!  Yeah.  I’m here.  I’m back, baby!  I’m in like Flynn -- and not the wretched piece of shit who sold us out, serving as a blazing reminder of how utterly debased and cataclysmic our current government has become -- because *that* would be focusing on the low-fi.

We're all about the hi-fi now.

Can't afford to dwell on cards dealt or bum situations or sleights -- because dude, I could easily sit here for hours and grouse about stuff like the time a group of older teens stole my basketball on the playground near my home; and how powerless, how impotent that felt (further compounding the abundance of inadequacies I already struggled with) -- no, no no no no.  No time for that.

Gotta focus on the here.  The now.  No dwelling among the past regrets -- like this time in elementary school when I wrote on another kid's backpack, insisting to myself that it was simply because he wasn't that nice of a kid (when, in reality, he was simply an easy target because he was a big bigger for our age).  Dr. Martin Rand would call that shit transference, if I recall our psych classes correctly.  Kicking down the rungs on that ladder of misplaced childhood anger.  I bullied that kid and feel shitty about it now, and sure I could try to wrack my addled memory, trying to remember his name, even search the internet in a faint hope of finding him to make amends -- but that's the past.  Can't change it now.  

We face the future.  We take stock of the endless possibilities spread out before our kids and bask in them -- not fretting over the ever-present, ever-compounding number of fears and anxieties over this changing world and our inability to shelter or protect them from the Flynns or the basketball thieves or the shitty little bullies like we once were --

-- to say nothing of the inevitable heartbreaks -- -- or the state of humanity in general -- -- the death and decline of our ecosystems --

Naw, man.  Hi-fi.  Things are looking up.  

Totally.  

Yeah.

I Must Not Think Bad Thoughts. X.

==========

That’s what I’m talking about! We're all about the hi-fi! Keep our eyes on the prize, right? 
 
 I couldn’t agree more, buddy – we absolutely cannot afford to dwell on those bum situations or slights of the past. I mean, Jesus, if I did that I might end up losing whole days down terrifying rabbit holes in the dark recesses of my psyche. Yikes. I would never want to get caught in a rut where I was obsessing about the missteps of my life. You know, where you're just spinning and spinning contemplating all those notions that normally lay dormant... Dormant, that is, until the moment you are least expecting them, when something reminds you about them and they reemerge and consume you… Actually, now that you mention it, I’ve got a lot of stuff like that – things that pop up in my head out of nowhere just when I think I’ve successfully ignored them out of existence. Things I should have done differently… other choices I should have made… people I could have been better to… Come to think of it, “I must not think bad thoughts…” is a mantra I rely on quite a bit. Honestly, between that kind of abject denial and booze, I’ve got a pretty good system down. There’s a trick to a system like that though, isn’t there… Because the minute you tell yourself not think bad thoughts – you know… here they come. It's really about maintaining - keeping yourself busy with whatever is next. All that goes out the window though when you forget that you must not think bad thoughts. Just now, for example, as I was listening to your song (...about not thinking bad thoughts), it occurred to me how silly it is that we've been having this email exchange about navigating the bullshit of life and overcoming adversity.  I mean, the utter absurdity of two 40 year old white male Americans gabbing about their struggle - I could definitely obsess about that… about how I was given a golden ticket, squandered it, and yet still have the audacity to spout this Poor Me nonsense… 
 
 As we speak, I actually can’t stop thinking about that. Or – if I wanted to – I could spend time thinking about all those times in my life when I was other people’s circumstances. It’s so easy to get tunnel vision about your own troubles and lose sight of the way you’re impacting others. I mean, ask anyone – I’m kind of a hard ass (…and there have been very few people in my life that have been patient enough to find any charm in that). There were so many times where I was not careful with other people's feelings. It sucks actually… you know – when you think about it. Don't get me wrong, I hear what you're saying - you're saying the past is the past and we need to look forward. How though can I be expected to look towards the future with any confidence, if all I've done throughout the history of my life is bungle each opportunity and always hurt the ones I love? I mean, do I have any right at all to keep it hi-fi? Christ, when you think about it that way, you were probably right all along - it just doesn't fucking matter what song I pick. It really could not matter any less. Best song ever? Who gives a shit. Circumstances? The only circumstance that counts is that we were all given this beautiful gift of life and every person that I've ever met has royally shit the bed with that opportunity. Pick a song? Sure, I'll pick a song. Here's a catchy little number called Nothing, Not Nearly by Laura Marling. It appropriately starts off with a noise that sounds like me slowly screwing myself ever further down into hell with everything I do. Might this be the best song ever? Maybe. I think it could be. But really, who gives I damn what I think? Not me, that’s for sure. Not anybody else either. Why would they? I'm a screw up nobody that can't stop thinking bad thoughts. Thanks for reminding me.

==========

So, um, it's, uh... it's entirely possible that my last song sort of, um -- well, it seems to have *only* made us think bad thoughts.

That one's on me.  My bad.

But look, we still got that sweet bluesy-talky Laura Marling number out of it.  And if I've learned anything from "Inside Out," it's that allowing (or embracing, even) your sadness is a pretty goddamn important component to having a healthy emotional life. Don't try to deny it. Multitudes, y'know? Even if yer troubles tend to hedge toward the mundane -- they're no less legitimate. Underneath these innocuous trappings we all be fretting the same thing.  Trust me.

Take this couple out on the sidewalk, for example.  They're young and heading into this house that's for sale.  Checking it out.  Scoping the neighborhood, wondering how they'll afford everything.  Is this the right place to start their family, to build their home together?  On the surface, they talk about the wallpaper and the previous owner and how they'll cut back on lattes to save some money -- but the underlying worry is all about that same thing I was talking about: our own fucking mortality.  

Perhaps it ain't the time to be happy.  We all end up in Depreston from time to time. Least we can do is ease into things gracefully, just like Courtney Barnett does.

==========

Well, now I feel terrific. I thought we were just doing mid-life crisis... you're mixing in mortality. Yeesh.

I appreciate your effort, I guess. I spent most of Inside Out looking at my phone, though - so I probably missed most of the finer points. Actually, I spend most of the time that I'm not working or actively parenting looking at my phone. When I see that same thing in other people, I usually assume that they are dead inside. With me it's more that it's all I can muster, having given so much to those times when I am working/actively parenting.

I get it. suppose it is better to try and frame the whole sadness/depression thing as transitory. If I were sad or depressed then I probably would have found your words of encouragement, you know - encouraging. But that's sort of the thing. I'm not sad or depressed. I've made not being sad or depressed into an art form. Outwardly I'm pretty happy and inwardly I'm just sort of numb. There's this running gag at work where when people pass me in the hall and say, "How's it going..." or whatever people say, I always respond the same. I say, "Best day ever." And they laugh because they know the nature of my job precludes me from having a lot of great days. Still though, it's not like it's a cry for help or anything - I just like that people think it's funny and I go along with it.

The next song on our mixtape is Running from My Savior by Wolfie's Just Fine.  I've listened to it about 2000 times and I never really had a handle on what it's about. I sort of think about it like Jules in Pulp Fiction and Ezekiel 25:17. You know, where he can't decide who is evil, who is righteous and who is the tyranny of evil men. Like Jules, originally, I never thought about what this song meant. I just thought it was catchy. The more I listen to it though, the more I try to figure out who is the Savior and who is the Narrator. Sure, I'd like to think that I'm the Savior, trying as he might to shepherd the unwilling out of danger and save them from themselves. Sometimes I even think that the Narrator could be America, running in the opposite direction from progress with it's thumbs in its ears, ranting about how everything will be fine because America is the best. Of course though, I need only get to the line, "I am not unique, but only I can pretend..." to discover the truth. The truth is, I'm the Narrator. Breathlessly running away from anything that might be the right direction and anyone trying to help. Pretending. Always pretending.

It's a good song, I think. I know it doesn't matter though. Sorry to be a downer. I'm trying, Ringo. I'm trying real hard to be the Savior. Maybe next time.

==========

Yeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaah.

...

*cough*

...

*looks at watch*

Huh.  Fifteen songs already.  Guess we're Halfway Home.

...

*nods*

Yup.

...

(Broken Social Scene)

==========

...because when you really think about it we're all in charge of our own shit, right? We all have the power to decide how we respond to our circumstances... We can choose to be joyful. Of course, the sad truth of it is that sometimes the context of our lives requires that we lie to ourselves if we want to make a choice that is contrary to our reality. In short, sometimes you have to bullshit yourself quite a bit just to keep it together. That's life. So what if you get stuck in a rut where the lying to yourself seems to happen seamlessly and without forethought in everything that you do? If that's what you need to get through... well, shit, I guess that's what I need to do. I've gotten pretty good at it - if not for these emails I'd probably be happily going about my nice little Saturday today... trip to Toys R Us to get another birthday present + wrapping for some kid I've never met, and then (if the weather holds) I'll get to mow the lawn while the kid is at the party. Should be sweet. We're hoping to get to Price Chopper later - we're out of spinach and toilet paper. Keep it up, Matty - you're doing great.

Fifteen songs. Forty years. Halfway home.

Most men lead lives of quiet desperation? I don't think so. In my experience, the desperation only comes in spurts, in waves, like this one. Really, most of my life is spent in that complete and seamless denial. That's what I see all around me. Everyone is just trying to maintain - putting up a front so they can, I don't know what... get to the weekend? To that week vacation? You're goddamn right I must not think bad thoughts. Everything is fine. Everything will be fine. If I keep doing things the same boring-ass way I've always done them, I will somehow, miraculously get to enjoy the good life sometime before I die. Christ, I'm too busy lying to myself to be desperate.

So, here we go... Things are good. I enjoy a good salad, my neighbors didn't build a giant fucking tree-house in their front yard, and I am very pleased with the way everyone drives when it's raining. Also, I quite enjoy living in the suburbs, no one in my office gets on my nerves and David Bowie is very much alive.

I'm doing it, bud. I'm keeping it hifi. I am very excited about this next pick. Definitely one of my favorite artists ever, it's off of his newest album - this might be the best song ever! - here it is, it's Sign of the Times by David Bowie.

==========

I've been sitting here all weekend sifting through the jumbled pieces of my psyche, trying to rationalize a world in which some candy kid from One Direction channels Bowie via Oasis and calls into question the laws of musical fame vis a vis bubblegum pop stardom blooming into True Artistry.  I thunk on the Beatles (mainly because Sirius finally added a goddamn Beatles channel which is pretty great but plays waaaaaaaaaaaay too many solo Ringo songs for anyone's taste save for maybe Ringo himself, but deep down even he knows it's over the top) and how those fab kids made the leap from Tiger Beat to True Artistry -- which, of course, led me to mull over how many other artists have been able to make such a transition (not that I'm saying this One Direction kid is a True Artist -- yet certainly one can appreciate his attempts toward or yearning for such credibility) except ultimately, I never really found a followup song able to ride the vein toward Best Song Everdom since we're also trying to make a mix here.

So I sit here mucking about themes of men and their quiet, spurting desperations, trying to find a follow-up that carefully encapsulates the emotional weight I feel inside my chest in most of my quiet waking moments (which, granted, could also be undiagnosed angina) -- when I end up sidetracked into researching whether The Kid can keep playing baseball next year or whether she's going to get shuttled off to youth softball because, you know, she's a girl.  

She ain't gonna be interested in softball, Matty.  Her friends (who are boys) play baseball and she knows the Sox play baseball and all of her carefully curated trading cards are of baseball players.  Not softball players.  At which point I slide into this sinkhole of eventual injustices and inequities she's definitely going to face as she gets older and all the while I'm spiraling there's this soft repetitive thumping in the back of my head -- pounding like an incessant Jehova's Witness on my front stoop, trying desperately to give me the good word.  

But I'm flailing, coming to terms with the fact that I'm ill-prepared to equip her with any sort of armor against the very basic totalshittyness of being a girl in our society and then the door opens and it's not a Jehova's Witness at all -- but some guy who knows a thing or two about catchy pop songs.  And then *he* starts slagging off Rick Astley out of the blue ("that dick's a clown"!!!) while spouting a simple tenet which will serve my girl well in life -- AND it ties in nicely with the other theme of guys and their spurting waves of desperation.  Like a neat little package.  Perfect.  Trust me.

Or don't.  Because I'm full of shit. All Men Are Liars. Thanks, Nick Lowe.

==========

Kevin! This is what I'm talking about! All Men Are Liars (...to themselves and everybody else, but mostly to themselves)! And you're right (wrong) by pointing out that you yourself are full of shit - that song sticks us smack dab into a paradoxical loop. How can we believe Nick Lowe while he's quite literally telling us that he's full of baloney. Even if I did tell you that I believe him, you couldn't trust that I legitimately did, because I might just be 'believing' him for show. I'm totally full of crap. Just like you. Just like Nick Lowe.

Believe me when I tell you that I tried hard to find a good Rick Astley song to slot in here... well actually, that's not true at all. The truth is that it occurred to me that I could slot a Rick Astley song in here (and how funny that might be...) But then I remembered how all Rick Astley songs sound sort of the same and how his face creeps me out a little because he always seems strangely out of focus. So whatevs, I moved on.

Now where were we then? Oh yeah, softball.

Bud, I don't know what to tell you. I hope that it's some comfort to hear that raising a young man in Trump's America is no picnic either. Of course, I wouldn't pretend to equate the two - I'm just saying, when faced with similar (albeit fewer) questions, I often just throw my hands up and say, "All we can do is prepare him for the world as best we can and hope that when the time comes to fly, he flies." Sure, I can understand the urge to, "...slide into the sinkhole of eventual injustices..." but what good can you be to her if you're in a puddle on the floor? None. So what do you do? You lie to yourself. Why? Because the best you can do is try to maintain. That's what all of this is about, right? I'm not just lying to myself for me... I've got a family to think of.  

I feel like maintaining is the least we can do when it comes to the little guys. Childhood is a bridge. We need to just get them to a place where they can think on their own and then hope against hope that they have the audacity to be true to themselves. Please, oh please, let them be okay just being who they are and telling the rest of whoever to go screw.

...and so what if she wants to play baseball? Eve ate the apple because the apple was sweet. Doesn't make her a bad person. There's nothing to be afraid of there. She was hungry. Right? What kind of God forbids fruit? What kind of God would ever keep a girl from getting what she needs? Eat an apple. Go play baseball. Give no fucks.

...and so what if that means that they get damned in the popular opinion! I say, let that be just another damn in the damns they're not giving.

This next song is about something like that, I think. It's Josh Ritter if Josh Ritter was asked, "Hey, can you write a song like Only the Good Die Young for a movie like Footloose in the style of Tom Petty?" This one took me a long time to warm to - I tend to like the quiet one man and a guitar Josh Ritter. The more I listen to it though, the more I see how the band really lifts it up. Call me a liar, but it might be the best song ever.

If that's not enough to sell you, this song also has the only lyric I'd ever consider getting tattooed on my body.** And that's the truth.

Here's Getting Ready to Get Down by Josh Ritter.

-M

==========

Man, that's a *much* better idea for a tattoo than my ill-conceived (and thankfully avoided) intention in college to have a Celtic band tattooed around my arm.  Now you know me, Mack.  Has there EVER been a point in which my biceps -- hell, even one bicep -- have been tattoo-worthy?  To say nothing of the fact that I don't have a drop of Irish blood in my bones (all praise to your own Celtic ancestors, of course).  Folly of youth, holmes.

That sweet Ritter track is gonna aid me mightily on our massive road trip to Kentucky this weekend -- plenty of time to soak up the strong "Life Is A Highway" vibe, with the windows down and the hair blowing past my sunglassed eyes.  So so so good.  As for any potential Baseball v. Softball clash -- the jury is still out.  And truth be told, I give zero fucks about popular opinion -- I was just hoping to avoid marching on the town Rec Center chanting "Free Mister Clark!"  I'd rather work on her batting stance.

Thus, I've chosen my follow-up track very carefully: a power-trio of kick-ass women who take your bustling beat from the previous track and kick the pep up juuuuust a tad.  The bassline alone is tight as a goddamn tripwire.  Their message, concise.  To the point.  There's no mistaking what they want, and they're not going to let it go until you listen to them.  Polite, but firm.  Don't close the Door, they ask you, Nice As Fuck.

==========

Okay, okay, I think I'm starting to get it. I think that we may be approaching something that might slightly resemble actual self-awareness. "All the shit that we talk is a smokescreen?" Yup. That seems appropriate. Because really, there's not much to 'talk', right? Talk (when I talk anyway) is almost always some form of excuse or another. Some half-assed justification for taking the easy way... for ignoring the voice inside me that knows how I alone am responsible for my state of mind. A closed door is the easy way. It's definitive. Safe. All this non-sense about how I don't want to think bad thoughts because it depresses me is really all pretense, isn't it? The truth is that what depresses me is my seeming inability to get out of my own way and put in the work it takes to feel better.

Baby steps, untie my knots.

It doesn't take much, does it? I guess for some people it does. I don't think that's me though. Leaving the door open. Or sometimes just a single word. That could be all you need to get the ball rolling downhill. Gain some momentum. Sometimes you just need to let go of your bullshit and let bygones be bygones.

So I'm drawing a line in the sand right here - I'm going to quit my bellyaching and get back to some honest to God mix-making. No snarky set up that pays off with a song about dying alone. And no over the top self delusion about being a soul man who is impervious to the things that could potentially lay him low. Nope - this one's an olive branch to my real self. I've decided to call off my dogs and resume my search for the Best Song Ever.

This might be it. It's Call Off Your Dogs by Lake Street Dive.

==========

I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful.   I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful.   Baby steps.

Sometimes the best thing you can do is to wish you were better about it all -- a better person, a better bellyacher, a better mixmaker -- in the hopes of making it so.  

Baby steps to the end of the mix.  

First time I heard this guy, I was driving around in the car as a song of his came on Sirius.  I thought the band name was a joke.  Car Seat Headrest.  Immediately I wanted to text you, tweet, complain about the fact that we've (apparently) reached the point in time where we've run out of proper band names.  We've resigned ourselves to selecting random objects and hoping they'll make do.  "Refrigerator Door Handle."  "Lawnmower Gas Cap."  The stuff of legends, right?

Of course, there's always the possibility that I'm just old now -- that this is the point in time where I'm forever frozen, like when my parents stopped buying new music.  You reach Lionel Ritchie's Greatest Hits and go no further.  Then I hear the song.  Y'know, *hear* it.

"I have become such a negative person.  It was all just an act."  And be sure, there's a thread of melancholy throughout, but the song builds, layer upon layer, chord upon chord.  Baby steps.  "It doesn't have to be like this.  It doesn't have to be like this."  I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful.

It's not too late, Matty.   Turn off the engine.   Get out of the car.   And start to walk.   Toward the best song ever:  Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales --

(Wait, is that really the fucking song title?  Seriously?  I -- uh... hm.  Maybe I am old...)

by Car Seat Headrest.

==========

Well sir, honestly, I didn't really get that song on my first few listens - and it wasn't just the band name that had me stumbling. I don't know what it was, I guess... but I wasn't hearing it. Something happened though as I kept listening, trying to settle on my pick... and it wasn't just the normal warming to something that familiarity brings. My appreciation of it evolved. I began to get it. Now I'm enamored.

I don't mind telling you that this small change in me felt significant. The fact that an unenthusiastic reaction to a song could become a very positive one seemed important in light of all the bellyaching I've been doing about being stuck. And I was feeling stuck. You know, really stuck. Like whatever it was that had me writing 'feelings' emails these past few weeks might have been enough for me to be wondering if having that mindset was forever my fate.  That kind of stuck. Here we are though, from my line in the sand (Call Off Your Dogs) to your plea to get out of the car and start to walk (Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales), it feels like I may be turning a bit of a corner. It doesn't have to be about resigning to bullshit or pretending that the bullshit is great - it can be about recognizing your own evolution and the freedom one can only enjoy when he realizes that all of it - the happiness, the bullshit - it's all fleeting.

Oh and by the way isn't that the whole point of this exercise?! How your appreciation of a thing can evolve? How a moment can shape a thing almost as much as the thing itself? It is, right? What fun.

My next pick may lack the gravity of DD/KW, but its Lady Mack the Knife vibe is too potent for me to resist any longer. I believe now that I can't know what song might be the best one for me on a given night... tonight though, if you give me a slick bass line, a filthy little sax thing and a vocalist channeling young Van Morrison - well I think that about does the trick.

Honestly, that might actually do the trick on most nights.

Here's Silver Dagger by Charley Crockett.

==========

Y'know, Mack -- if I were an evil musical scientist charged with creating something that'd appeal directly to your natural song-trait predilections, this would pretty much be the song I'd come up with.  Hit all your sweet spots, make it irresistible, world domination follows.  Simple shit.

And this next jam was irresistible for me, too.  Not that I didn't try.  Literally.  Whenever it came on the radio, I'd quickly have to change the station.  Not because I didn't enjoy what I was hearing (on the contrary, the opening guitar lick is a massive goddamn earworm), but because six seconds in they start spitting some seriously saucy language:

"PICTURE THIS, I'M A BAG OF DICKS, PUT ME TO YOUR LIPS, I AM SICK -- I WILL PUNCH A BABY BEAR IN HIS SHIT."  

You know me, I loves me some good use of profanity, but I've usually got a kid in the car.  And while I'm certain the day is coming where we delve into the contextual use of profanity -- that day ain't here yet.  Maybe 3rd or 4th grade.  But the fucking song kept following me.  Every other ride for like a year, it'd just pop on.  And I'd have a six-second countdown to change the channel.  Occasionally I'd pick it up halfway through.  But it was always in fits and starts.  Snippets.  I was drawn to it, but I still didn't really know what I was dealing with.  Then it fell out of rotation on my stations and I forgot about it.

Until football season.  When Bud Light made a Buffalo Bills ad which used the same opening guitar riff.

So months in, after seeing the commercial dozens of times and during one of my inevitable Rex Ryan meltdowns, I searched for the song.  Couldn't remember the name.  Knew the guys performing it (Run The Jewels), but it wasn't on any of their albums.  Then, one day, I stumbled upon it randomly on Spotify.  And ever since, I no longer have to resist the spitting lyrics and head-bobbing swagger of Nobody Speak (feat. Run The Jewels) by DJ Shadow.  And, now, neither do you.**

**Unless your kid or Aunt Chris is listening, in which case I'd skip right past this track.

===========

You should write a book called The Contextual Use of Profanity. I would buy it. I would buy the shit out of it.

As for Nobody Speak? I'm all for including it here. This is a mixtape for adults, bud. Sure, I listen to music in the car with my kid too. Like you, I too find myself filtering out any language or subject matter that might need more of an explanation that I'm willing to give. As he gets older though, the more I'm finding that I absolutely trust his instincts. I mean, the kid kind of has impeccable taste. For example: he loves Son of a Preacher Man. I support it. Now he doesn't have a clue what the lyric, "Learning from each other's knowing, looking to see how much we've grown..." means. If he asks me, I just tell him that I don't know either. End of discussion. We get to listen to the song with all of our delicate sensibilities intact.

I mean, what? I'm supposed to protect him from, "Meanwhile Britain keeps shittin' on us relentlessly..."? I'm supposed to say, "Well my six year old has taken an interest in the biggest musical in a generation, it's about the dawn of our nation and it won the Pulitzer, but there's some salty language in there so I'm going to discourage it and tell him to go watch Caillou piss his pants again..." I'm sorry, that's just not happening. I'd rather listen to it and let him ask me... And if he does?  I'll tell him, "Well son... Britain was SHITTING ON US RELENTLESSLY!" That is profanity used in context, and I don't think that we need to apologize.

I'm not afraid of Nobody Speak. I welcome it. I know some very good people that use bad words all the time and not once have I been hurt by them. And let's not forget the flip side to that coin! Bill Cosby, for example, raged against the use of profanity for decades and he is a straight up goddamn monster.

Under the proper circumstances, Nobody Speak absolutely might be the best song ever (and it therefore belongs on our mix).

I guess what I'm saying is that there are degrees here with profanity. There's a spectrum. I don't think the little guy is ready for Nobody Speak (...and I'm not ready to evade all those questions). The thing is, Kev - we're not kids. We're adults. There are gradations. We can use adult words with each other. We can appreciate a well placed curse in a song. We have already evolved from precocious youngsters to hard-hearted grey beards. Our tastes have changed. Our favorite song tonight was likely not our favorite song when we were six. (This is what we've been talking about!) We're adults - and I for one see nothing wrong with adults getting a bit filthy. We're grownups, right? We can totally handle it. And not just with words either. We can handle some filth in our bass lines too. If you're of age and you want to dip your toe into a nasty little horn part, well that is totally your prerogative. If we work hard all night and day and then drive an hour to a club, what, do you think we're just going to stand against a wall? No. We went there to have ourselves a ball, right? Why wouldn't we let our hair down a bit?

Truthfully, I let Deck listen to this next one whenever he wants. I mean - I can't keep him young forever. I know that. And if he's got to grow up, I want it to be Teddy Pendergrass teaching him how to Get Up, Get Down, Get Funky, Get Loose. He can handle it  - and it's better than him learning it on the streets.

==========

Songs that teach.  I like that idea.  

Tunes that take the adult burden of imparting the next generation with proper lessons on how to navigate the world -- and fobbing it off onto a pop song.  At first glance, I thought perhaps only lighter lessons could be included.  Small things to be taught (which is not to say knowing how to Get Up, Get Down, Get Funky, and Get Loose is small...), to be given catchy refrains which could be drawn upon in a moment of crisis.  Fight the Power.  Stand Up Rise Above Racism.  Put the Lime In The Coconut.  You know.  

The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced you could put ANY possible lesson in song form and have it be more effective than an uncomfortable, rambling parent.  Schoolhouse Rock for Real Life (which, I guess, was the point of Schoolhouse Rock, actually) -- but with the Best Songs Ever.  And so, I'm going to give you this song lesson many moons past the due date, when we were but wanderlust teens unable to read the signals being sent from the fairer sex... just waiting to be handed a slip of paper that explicitly gave us the go-ahead.  

This song is that slip of paper. Shut Up Kiss Me by Angel Olsen

==========

Well that is just about a perfect response. (Sorry it's not completely perfect, but I have to deduct points for the implication that we are somehow more equipped now to read the signals being sent from the fairer sex.) It is near perfect though because it hits on something that is again central to my point: Best Song Ever has to be variable because at different points in your life, you need to be taught different things by the music that you listen to. Because you need to hear different messages at different points in your life AND because you need to be receptive to a message in order to appreciate it, you can find yourself discovering perfection in a song that had previously seemed imperfect to you.

So, yes! The Best Songs Ever are variable and they most definitely are songs that teach us something. I would put that second one on the list if ever I sat down to write the best song ever. That will probably never happen though (...due to my complete lack of musical ability). But, if I were say... Beethoven, or Lou Reed... you know - if I were Paul McCartney... If I were one of those guys then I would definitely be trying to teach.

I'll never be one of those guys though, Kevin. Nope, it wasn't in the cards for me. I've had to resign myself to the fact that my role in musical discovery takes place before a pen strikes paper or fingers alight on keys. I am, of course, referencing my life as a muse. You know too well that I've long been the thing that inspires artists to create art. Sure, I may not get the recognition I so desire, but my contribution is no less significant. I'm the person that inspires the art which inspires another person to create art which inspires another person... That's a cycle that I want to jump into and out of forever.

Think about that, bud, the next time you're listening to Elton John or Ray Davies. Think about what caused the spark to light that song's way. Or you should try it yourself - the next time you're at the wall of writer's block - think about the people in your life that get you out of your head and into your heart.

This next one pick might be almost meaningless to you right now. It might just be a catchy pop song that you may or may not sort of enjoy. You might not be susceptible to this infectious hook right at this precise point in your life. But maybe (just maybe), there will be some day in the future where you are in search of inspirado - and you'll stumble upon this song again... and there within it's catchiness, you'll discover the lesson. It's at that moment that it will hit you. "Man, For Elise by Saint Motel might be one of the best songs ever." I don't know where I'll be then, Kev. But I'll know about it and I'll be happy.

==========

Inspirado, man.  Such a fickle mistress.  It's helpful when there's a specific element to a song that provides the inspiration -- like that infectious hook, or the clever lyric, or the person (like you) behind the person behind the person.  

But what about a piece that refuses to really show itself to me?  One that slips through my fingers like whispy tendrils of smoke as I try to grab hold of meaning?  Is it the general tone of the song -- how at points I can almost feel the soft summer sun on skin?  Or is it in those booming transitions, when there's a rumble in my chest akin to unexpected thunder?  Or or or, is it in the half-second pauses they pepper throughout -- the negative space

where all

possibilities

present themselves

in a single

moment?  

I don't know, Matty.  I just don't know.  But I do listen to this song, over and over, hoping against hope that this'll be the time when it finally reveals itself.  When it opens up to me. Eventually. Tame Impala.

==========

Christ buddy, I don't know either. Sometimes I feel like everything worth holding onto is a whispy tendril of smoke... And as I look at life through these forty year old eyes "Eventually" is becoming the dirtiest of words to me.

You've set me up well for my final selection. Thematically, these songs seem linked. I had been zeroing in on this band for my final pick since we started this thing... not sure why. As we've progressed through our emails, it became more and more clear to me that this song would be the selection. Now it actually seems silly that I ever considered any others. There's a few reasons for that really... the most obvious is that my appreciation of the song has definitely evolved considerably over time. When I first heard it, I thought it was about Elizabeth Taylor. Then I started to really hear it - you know, you catch one more lyric every time and slowly you realize that it's actually about a taxi driver and her life... and her regrets. It's not depressing though - it's a cautionary tale. It's a call to arms - like Scrooge's glimpse into the future. It's about gathering your fucking rosebuds. And now I'm in the future, you know. And I'm really hearing this song - hearing it in a way I'm sure that the other suburban dads are not. Hearing it with my soul. That's the other reason this has to be the pick. I've been on a bit of a roller coaster through this mix. This song feels to me a fitting place for me to land. It is straightforward about regret, but it still feels hopeful to me. It acknowledges the bullshit without ever resigning to it. Also, on top of all of that, I believe that it could possibly be - if the conditions are right - the best song in the world. It's my final pick. It's Cleopatra by The Lumineers.

I'm going to see these guys Thursday night. You should come. Music is the best.

Honestly, bud, I don't have a clue what the best song ever is... Chances are that on a given night it's none of these... It's probably Marquee Moon, or Lover You Should Have Come Over or something... Or Something. For a long while I thought it was Crimson and Clover, but that isn't really the case for me anymore. Sometimes it's I Hope That I Don't Fall in Love With You. Other times it's Sinnerman... or the Prelude to Bach's Unaccompanied Cello Suite in G Major. Still, I think we've done some good work here pointing our fingers at some songs that should be in the running. As our circumstances change, only time will tell.

We've got one more to go. Last pick is yours. Bring us home.

==========

Gather ye rosebuds, indeed.

If Cleopatra is the call to arms -- to beware regret and believe in hope -- then my final selection is the inverse of that.  Yin, meet Yang.  There's no hope found in this finale, just the inevitable squaring of accounts.  Edges refusing to be softened by angelic melodies.  The tape rolls out and we're left alone with the desperate wailings of a broken man echoing in our ears.  Death and depression.  Resentment and rage.

Which isn't to say I'm anywhere close to that mindset at the moment.  I have my spells (and we've damn well established there are few among us who don't), but tonight I feel good.  I feel great.  A brisk breeze is nudging through our window.  The drink at my side is slowly sweating onto the desk.  And my best chums will be under my roof tomorrow.  We're happy, we're healthy, we're alive.  And that's why music is the best.

Because I can press play on this song and be taken from this contentment -- even if only for five minutes -- and be tossed aside.  Be made to feel utterly alone through a warbling voice and a few distorted guitars.  My own stuff begins to bubble up and I taste bitterness on the back of my tongue.  I'm seventeen again.  I'm forty.  I'm lying on the floor, wailing.  I'm careening down the road, dead-eyed.  I'm tearing photos from the walls.  I'm burning bridges.  I'm leaving it all behind.  I'm sinking below the surface, hand extended to the heavens.  I'm safe at my computer, typing this message.

I'm in a small boat in a storm.   And they're coming fin by fin until the whole boat sinks.

I've no idea if this is the best song ever.  The Australians seem to say it's *their* best song ever, which must count for something, I suppose.  All I can vouch for is that this song unlocks something deep inside me.  Sets fire to feelings I'm wary of.  And that's why music is the best.

Fin by fin.

Thanks for sharing it with me, pal.

Shark Fin Blues, by The Drones.