#look it up. his work is considered Americana. which is country

[general-george-washington]

Hi! Love your work.

I saw in your tags that you specified that post-9/11 pop country is terrible. I don't know hardly anything about country music: can you either tell me or point me in the direction of a resource where I can find out how/why 9/11 affected country music, please? Is it the white nationalism?

Thank you so much, have a great day.

I'm gonna put this under the cut bc I go on a rant

So, I'm mostly talking out of my ass with this however I do enjoy country music and in the 00's I discovered country pop and was really into it. As well, I've found articles which back up exactly what I'm talking about so I am going to link those at the end.

9/11 of course changed how Americans viewed themselves and of course triggered a rise of American nationalism, especially white nationalism as you've pointed out.

Music is an outlet for people and post 9/11, many American Patriotic songs were revived (think god bless the USA, etc). It also shifted pop country toward nationalism, religion, and a military-supporting standpoint. Song which discussed this, such as God Bless the USA, faced revival. Truly, just any song that mentioned America or USA suddenly become pro-American. There's a number of songs that came out in 2002 and 2003 which show this increase, me blaming Courtesy of the Red, White, and Blue (the Angry American Song) is somewhat arbitrary but it does show examples of all of these as it was written in late 2001 and it came out in early 2002. It is a song of 'if you fuck with us, we will fuck right back with you' and it topped country music billboards in 2002. Compare this to prior country music, such as Born in the USA, which, despite the modern push for it being nationalist, tells the story of a Vietnam veteran returning home to nothing after he did horrific things for his country. There are other songs surrounding the United States which aren't nationalistic but, I would argue, some of them are patriotic. Including, Death to my Hometown, Independence Day (Is about an abusive relationship, but focused on the Fourth of July), and Battle of New Orleans (IMO the best song made).

More nationalist country that came out post 9/11 was stuff like American Soldier, Made in the USA, or Have you Forgotten?. This increase - which becomes a massive part of what people think of when they think of country music. There is still good modern country, think of Hell's Comin' With Me, which just made it big on Tiktok a few month ago and is a good song - good 2000's and 2010's country continues to exist! This white Christian nationalistic image is just what it is stereotyped as.

So, I'm totally going off but yes, this shift occurred because of 9/11 and what we now think of country as is because of that.

Some Sources

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[3ofpents]

100 Palettes Challenge // Palette #24 // Overlooking Johnstown

Today's palette comes from a French department store magazine ad published in 1923:

This is it! My final poster for Shapeshifters' Cryptid Collection!

Not my last cryptid poster, mind you, just the last one that's officially part of the fashion collection.

I didn't know much about the Squonk before we started working on the collection. But when I started researching it, I found out that was because ... there's actually not that much to know! The Squonk, it turns out, is a tall tale that turn-of-the-century lumberjacks in Pennsylvania used to tell new recruits to spook them around the campfire. The most popular version of the legend describing how the Squonk is constantly in tears over its appearance and, if cornered, may cry so hard it dissolves itself in its own tears, appeared in the book Fearsome Creatures of the Lumberwoods With a Few Desert and Mountain Beasts by William T. Cox, published in 1910. Cox and his two collaborators were part of the US's burgeoning environmental infrastructure so worked with the lumberjacks of the time. According to Cox's introduction, Fearsome Creatures was an effort to preserve some of the tall tales they heard the lumberjacks telling each other across the country.

I've come across other accounts of the Squonk as well that slightly alter and add onto the original description in Fearsome Creatures, but, personally? I find that original description so charming that everything else just feels like someone trying to add their own signature to what was already a perfect work. And since Fearsome Creatures is in the public domain and the entry is fairly short, here's the description of the Squonk in full:

The Squonk. (Lacrimacorpus dissolvens.) The range of the squonk is very limited. Few people outside of Pennsylvania have ever heard of the quaint beast, which is said to be fairly common in the hemlock forests of that State. The squonk is of a very retiring disposition, generally traveling about at twilight and dusk. Because of its misfitting skin, which is covered with warts and moles, it is always unhappy; in fact it is said, by people who are best able to judge, to be the most morbid of beasts. Hunters who are good at tracking are able to follow a squonk by its tear-stained trail, for the animal weeps constantly. When cornered and escape seems impossible, or when surprised and frightened, it may even dissolve itself in tears. Squonk hunters are most successful on frosty moonlight nights, when tears are shed slowly and the animal dislikes moving about; it may then be heard weeping under the boughs of dark hemlock trees. Mr. J. P. Wentling, formerly of Pennsylvania, but now at St. Anthony Park, Minnesota, had a disappointing experience with a squonk near Mont Alto. He made a clever capture by mimicking the squonk and inducing it to hop into a sack, in which he was carrying it home, when suddenly the burden lightened and the weeping ceased. Wentling unslung the sack and looked in. There was nothing but tears and bubbles.

Why Johnstown specifically when the Squonk is said only to live in Pennsylvania in general? A very simple but I think extremely valid reason: Johnstown, PA is home to Squonkapalooza! A festival dedicated to the Squonk, "and other creatures of Appalachian and Americana folklore and cryptozoology" in the hopes that "spreading the love of the Squonk might cheer them up".

I love this so much, I wish I could go. If you go, or went last year, please tell me what it was like. In the meantime, Johnstown was pretty much my first and only thought about what location to feature in the Squonk's travel poster.

This one actually came together pretty quickly! Which is, of course, hilarious considering how long I spent putting it off. I'll be honest, I was intimidated by that color palette, not sure if I could make it work and, if not, facing down the possibility of either skipping over a few palettes, or just making my own entirely. But I'm really pleased with how it turned out. I would've preferred a bit more variation in color between the trees and hillside, but I think I made it work with the gradients, and I really like how it helps the Squonk really pop so it's not too hard to spot.

I was also worried about how to actually do the Squonk, but I hit on a technique that I could definitely stand to spend more time perfecting, but I really like the effect. In fact, I was so pleased with it, here's the blown-up Squonk from the full size version of the poster.

You can definitely tell I was kind of figuring it out as I went, but, like I said, I still really like the end result. And yes I apparently just have a lot of fun drawing tiny rivulets of water, which you might remember from my Trunko poster.

I still need to design the fabric to go along with this poster, but once that's done, my part of the Cryptid Collection will be done! And I think at that point I'll start posting the fabric designs and talking about my design/illustration process with them.

Click the link to the Cryptid Collection to buy prints of this and my other cryptid posters, a binder or sports bra in my cryptid fabric designs, and to find the link to our Spoonflower shop to buy my fabric designs on the fabric your choice for your own projects!

The next palette is going to mark me at a quarter of the way through the 100 Palette Challenge!

[vanhelsingapologist]

I am submitting my formal request for folk music ~opinions~ ❤️

Folk music is another one of those genres that’s hard to pinpoint. It’s basically been merging with country and Americana for years. Further, are people asking for traditional folk? Folk metal? Indie folk? Baroque folk? But it’s all folk! Folk, folk, folk. I’ve written it so many times that it doesn’t look like a word. Anyway, I went contemporary/indie/roots folk for this. Started with more woodsy stuff, too.

• Empty Northern Hemisphere by Gregory Alan Isakov. Gregory Alan Isakov is one of those artists I adore and I think he pretty consistently nails it when it comes to folksy themes and instrumentation. His Weatherman album is pretty fantastic. He’s probably considered indie folk, if I had to put a finger on it.

• My Gal, My Guy by Darlingside. The first song I ever heard by them was called Harrison Ford, which is also pretty good, but there’s just something about this song! Also indie folk.

• Oats In The Water by Ben Howard. He has another great one called In Dreams. His earlier music sort of feels like standing in a dead forest. I can’t really explain it beyond that. His newer stuff is a bit more atmospheric, but it’s good.

• Bavarian Porcelain by Sea Wolf. His song Dear Fellow Traveller got some fandom airtime, but his whole discography is pretty good and soaked with forest imagery. My favorite album is probably White Water, White Bloom, but Cedarsmoke is very kind to me.

• Let This Remain by Alana Henderson. Henderson keeps making her way into my playlists. She sort of reminds me of Enya, sort of reminds me of something reminiscent of the Dresdon Dolls, but it’s just enough that she’s got this incredible unique sound.

• Francis by Haley Heynderickx and Max García Conover. This is another one that I have to physically restrain myself from looping. Their voices blend really well, and I’d also consider it my official endorsement of both their music. Heynderickx’s No Face and Show You A Body kill me and Conover’s collaboration on the everything in winter album is worth a listen.

• Deep Green by Marika Hackman. I feel like we can call Marika Hackman folk. Her voice is haunting, her lyrics stick, and she does really neat stuff instrumentally, and she had the folk sound. Not coffeehouse music, so I had to look to see what she’s categorized as. Alternative, it was. Her new album is less folksy, but We Slept At Last definitely is.

• Darlin Corey by Amythyst Kiah. If you haven’t heard any of her work, go listen as soon as possible. She’s got this deep, beautiful sound and writes about isolation in a way that really resonates. It’s hard to find artists who make folk that sounds a hundred years old, but she nails it every single time.

• Love Me Like You Used To by Lord Huron. Lord Huron is an old favorite, and I do think their Long Lost album is my favorite, despite Strange Trails being so well-known. Nothing makes you wanna awoo the way these guys do.

• Traveling On by The Decemberists. I’m a Decemberists fan first, person second. Sometimes I go about my day and “street side smokers, holy rollers” pops into my head at random. Hopefully, you will share my plight.

• Ofelia by Kiltro. Kiltro plays a mixture of shoegaze and Chilean folk. If that doesn’t sound like the best fucking time ever get AWAY from me. Creatures of Habit bumped all year before I graduated.

• The Weight by Amigo the Devil. Darker folk. I think he’s on a playlist called Murderfolk, which just about sums it up. I might put Amigo the Devil in the same camp as AJJ in terms of sound. Slightly different in lyricism.

• Northern Wind by Liza Anne. Their new stuff isn’t folk, but their old stuff is definitely indie folk. I sometimes describe them as drinking cold water, and I think that definitely sticks with their Two album.

As always, I have no idea what I’m talking about. Hope this is good!

[smokeybrandcompositions]

This is the Way

So I'm generally a pretty progressive dude, and I'm pretty vocal about it. I work with a ton of Conservative dudes and we have discussions about those merits. Yesterday, a staunch Trump guy made the comment that I was definitely voting for Kamala because of I'm Black and I said yup. No hesitation. He was offended that I wouldn't even give Trump a shot. Mans tried to debate me on “policy”, which Drumpf also sucks at in terms of anyone with a hint of melanin in their skin, and he basically said I was ignorant for only basing my vote on Kamala being Black. Progressiveness is the only way that makes sense to me. Literally, it's the progress of society. I had to explain to him that, while Harris is Black, she earned my vote because her policies (sh*t she's been pushing since Biden chose her as a running mate) adhere closer to my values than anything any Conservative has ever said out loud. I'm about moving forward, getting as close to functional society with a vigorous social safety net and a happiness index that's top tier, than whatever the f*ck oligarchy the Right seems to want. Conservatism is weird to me. It basically means to stop, to lean into what we have. Settling for what is on hand, instead of pushing yourself for more, is just f*cking lazy. That leads to stagnation, which leads to rot. No one wants to be around the middle aged guy who constantly relives his high school glory days. That's the pragmatism in me speaking. The me who lives in reality, the everyday experiences in the US, can't possibly be Conservative because I'm Black.

Most people who harumph at the notion of all Blacks being Progressive, Democrats, or Liberals, do not consider why. It's innate to the American Black person to look toward the future, because our past here sucks dick. When people ask me if I love my country, I tell them I love this place as much as it loves me. Often times, they uncomfortably shut the f*ck up. Other times, they get upset, demanding to know why I hate America, both responses being quite telling. I don't hate America, I just don't love it for obvious reasons. Most Black folks have a very conflicted, very nuanced, relationship with this country and any of us that tell you otherwise, is either delusional, a disingenuous, or naive. It's that antagonistic relationship with our history here, which all but forces me to be Progressive.

America has never been great for Black people. We came over as slaves, stripped of our humanity, and sold like chattel. When we finally broke free from physical bandage, social and economical oppression took over. Once began to get our own, generate independent wealth outside of the White system, new sabotages took over the destruction of our most prosperous cities and communities. Black Wall Street was burned to the ground, even though it was exactly what White people demanded from us in the first place. Then came the red lining, the segregation, and the drugs. The first Black kid to integrate a White school is named Ruby Bridges and she's barely older than my mom. I'm one generation removed from the Civil Rights Movement. One. That's insane. That's the “past”. How can it possibly have been “great” for my people, if my mom wasn't legally allowed to drink from the same water fountain as her White best friend? Those whole classic Americana, Leave it to Beaver, feel good times, would have me being barred from grocery stores, using back doors to get into eateries, and sh*t. I'm talking about Sundown Towns and White men burning down entire Black communities because I dared use my hard fought right to vote.

Literally, since we were forced over here, all Black people can do look forward to the future. Hell, I'm so far removed from my past, I don't even know WHERE in Africa my family was stolen! My last name, is the name, of some White man who owned my ancestor! Our entire history in this country is hoping things get better. We make songs about it. There's a holiday about it. King dreamed about it. There's hope out there ahead of us. There's only pain and cruelty behind us. There is no in-between for Black people. We have crawled, and scraped, and marched. Begged, pleaded, bargained, and demanded. We've been whipped and hosed and lynched and bitten; all just to be recognized as people. We have endured that violence, for actual centuries, by looking forward; Hoping for better as we progressed through history, not for us, but our kids. Who in their right mind would look back on those days, on our history, and think, "That was the best time, ever. That's where I want this country to stay." Even now, as far as we've come, we can do so much better. I can't possibly settle. I can't possibly yearn for bygone times because I wasn't even a person in those times. I'm Progressive because things are better now than they were yesterday. I'm progressive because things will be better tomorrow than that are today. That's what progress is. Growth. Evolution. Betterment. I'm Progressive because I don't have any other f*cking choice but to be.

[smokeybrand]

This is the Way

So I'm generally a pretty progressive dude, and I'm pretty vocal about it. I work with a ton of Conservative dudes and we have discussions about those merits. Yesterday, a staunch Trump guy made the comment that I was definitely voting for Kamala because of I'm Black and I said yup. No hesitation. He was offended that I wouldn't even give Trump a shot. Mans tried to debate me on “policy”, which Drumpf also sucks at in terms of anyone with a hint of melanin in their skin, and he basically said I was ignorant for only basing my vote on Kamala being Black. Progressiveness is the only way that makes sense to me. Literally, it's the progress of society. I had to explain to him that, while Harris is Black, she earned my vote because her policies (sh*t she's been pushing since Biden chose her as a running mate) adhere closer to my values than anything any Conservative has ever said out loud. I'm about moving forward, getting as close to functional society with a vigorous social safety net and a happiness index that's top tier, than whatever the f*ck oligarchy the Right seems to want. Conservatism is weird to me. It basically means to stop, to lean into what we have. Settling for what is on hand, instead of pushing yourself for more, is just f*cking lazy. That leads to stagnation, which leads to rot. No one wants to be around the middle aged guy who constantly relives his high school glory days. That's the pragmatism in me speaking. The me who lives in reality, the everyday experiences in the US, can't possibly be Conservative because I'm Black.

Most people who harumph at the notion of all Blacks being Progressive, Democrats, or Liberals, do not consider why. It's innate to the American Black person to look toward the future, because our past here sucks dick. When people ask me if I love my country, I tell them I love this place as much as it loves me. Often times, they uncomfortably shut the f*ck up. Other times, they get upset, demanding to know why I hate America, both responses being quite telling. I don't hate America, I just don't love it for obvious reasons. Most Black folks have a very conflicted, very nuanced, relationship with this country and any of us that tell you otherwise, is either delusional, a disingenuous, or naive. It's that antagonistic relationship with our history here, which all but forces me to be Progressive.

America has never been great for Black people. We came over as slaves, stripped of our humanity, and sold like chattel. When we finally broke free from physical bandage, social and economical oppression took over. Once began to get our own, generate independent wealth outside of the White system, new sabotages took over the destruction of our most prosperous cities and communities. Black Wall Street was burned to the ground, even though it was exactly what White people demanded from us in the first place. Then came the red lining, the segregation, and the drugs. The first Black kid to integrate a White school is named Ruby Bridges and she's barely older than my mom. I'm one generation removed from the Civil Rights Movement. One. That's insane. That's the “past”. How can it possibly have been “great” for my people, if my mom wasn't legally allowed to drink from the same water fountain as her White best friend? Those whole classic Americana, Leave it to Beaver, feel good times, would have me being barred from grocery stores, using back doors to get into eateries, and sh*t. I'm talking about Sundown Towns and White men burning down entire Black communities because I dared use my hard fought right to vote.

Literally, since we were forced over here, all Black people can do look forward to the future. Hell, I'm so far removed from my past, I don't even know WHERE in Africa my family was stolen! My last name, is the name, of some White man who owned my ancestor! Our entire history in this country is hoping things get better. We make songs about it. There's a holiday about it. King dreamed about it. There's hope out there ahead of us. There's only pain and cruelty behind us. There is no in-between for Black people. We have crawled, and scraped, and marched. Begged, pleaded, bargained, and demanded. We've been whipped and hosed and lynched and bitten; all just to be recognized as people. We have endured that violence, for actual centuries, by looking forward; Hoping for better as we progressed through history, not for us, but our kids. Who in their right mind would look back on those days, on our history, and think, "That was the best time, ever. That's where I want this country to stay." Even now, as far as we've come, we can do so much better. I can't possibly settle. I can't possibly yearn for bygone times because I wasn't even a person in those times. I'm Progressive because things are better now than they were yesterday. I'm progressive because things will be better tomorrow than that are today. That's what progress is. Growth. Evolution. Betterment. I'm Progressive because I don't have any other f*cking choice but to be.

[newmusicradionetwork]

Alt-Country Renegade Dale Watson’s New Album STARVATION BOX Is Available Now!

Dale Watson is known for his authentic approach to country music and his unapologetic dedication to preserving traditional sounds. Paying tribute to his hero, Lead Belly, a highly influential folk and blues musician, Dale Watson is excited to release his latest album Starvation Box today on Cleopatra Records! During the late 19th century, an aspiring musician named Huddie William Ledbetter (aka Lead Belly) departed from his hometown in Harrison County, Texas. This decision was prompted by his father’s attempt to dissuade him from pursuing music. His father disparagingly referred to Huddie’s guitar as a “starvation box,” believing it would only bring poverty and hardship. However, this young man’s impact on the world of music would far exceed anyone’s imagination. Lead Belly’s journey from Texas to becoming a legendary figure in folk blues is truly remarkable, especially considering the challenges and obstacles he faced. His perseverance and talent allowed him to leave a lasting impact on the music world. Even after a century has passed, Lead Belly’s musical legacy lives on, continuing to inspire artists to this day. One such artist is Dale Watson, an opinionated, rebellious, tattooed country crooner, also from Texas. Dale Watson’s decision to title his album Starvation Box and draw inspiration from Lead Belly’s story is a powerful tribute to both Lead Belly’s legacy and Watson’s own artistic journey. By putting his own “starvation box” (his guitar) at the forefront, Watson pays homage to Lead Belly’s determination and musical prowess. This approach highlights the significance of the instrument in the context of both artists’ careers and showcases Watson’s own skills as a troubadour and storyteller. Fans of both Lead Belly and Dale Watson can look forward to experiencing the depth and artistry of Starvation Box. The title track itself marks the commencement of an enthralling musical journey. This track is a collaborative effort between Watson and Mike Henderson, a distinguished songwriter who has received a CMA award for his work on Chris Stapleton’s renowned “Broken Halos.” With a bluesy 12-string guitar riff taking the lead, accompanied by a minimalistic rhythm track, the composition provides ample space for Watson’s weathered baritone voice to shine. As Watson explains, “Living in Marshall, TX, the area so influential to Lead Belly, I went down the Lead Belly rabbit hole. It led me to a 1957 Stella 12-string guitar just like the one Lead Belly had, which his father called a ‘starvation box.’ I knew I had to write that song as an ode to Lead Belly. What I wrote was ok but with Mike Henderson’s additions and of course, his slide guitar and harmonica, I think we came up with a fitting tribute that I hope people like.” There’s plenty more bluesy, folk and roots rock in store on Starvation Box, the album, including an ode to Elvis Presley’s mechanic, “Billy Strawn,” a fantastic cover of Percy Mayfield’s “Like A Stranger In My Own Hometown,” and the superb closer, a gospel rave-up called “Ain’t Nobody Everybody Loved.” To order Dale Watson’s Starvation Box, visit HERE. STARVATION BOX TRACK LISTING: 01. Starvation Box 02. Whatever Happened To The Cadillac – M Music & Musicians Magazine 03. That’s Where The Money Goes – SiriusXM’s Outlaw Country 04. Nothingville 05. Billy Strawn – Cowboys & Indians 06. I Ain’t Been Livin’ Right – Center Stage Magazine 07. Adios 08. Streets Of Gold – Analog Planet 09. Down Down Down Down – Center Stage Magazine 10. Two Peas In A Pod 11. Like A Stranger In My Hometown 12. Ain’t Nobody Everybody Loved – Americana Highways Dale Watson On Tour: AUG 18 – Oriental Theater / Denver Denver, CO AUG 20 – The State Room / Salt Lake City, UT AUG 21 – Neurolux Lounge / Boise, ID AUG 22 – Brewminatti / Prosser, WA AUG 23 – Polaris Hall / Portland, OR AUG 24 – Tractor Tavern / Seattle, WA AUG 26 – The Spa at Blue Lake Casino & Hotel / Blue Lake, CA AUG 27 – Hopmonk Tavern / Novato, CA AUG 28 – Zebulon / Los Angeles, CA AUG 29 – The Cordova Bar / San Diego, CA AUG 30 – Club Congress / Tucson, AZ AUG 31 – Rhythm Room / Phoenix, AZ SEP 02 – Broken Spoke / Austin, TX SEP 24 – Eddie’s Attic / Decatur, GA OCT 19 – The Southgate House Revival / Newport, KY NOV 22 – Luckenbach Texas / Fredericksburg, TX For more information, visit dalewatson.com and cleopatrarecords.com. About Dale Watson: A staunch adherent of old-style honky tonk and Bakersfield country, Dale Watson has positioned himself as a tattooed, stubbornly independent outsider only interested in recording authentic country music. As a result, he hasn’t become a major star, but his music has been championed by numerous critics and has earned him a fervently loyal fan base. His 1995 debut, Cheatin’ Heart Attack, wowed writers and fans with its potent songwriting and authentic honky tonk vibe, 1998’s The Truckin’ Sessions was the first of a series of LPs devoted to his love of big rigs, 2007’s The Little Darlin’ Sessions saw Watson recording alongside some of the legendary session musicians who inspired him, and 2019’s Call Me Lucky found him creatively revitalized after relocating to Memphis, Tennessee. Watson continued to thrive in Memphis, delivering the instrumental record Dale Watson Presents: The Memphians in 2021 and the covers album Jukebox Fury in 2022. Read the full article

[projectdreamcatcher]

Thinking about tubbo at las Nevadas. And how much his like... very blatant words are being misinterpreted. Also bad fandom takes.

By far I gotta say any c! Tubbo detraction is not at all because “he got a job” like. What? Are people like... genuinely getting mad at that?

trust me if there was actual tubbo detraction other than “I’m upset that tubbo told ranboo some things that could be interpreted as not being happy with ranboo” I would know

If anything I feel the takes defending him are way worse. (Rant under the cut)

Some of the tubbo defense takes are just. “It’s HIS CHOICE to get involved into a soul sucking food service job! He wants a community! Ranboo is overreacting and it’s hypocritical bc he lives with someone who blew up tubbo’s nation like 6 months ago this is obviously an equivalent thing and not something I pulled out of my ass”

First off bold of you to assume Las Nevadas is a community and not a back breaking retail job in a flashy, americana country coat of paint.

That being said- Do I think tubbo wants a community and had tried to get it with snowchester, which failed? Absolutely. But to say that’s the only thing is just misinterpreting his words tbh. Tubbo wanted a new purpose, too. He wanted shit to Do.

We can probably break it down really simple, too. “He got a job” why did he get one, tho? “He needed a purpose” good, why does he need a purpose? “Because he feels useless without a country to serve” THERE IT IS!

So yeah like! Idk about everyone else, but. Personally I’m not “mad” that tubbo “got a job” or anything. I am, however, concerned as shiiit considering. I’m seeing the reason why he’s getting that job. and maybe I think that tubbo putting his value and worth into how well he does at a job or serving a country is a bad thing actually. If anything, he’s feeding into unhealthy coping mechanisms that will end up hurting him (AND HAS HURT HIM, before!)

I don’t think this is all set in stone but I also. Know what the past looks like. And I don’t trust quackity and Las Nevadas as far as I can throw em. And when las Nevadas to start fucking over tubbo big time, all of these people’s velhemently defending this job will look so stupid.

At the end of the day, it’s not me going “oh tubbo is a bad person for taking a job at las Nevadas” I’m saying he’s making an Incredibly Bad Decision by doing this and that decision was informed by his own mindset of feeling like he can only be happy through work and sacrifice and allegiance to a collective/country/etc. that has been self destructive in extreme circumstances.

the best way i can best articulate my feelings is that while it is tubbo’s choice to get that job and I’m happy he’s doing things for himself for once, but I’m also. Very fucking concerned considering how these sequences of events usually end with tubbo dying, nearly dying, and/or loosing all self worth he had in the process.

[realityhelixcreates]

Lasabrjotr Chapter 72: Ring Road

Chapters: 72/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: T

Relationships: Loki x Reader

Characters: Loki (Marvel), Thor (Marvel)

Additional Tags: Post-Endgame: Best Possible Ending (Canon-Divergent),

Summary:  A funeral for a giant.

You woke up to the gentle alarm sounded by Loki's magic. You were warm, and comfortable, and...mildly sore, but not too bad.

Oh, right.

Loki was curled protectively around you, snuggled up so close, he was like a second blanket. The sun had not risen yet, but that didn't mean much at this time of year. The sun was rising later and later, setting earlier and earlier. Winter was close.

You rolled over in his arms to face him, but he was already awake, gazing adoringly at you.

“You're still here.” He murmured.

“Of course. Did you think I wouldn't be?”

“I'd hoped you would.”

“Hey. Hey.” You cupped his cheek. “I'm not going anywhere, okay?”

He helped you dress, sensual and loving touch smoothing the wrinkles in your clothes, then shared a light breakfast with you. He'd had you start sitting under a special lamp once the days had started shortening; this was common for humans in Iceland, he said. To maintain health. So you had a portable one you could take with you most places-to lessons with Saga, to his rooms, even to the council rooms and throne room, so you could have simulated sunlight wherever you went.

“It makes you radiant.” He said.

“I wonder what people here did before these were invented?”

“Suffered, probably.”

You ate, bathed in light.

“Loki...”

“You have questions. I anticipated this. I do not know why I am so small compared to other Jotun, but I do know that I was born this way. I was not expected to survive, and so I was left to die in a special place, as part of a Jotun ritual.”

“That...sounds awful.”

“It is their way. In a way, Odin taking me with him was a final insult to their very culture. But it allowed me to survive.”

“Why can I touch you like this, but not like that?”

“This isn't an illusion. I am more than just an illusionist, I am a shapeshifter. You can touch me in this form, because it's real. When I am in Asgardian shape, I truly am Asgardian.”

He held out his milky hand, and you caressed his palm.

“Everybody else knows, don't they?” You asked.

Loki nodded. “Once I found out, I knew everyone else would eventually. I wanted to control the method of the revelation, so I...well I wrote a play.”

“A play? You can write too? Is there anything you can't do?”

Loki flushed. “A few things.” He admitted bashfully.

“I want to see it!”

“Not yet! I mean, we don't have facilities, or actors. We don't have the time. But someday, yes.” He seemed nervous. Maybe he was embarrassed about it. He never said it was a good play, after all.

“Loki, if you're Asgardian when you shapeshift into one, then why worry about being a Frost Giant to begin with? You can be anything, and it's real.” You asked.

“Humans are highly mutable.” Loki explained. “Your cultures move and change quickly. Even those whose identity goes back thousands of years will find that not all of their customs are exactly the same as they were. It's kind of admirable, actually.

But Asgard moves much more slowly. The war between the Frost Giants and Asgard is over, except that it isn't. It's barely been a single generation since then. Thor was born in the middle of that war; I was born at the end. It is within recent memory. I was raised around people who had fought, people who had lost loved ones. I was raised on the residual hate. It became a part of me.

Maybe that would be all I was grappling with, if I had known from the start. Maybe I would have had time to come to terms, to grow a thicker skin. But the centuries of lies on top of that; the man who raised me watching that prejudice grow in me and not bothering to do anything about it, as if he thought a lie could ever last forever with me around.”

“But it did, didn't it? Almost forever. Did you ever question?”

“Yes and no. I knew something was wrong, but I dismissed it. Ignored it. I didn't want to look into it.”

“The only person who can lie to you is you, huh?”

“Oh, stop being so insightful, will you?” Loki scowled.

“Sorry, can't. It's my job.”

                                                                        ******

Two days later, you were on the road again.

This was a funeral procession. You, Loki, and Thor, as well as ten einherjar and six masons, two cooks, and the Asgardian equivalent of a priest.

And, of course, the giant.

He had been tightly and carefully wrapped, almost like a huge mummy, to keep his head in place, and make him safe for transport and handling. He had been placed in a wooden cart, which would act also as his coffin. He had been veiled, and most of his possessions placed in the cart with him, along with what the Asgardians considered peace offerings. Honor, even towards an enemy, was a matter of common practice. After all, if one sent an opponent to Valhalla, it wouldn't do to leave them angry with one upon one's own entry.

And so a helmet had been placed with him, and a nice blanket, a pickax, a basket of wheat, and a pan flute. You had left him a book, but you wondered if that was any good as a gift. After all, a thousand years ago, your language hadn't existed in the form you knew. Saga had shown you what Old English looked like, and you hadn't even recognized it. It had made you feel strange and small.

Was it an appropriate gift? A book he couldn't understand? Or was it the thought that counted?

“We don't really do grave goods where I'm from.” You'd told Loki. “I don't really know what to give.”

“What do you value?” He'd asked. “If it means something to you, it should be fine.”

And so it had to be a book. Old stories of Americana-Mark Twain, and Maya Angelou, and Edgar Allen Poe. Little chunks of your culture over time, and from different perspectives. You hoped if he could read it in that big black hole in the sky, that he found some enjoyment from it.

You, however, were finding very little enjoyment on this trip. Not only was it violently cold, but the wind was a cruel whip that lashed at you until Loki draped his heavy cloak over your head, creating a tent. That kept the wind out, but also completely blocked your vision, forcing you to let him guide Acorn, instead of you.

Though Acorn was a sturdy and stalwart little thing, born and bred on the frigid Icelandic landscape, she was distressed by the Frost Giant in his cart. To keep her calm, Loki moved the two of you forward, closer to him, but that just increased your frustration.

You wanted to be close to Loki, and he clearly wanted to be too, but there was no time, no opportunity. You were frozen out on the road, and this was a funeral procession. There was propriety to observe.

From under Loki's cloak, you could not see any of the beautiful landscape around you, and while you were enveloped in his comforting scent, the cloak also blocked out what little sun the island got at that time of year. For the entire four day trip, you saw little light, other than the evening cooking fires when the procession set up camp.

Then, with the tents set up as a windbreak, and dinner cooking over the fire, you were able to look up as the crystal clear sky, scattered with diamonds and flowing ribbons of color.

You'd never seen the auroras before this, but you could see how people became enchanted by their otherworldly aura.

“It's like the Bifrost, isn't it?” You said to Loki, who was staring up into the night just like you were. He was tucked up close to the fire with you, stealing the only moments of intimacy the two of you could find. “Is that what they saw, way back when? A way to reach the gods? How many ways did people interpret this, if they didn't know the science behind it?”

“Knowing the science doesn't necessarily remove the magic, now does it?” Loki said. “We know how lightning and thunder works. We know what causes it. We know that men should not be able to command it, and yet...”

“Is it magic?” You asked, staring at the swirling colors.

“Perhaps.” Loki said. “Of a kind.”

There wasn't even any privacy to be had in the tents; they were large group affairs, meant to house several people each, with little dividers hanging between them. The best you could get was wriggling your hand under the divider to hold Loki's, but the cold permeated just enough that you couldn't do it for long. You eventually had to hunker down into your thick, fluffy sleeping bag until only your nose and mouth were exposed to the open air.

You dressed yourself in the mornings in very heavy, but much less elaborate clothing than usual. Loki had insisted that you wear some of your armor on the trip, your breastplate and helmet, just in case there were any opportunistic enemies out in the countryside.

“When you are writhing in my arms,” He had whispered into your ear. “I don't want it to be from pain.”

On Acorn's back, under Loki's cloak, you tried to come up with an appropriate blessing for the dead giant.

What could you say? You still felt some kind of responsibility. You hadn't tried to deescalate the situation. You hadn't tried to talk to the giant. Hadn't tried to calm him down, or warn him. Just threatened him, antagonized him, distracted him.

But the kids...He had already killed several people, injured Kolla right in front of you, and was threatening the children...

What would you have done, if you knew nothing about Frost Giants? If Asgardian prejudice had not been taught to you?

Screamed a lot and gotten squished probably.

Would it be insulting to the giant's spirit to beg forgiveness or show remorse? To consider his death a terrible accident that could have been averted? Would a warrior want words like that?

The funeral procession had traveled back to Akureyri to get onto the Ring Road, a highway that circled the entire island in a single, unbroken stretch of asphalt. It was much easier to navigate than cross country would have been, but went a little out of the way as well, taking you along the northern part of the island, when your destination was in the east.

It seemed they had drawn a lot of attention as well. There weren't many tourists at this time of year, only the most hardcore of explorers, but the Icelanders themselves used the road regularly. Every now and then you peeked out from under Loki's cloak to see an ever-changing entourage of people; on horses, in small cars or buses, all waving and calling out, either questions or encouragement, you weren't familiar enough with Icelandic to tell.

Loki and Thor took it well, chatting with people who were brave and careful enough to approach. Some of them expressed what you thought was probably fear or shock at the dead giant, but more reacted with curiosity.

That was the general reaction Icelanders had to Asgardians. Iceland was a Christian country, but not quite in the way that America was. The vast majority of Icelanders that you saw showed no hostility toward Asgard, even though they represented a major religious crisis. It was very different from the fractious contention Asgard generated back home. You definitely preferred this.

How long, you began to wonder, until you weren't American anymore? Was it possible, as an adult, to absorb enough culture from another land, that it made you something other than what you'd grown up as? Or would you always be a foreigner; exotic, but accepted?

The long road split off towards the eastern interior of the island, before reaching Rekjavik, leading you even further away from civilization, and into the wilderness. But Okjokull was a depressing reminder that civilization had reached out into the wilderness, and touched even the most remote of places.

Okjokull, or rather, just Ok now, had once been a glacier, covering an extinct shield volcano. Now, the volcano and the glacier were both extinct. Under Loki's cloak, you had studied on your phone, looking up pictures of the glacier back in the nineteen-eighties, when it covered the whole area. But now, the horses hooves ground the gravel of the exposed landscape; a barren area, with only a few scattered chunks of ice, here and there. Over the course of one human lifetime, the whole thing had disappeared.

It disturbed you. Icelanders certainly believed in climate change. They'd seen this happen. They'd held a funeral. And here you were for another one.

The masons fell into building, directing the einherjar. After getting permission from the government, Thor estimated it would take no more than a day and a half of hard work to build a decent barrow for the giant, whose decaying body might-might-help to rebuild the glacier.

If not, his presence here might become just another tourist destination, another relic of the islands past.

You watched them dig out a large hole, deep enough to roll the cart into, and cover it halfway. Then they began packing in the larger stones, building a large mound that would hold up under it's own weight. Next came a low wall, surrounding the entire grave at a distance of about ten feet, to indicate that this was no natural formation, and lastly, a bronze plaque, set into a large stone at the front of the fence, declaring what this was, and urging caution when approaching.

Thor had been correct; the entire thing was finished before nightfall on the second day. The entire entourage gathered as the priest said a simple farewell to the giant, and everyone present murmured their own blessings before releasing a glowing, golden orb of magic into the sky.

“If we meet in another life, I hope to learn your name.” You had said, while beside you, you had heard Loki mumble: “Rest. We will take care of them.”

Snow had begun to fall; fluffy white flakes sticking to everything. You wondered if it would get high enough to bury the barrow, as you were hustled off to sit on Acorn's warm back, wrapped up in Loki's cloak once more. Everyone packed up in a huge hurry: Thor told you that the procession needed to get back to the Ring Road quickly, before the smaller, country roads that led to Ok were snowed over. The Asgardians feared that if they got snowed in, you would be in danger of freezing, but the Ring Road was kept clear.

Once back on the open road, you peeked out from under the thick tent of Loki's fine cloak and gazed out over the wide countryside. Far in the distance, to the west, you could just barely see a dome of faint light that must have been Reykjavik. Loki had said he would take you there on the tour of the island he promised you this spring. But for now, this was as close as you would get.

It amazed you to think that you could traverse an entire country by horse so easily. Your old home just went on and on and on, forever and ever. It seemed no matter how many miles you traveled, there was always another mile of Iowa to go. Here, there was a single road that went all the way around. The country was self contained, surrounded on all sides by powerful and mysterious oceans.

A small flush of terror washed over you once again, at re-realizing how isolated and far away from everything familiar you really were. Floating in the frigid North Atlantic on a giant volcano, in the care of aliens. Participating in the funeral of a giant. Riding home on a horse, to hopefully fall right into bed with your divine, royal boyfriend.

Who even were you now?

[ts1989fanatic]

Every Taylor Swift Album Ranked

We revisited each of the singer’s original studio albums and ranked them from best to worst.

FEATURESEvery Taylor Swift Album Ranked

We revisited each of the singer’s original studio albums and ranked them from best to worst.

By Slant Staff on July 6, 2021

Taylor Swift started off as a country artist at a time when the genre was both less respectful and accommodating of the voices of women than at any other point in its storied history. The singer’s first four albums barely scan as country music in a meaningful way, instead embracing her preternatural gifts for pop conventions, and her output has gotten stronger the more openly she’s embraced those skills. In the 15 years since the single “Tim McGraw” launched Swift to country stardom, she’s jettisoned the genre’s ill-fitting signifiers and overcome the limitations of her early recordings—improvements captured in her “Taylor’s Version” re-recordings of those albums as a powerful statement of artistic agency.

As Swift takes an apparent break from new music to re-record those early releases, including Fearless (Taylor’s Version) and this fall’s highly anticipated Red redux, we revisited each of her original studio albums and ranked them from best to worst.

9. Taylor Swift (2006)

Though she was praised for her songwriting right out of the gate, what Swift’s self-titled debut truly shows in hindsight is how diligently she’s worked to hone her craft over the years. Some of her trademarks—her gift for melody, her third-act POV reversals—were already present here, but there’s a sloppiness to the writing that she’s long since cleaned up. Whether that’s emphasizing the wrong syllables of words because she hadn’t quite mastered the meter of language (most notable on “Teardrops on My Guitar”) or mixing metaphors (on “Picture to Burn” and the otherwise catchy “Our Song”), there’s a lack of polish and editing on Taylor Swift

8. Fearless (2008)

Nearly every track on Swift’s sophomore effort, Fearless, builds to a massive pop hook. But while her grasp of song structure at this point in her career suggested an innate talent for how to develop a melody, Fearless also highlights Swift’s then-limited repertoire and lack of creativity in constructing her narratives of doe-eyed infatuations and first loves gone wrong. It’s admirable that she tries to incorporate more sophisticated elements into a few of the songs here, but dancing with or kissing someone in the rain is a default image that crops up with nearly the same distracting frequency as references to princesses, angels, and fairy tales. Fearless, however, just as strongly made the case that Swift had the goods for a long, rich career. The bridge to “Fifteen” includes a great, revealing line about a friend’s lost innocence (“And Abigail gave everything/She had to a boy/Who changed his mind/And we both cried”), while the playful melody of “Hey Stephen” captures the essence of what makes for indelible teen-pop.

7. Speak Now (2010)

Swift’s third album, Speak Now, is problematic in precisely the same ways that its predecessors are, but there isn’t a song here that isn’t an absolute wonder of technical construction. Perhaps even more impressive is Swift’s mastery of song structure. Consider how the instrumentation drops out during the last two words of the hook in “Last Kiss,” allowing the singer’s breathy vocal delivery to bear the entirety of the song’s emotional weight, or how a simple acoustic guitar figure on “Enchanted” slowly crescendos behind each repetition of the line “I was enchanted to meet you.” Unfortunately, the greater complexity and range found in Swift’s sound and in her song constructions doesn’t necessarily translate to her songwriting. Her narrators often seem to lack insight because Swift writes with the point of view that hers is the only story to be told, which makes songs like “Dear John” and “Better Than Revenge” come across as shallow and shortsighted. And though she does vary her phrasing in ways that attempt to mask her limited voice, Swift is still noticeably off-pitch at least once on every song on the album.

6. Red (2012)

Considering that Swift’s previous material was almost always better when she tossed the ill-fitting country signifiers and focused on her uncanny gift for writing pop hooks, Red was a smart, if overdue, move for the singer. The album plays as a survey course in contemporary pop, and Swift is game to try just about anything, from the uninhibited dance-pop of standout “Starlight” to the thundering heartland rock of “Holy Ground.” The tracks that work best are those on which the production is creative and modern in ways that are in service to Swift’s songwriting. The distorted vocal effects and shifts in dynamics on “I Knew You Were Trouble” heighten the sense of frustration that drives the song, and the driving rhythm section on “Holy Ground” reflects Swift’s reminiscence of a lover who “took off faster than a green light, go.” Not all of the songs here are so keenly observed—“State of Grace” and “I Almost Do” lack the specificity that’s one of Swift’s songwriting trademarks, while the title track underwhelms with its train of pedestrian similes and metaphors—but if Red is ultimately too uneven to be a truly great pop album, its highlights were career-best work for Swift at the time.

5. Lover (2019)

Swift’s seventh album, Lover, lacks a unified sonic aesthetic, ostensibly from trying to be something to everyone. The title track, whose lilting rhythm and reverb-soaked drums and vocals are reminiscent of Mazzy Star’s ‘90s gem “Fade Into You,” and the acoustic “Soon You’ll Get Better,” a tribute to Swift’s mother, hark back to the singer’s pre-pop days, while “I Think He Knows” and “False God” evoke Carly Rae Jepsen’s brand of ‘80s R&B-inflected electro-pop. When it comes to things other than boys, though, Swift has always preferred to dip her toes in rather than get soaking wet; her transformation from country teen to pop queen was, after all, a decade in the making. Less gradual was Swift’s shift from political agnostic to liberal advocate. Her once apolitical music is, on Lover, peppered with references to America’s current state of affairs, both thinly veiled (“Death by a Thousand Cuts”) and more overt (“You Need to Calm Down”). “Miss Americana & the Heartbreak Prince,” however, is her stock in trade, a richly painted narrative punctuated by cool synth washes and pep-rally chants, while “The Archer” is quintessential Swift: wistful, minimalist dream pop that displays her willingness to acknowledge and dismantle her own flaws, triggers, and neuroses.

4. Reputation (2017)

In the run-up to the release of her sixth album, Reputation, Swift was excoriated by fans and foes alike for too often playing the victim. The album’s lyrics only serve to bolster that perception: Swift comes off like a frazzled stay-at-home mom scolding her disobedient children on “Look What You Made Me Do” and “This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things.” But it’s her willingness to portray herself not as a victim, but the villain of her own story that makes Reputation such a fascinatingly thorny glimpse inside the mind of pop’s reigning princess. Swift has proven herself capable of laughing at herself, thereby defusing the criticisms often levied at her, but with Reputation she created a larger-than-life caricature of the petty, vindictive snake she’s been made out to be. By album’s end, Swift assesses her crumbling empire and tattered reputation, discovering redemption in love—only Reputation isn’t so much a rebirth as it is a retreat inward. It marks a shift from the retro-minded pop-rock of 2014’s 1989 toward a harder, more urban aesthetic, and Swift wears the stiff, clattering beats of songs like “…Ready for It?” like body armor.

3. Evermore (2020)

Evermore is at once as confident and complete a statement as Folklore. Certainly, it matters that the two albums were born of the protracted isolation of the Covid-19 pandemic and that collaborators like Bon Iver and the National’s Aaron Dessner figure prominently on both. But Evermore finds Swift digging further into her explorations of narrative voice and shifting points of view, taking bigger risks in trying to discover how the newfound breadth of her songwriting could possibly reconcile with the arc of her career. What makes Evermore an essential addition to her catalog is her willingness to tell others’ stories with the same insight and compassion with which she’s always told her own. And on this album, in particular, the stories she tells are about how her narrators’ choices impact others, often in ways that cause irreparable harm.

2. 1989 (2014)

Swift’s 1989 severed whatever vestiges of her country roots remained on 2012’s Red, replacing acoustic guitars and pedal steel with multi-layered synthscapes, drum machines, and densely packed vocal tracking. Swift, of course, got her start writing astutely observed country ballads, and these songs bolster her trademark knack for lyric-crafting with maximalist, blown-out pop production courtesy of collaborators Max Martin and Jack Antonoff. The album’s standout tracks retain the narrative detail and clever metaphor-building that distinguished Swift’s early songs, even amid the diversions wrought by the aggressive studio production on display throughout. Songs like “I Know Places” ride a reggae swagger and trap-influenced snare beats before launching into a soaring, Pat Benatar-esque chorus. It’s an effortless fusion that, like much of 1989, displays Swift’s willingness to venture outside her comfort zone without much of a safety net, and test out an array of sonic experiments that feel both retro and of the moment.

1. Folklore (2020)

Folklore is neither a culmination of Swift’s career to date nor a pivot in a new direction. She’s doing exactly what she’s always done: offering a collection of incisive, often provocative songs that incorporate authentic, first-person details and leaving others to argue over specific genre signifiers. Song for song, the album finds Swift at a new peak in her command of language. While tracks like “Cardigan” and “Invisible Strings” hinge on protracted metaphors, “Mad Woman” and “Peace” are blunt and plainspoken. In every instance, what’s noteworthy is Swift’s precision in communicating her exact intent. That she employs her long-established songwriting tropes in novel ways is truly the most significant development here. She’s mined this type of melancholy tone before, but never for the full length of an album and certainly never with such a range of perspectives. It isn’t the weight of the subject matter alone that makes Folklore feel so vital—it’s the exemplary caliber of her writing. The album finds Swift living up to all of the praise she earned for her songwriting earlier in career.

ts1989fanatic not sure I 100% agree with their ranking order and some of the snark on reputation is a little OTT but overall it’s not bad

[thewreckkelly]

Watch "Could Only Happen In Ireland" on YouTube

GOOD GOLLY IT’S DOLLY (My Mother Myself) 

I love my Mum – loved her when I was under her care, loved her throughout my independence, love her now she’s in someone else’s care. Of course I’m aware such maternal love is by no means exclusive and undoubtedly, while the expression of such love tends to soften with distance and age, it remains an emotional bond that is a true unbreakable.

Recently I’ve been helping a florist – who also happens to be a great friend - with an online marketing campaign for ‘Mothers Day’ and, (during the course of concocting and plagiarising four line sentiments and graphic displays of floral fawning) , got to thinking of my Mum and what we have shared throughout a lifetime of mutual love.

A strange highlight dominated my walk through that particular past!

-o- 

The year was 1980 (I think) and I was slowly ridding myself of the adolescent petulance properly associated with teenage angst while also - willingly and without excuse or apology – continuing to embrace the evolutionary revolutionary mindset of ‘Punk’.

Don’t get me wrong I had never fallen into the ‘Mohawk’, ‘Piercings’, ‘Gobbing’, ‘Pogoing’ or ‘Safety Pin’ syndrome - not this good Catholic boy. It was more than enough for me that the freedom of expression associated with the genre felt ridiculously  inspirational and challenging in its raw depth – ‘Never Mind the Bollox’ proving a universally perfect mantra of how to be young in that very beneficial yet restrictive first world of change and changelings.

My Mum was the polar opposite in her musical taste and, (with a small ‘c’), conservative view of people, society and trends. Perry Como was more her cup of tea than the subversive Sinatra or Elvis while country music provided the stories of life she could relate to. Her idea of rocking out was to blare the Ray Conniff’ big band singers through my Da’s good stereo speakers on Sunday mornings - after mass - while letting go of any dancing inhibitions as she prepared the traditional roast.

The funny thing is; I sort of liked her music – without ever admitting such a ‘terrible’ thing to my friends and so called musical peers of course. There is an argument I liked the stuff she liked in much the same way liking anything that defines a good person has a habit of doing, but I don’t believe that was the reason.

I was too young and self-obsessed to understand that all was not simple and simple was, most certainly, not all – yet somehow aware enough to know without really knowing. Later I would realise my Mum had a terrific universal ear for much of what was good and great but back then ...... well .......

My Mum’s life, at the time, was neat and tidy by design - honed from a lifetime of consideration for others and struggle against an incomplete education, social gender relegation and being without too often. Mine was naturally a mess - a snap semi considered series of decisions and influences borne out of immediacy and yearning coloured by arrogance and naivety – a rebel searching for a ‘because’ if you like.

I had spent the summer just gone in London immersing myself in a musical and literary culture that was maturing from the raucous irregular  nature of punk and had taken in lots of pub and small venue gigs that ranged in influence from ‘The Jam’ to ‘Elvis Costello’ to ‘John Cooper Clarke’ to ‘Jimmy Pursey’ to ‘Billy Bragg’ to 'Kafka' to 'Tom Wolfe' to 'Philip Larkin' .

It was my coming of age moment when all of such seemed terribly exciting and dangerous to the person I was and surely massively influential in opening up my, (up till then), purposely covert disdain for authority and establishment

In the autumn of that year, weighed down by the morass of all such personal contradictions, I secured two front row seats for a Country & Western show at the RDS - with some degree of trepidation – to treat and play chaperone to my Mum, who was a big fan and unlikely - at that time - to actually enjoy or have the opportunity to avail of such an occasion.

And so it came to pass the two of us left the semi in the suburbs and drove to a monolith in the better part of town to see Dolly Parton do her thing.

-o- 

The Royal Dublin Showgrounds in Ballsbridge, Dublin, was, and probably still is, a throwback statement in architecture and class driven membership designed to promote and embrace all of what was good from the Protestant protectorate time of Victoria - while actually succeeding in highlighting much of what was insidious about those whom believed in a realm upon which the sun would never be expected to set. A venue where aspiring middle-class Dubliners and those beyond the pale could, on occasion, sample and digest possibilities their betters expected them to aspire to but rarely achieve.

The entrance to the RDS is signature and a facade of understated power – inviting and intimidating in measure and construction. I hadn’t been in the exhibition hall before and was hugely underwhelmed by its ordinariness, the starkness of the concrete floors and rows of institutional collapsible chairs set out in slightly skewed rows. The room was cavernous, very bright with a stage that looked more suited to a communist political convention than a glitzy C&W extravaganza.

Mum was dressed to the nines, which had worried me slightly to begin with only for such fear to rapidly evaporate upon arrival - it was twenty year old me, dressed as conservatively as I could allow in Wrangler jeans, Polo shirt and black suit jacket, that looked out of place among the throngs of Sunday best middle aged men and women taking their seats in an excited, orderly and happy manner. I felt like the proverbial fish out of water and had to reach deep to marry myself to my Mother’s mounting excitement and sense of occasion.

The support act that night was a solo artist called Kevin Johnson. Here I was on relatively safe ground as his big song was; ‘Rock & Roll I Gave You All the Best Years of My Life’ to which I knew all the lyrics and felt some level of identification with. He was a good competent performer with the troubadour’s presence and I remember being impressed at his professionalism along with enjoying the Americana folksiness of the set. I relaxed a touch and, when he finished off with that song, felt at least I’d got my money’s worth and anything else would be a bonus.

A sense of fervent excitement in the hall grew as we waited for the headliner and, to a point, became infectious. I genuinely had no idea what to expect and the sense of expectation bordering on privilege emanating from this packed venue caused me to doubt any possibly disingenuous pre-conceptions I had inwardly held since I’d bought the tickets and surprised Mum.

The lights went down, the band silently took to the stage as shadows. A fanfare of guitars, fiddle, bass and drums in galloping beat broke the deafening silence of the seated audience and then .......

‘GOOD GOLLY IT’S DOLLY’ issued forth from a disembodied deep male voice - in the pronounced accent of a Southern American State - to rapturous applause.

A spotlight broke the darkness and concentrated its stardust on the wings from which a tiny giant bounded and danced her way to centre stage with more energy than Sellafield.

Clad in a very revealing figure hugging silver diamantes laden dress, sporting perfect make-up on cheeky cultured facial features pronounced with ruby red lipstick – all artistically framed by an abundance of perfectly coffered Dixie blonde tresses.

This would be first lady of country music lit the auditorium miles beyond the ability of mere electricity.... Oh yes Ms Dolly Parton made an entrance you couldn’t beat with a stick.

The show is a blur – I do remember her doing ‘Applejack’ on the banjo, with ridiculous big painted nails not being a bother at all – and the best I can actually recall for the most part is before you could wail ‘Jolene’  I found myself cheering, clapping, dancing and singing along with songs I didn’t know in the company of equally uninhibited people I didn’t know and wising the show would never end. This was new to me; this was a living example of the best at what they do, doing it for me along with everyone else and delivering on every level.

The famous composer of melodies, Thomas Moore, once wrote:

‘And the best works of nature can only improve – when we see them reflected in looks that we love’ 

When Dolly caused us all to settle down, mid set, and invited each and every one present to relive a childhood memory of Motherly love with her soft ballad; ‘Coat of Many Colours’, I glanced smilingly at my Mum and her returned look allowed an understanding of exactly what Tom Moore was getting at.

Thanks for giving me Dolly Mum, (I’ve held on to her ever since), and, of course, all the rest of the other stuff.

Happy Mother’s Day

[theculturedmarxist]

My dad was born in 1917. Somehow, he survived the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1918-1919, but an outbreak of whooping cough in 1923 claimed his baby sister, Clementina. One of my dad’s first memories was seeing his sister’s tiny white casket. Another sister was permanently marked by scarlet fever. In 1923, my dad was hit by a car and spent two weeks in a hospital with a fractured skull as well as a lacerated thumb. His immigrant parents had no medical insurance, but the driver of the car gave his father $50 toward the medical bills. The only lasting effect was the scar my father carried for the rest of his life on his right thumb.

The year 1929 brought the Great Depression and lean times. My father’s father had left the family, so my dad, then 12, had to pitch in. He got a newspaper route, which he kept for four years, quitting high school after tenth grade so he could earn money for the family. In 1935, like millions of other young men of that era, he joined the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC), a creation of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal that offered work on environmental projects of many kinds. He battled forest fires in Oregon for two years before returning to his family and factory work. In 1942, he was drafted into the Army, going back to a factory job when World War II ended. Times grew a little less lean in 1951 when he became a firefighter, after which he felt he could afford to buy a house and start a family.

I’m offering all this personal history as the context for a prediction of my dad’s that, for obvious reasons, came to my mind again recently. When I was a teenager, he liked to tell me: “I had it tough in the beginning and easy in the end. You, Willy, have had it easy in the beginning, but will likely have it tough in the end.” His prophecy stayed with me, perhaps because even then, somewhere deep down, I already suspected that my dad was right.

The COVID-19 pandemic is now grabbing the headlines, all of them, and a global recession, if not a depression, seems like a near-certainty. The stock market has been tanking and people’s lives are being disrupted in fundamental and scary ways. My dad knew the experience of losing a loved one to disease, of working hard to make ends meet during times of great scarcity, of sacrificing for the good of one’s family. Compared to him, it’s true that, so far, I’ve had an easier life as an officer in the Air Force and then a college teacher and historian. But at age 57, am I finally ready for the hard times to come? Are any of us?

And keep in mind that this is just the beginning. Climate change (recall Australia’s recent and massive wildfires) promises yet more upheavals, more chaos, more diseases. America’s wanton militarism and lying politicians promise more wars. What’s to be done to avert or at least attenuate the tough times to come, assuming my dad’s prediction is indeed now coming true? What can we do?

It’s Time to Reimagine America

Here’s the one thing about major disruptions to normalcy: they can create opportunities for dramatic change. (Disaster capitalists know this, too, unfortunately.) President Franklin Roosevelt recognized this in the 1930s and orchestrated his New Deal to revive the economy and put Americans like my dad back to work.

In 2001, the administration of President George W. Bush and Vice President Dick Cheney capitalized on the shock-and-awe disruption of the 9/11 attacks to inflict on the world their vision of a Pax Americana, effectively a militarized imperium justified (falsely) as enabling greater freedom for all. The inherent contradiction in such a dreamscape was so absurd as to make future calamity inevitable. Recall what an aide to Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld scribbled down, only hours after the attack on the Pentagon and the collapse of the Twin Towers, as his boss’s instructions (especially when it came to looking for evidence of Iraqi involvement): “Go massive — sweep it all up, things related and not.” And indeed they would do just that, with an emphasis on the “not,” including, of course, the calamitous invasion of Iraq in 2003.

To progressive-minded people thinking about this moment of crisis, what kind of opportunities might open to us when (or rather if) Donald Trump is gone from the White House? Perhaps this coronaviral moment is the perfect time to consider what it would mean for us to go truly big, but without the usual hubris or those disastrous invasions of foreign countries. To respond to COVID-19, climate change, and the staggering wealth inequities in this country that, when combined, will cause unbelievable levels of needless suffering, what’s needed is a drastic reordering of our national priorities.

Remember, the Fed’s first move was to inject $1.5 trillion into the stock market. (That would have been enough to forgive all current student debt.) The Trump administration has also promised to help airlines, hotels, and above all oil companies and the fracking industry, a perfect storm when it comes to trying to sustain and enrich those upholding a kleptocratic and amoral status quo.

This should be a time for a genuinely new approach, one fit for a world of rising disruption and disaster, one that would define a new, more democratic, less bellicose America. To that end, here are seven suggestions, focusing — since I’m a retired military officer — mainly on the U.S. military, a subject that continues to preoccupy me, especially since, at present, that military and the rest of the national security state swallow up roughly 60% of federal discretionary spending:

1. If ever there was a time to reduce our massive and wasteful military spending, this is it. There was never, for example, any sense in investing up to $1.7 trillion over the next 30 years to “modernize” America’s nuclear arsenal. (Why are new weapons needed to exterminate humanity when the “old” ones still work just fine?) Hundreds of stealth fighters and bombers — it’s estimated that Lockheed Martin’s disappointing F-35 jet fighter alone will cost $1.5 trillion over its life span — do nothing to secure us from pandemics, the devastating effects of climate change, or other all-too-pressing threats. Such weaponry only emboldens a militaristic and chauvinistic foreign policy that will facilitate yet more wars and blowback problems of every sort. And speaking of wars, isn’t it finally time to end U.S. involvement in Iraq and Afghanistan? More than $6 trillion has already been wasted on those wars and, in this time of global peril, even more is being wasted on this country’s forever conflicts across the Greater Middle East and Africa. (Roughly $4 billion a month continues to be spent on Afghanistan alone, despite all the talk about “peace” there.)

2. Along with ending profligate weapons programs and quagmire wars, isn’t it time for the U.S. to begin dramatically reducing its military “footprint” on this planet? Roughly 800 U.S. military bases circle the globe in a historically unprecedented fashion at a yearly cost somewhere north of $100 billion. Cutting such numbers in half over the next decade would be a more than achievable goal. Permanently cutting provocative “war games” in South Korea, Europe, and elsewhere would be no less sensible. Are North Korea and Russia truly deterred by such dramatic displays of destructive military might?

3. Come to think of it, why does the U.S. need the immediate military capacity to fight two major foreign wars simultaneously, as the Pentagon continues to insist we do and plan for, in the name of “defending” our country? Here’s a radical proposal: if you add 70,000 Special Operations forces to 186,000 Marine Corps personnel, the U.S. already possesses a potent quick-strike force of roughly 250,000 troops. Now, add in the Army’s 82nd and 101st Airborne divisions and the 10th Mountain Division. What you have is more than enough military power to provide for America’s actual national security. All other Army divisions could be reduced to cadres, expandable only if our borders are directly threatened by war. Similarly, restructure the Air Force and Navy to de-emphasize the present “global strike” vision of those services, while getting rid of Donald Trump’s newest service, the Space Force, and the absurdist idea of taking war into low earth orbit. Doesn’t America already have enough war here on this small planet of ours?

4. Bring back the draft, just not for military purposes. Make it part of a national service program for improving America. It’s time for a new Civilian Conservation Corps focused on fostering a Green New Deal. It’s time for a new Works Progress Administration to rebuild America’s infrastructure and reinvigorate our culture, as that organization did in the Great Depression years. It’s time to engage young people in service to this country. Tackling COVID-19 or future pandemics would be far easier if there were quickly trained medical aides who could help free doctors and nurses to focus on the more difficult cases. Tackling climate change will likely require more young men and women fighting forest fires on the west coast, as my dad did while in the CCC — and in a climate-changing world there will be no shortage of other necessary projects to save our planet. Isn’t it time America’s youth answered a call to service? Better yet, isn’t it time we offered them the opportunity to truly put America, rather than themselves, first?

5. And speaking of “America First,” that eternal Trumpian catch-phrase, isn’t it time for all Americans to recognize that global pandemics and climate change make a mockery of walls and go-it-alone nationalism, not to speak of politics that divide, distract, and keep so many down? President Dwight D. Eisenhower once said that only Americans can truly hurt America, but there’s a corollary to that: only Americans can truly save America — by uniting, focusing on our common problems, and uplifting one another. To do so, it’s vitally necessary to put an end to fear-mongering (and warmongering). As President Roosevelt famously said in his first inaugural address in the depths of the Great Depression, “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Fear inhibits our ability to think clearly, to cooperate fully, to change things radically as a community.

6. To cite Yoda, the Jedi master, we must unlearn what we have learned. For example, America’s real heroes shouldn’t be “warriors” who kill or sports stars who throw footballs and dunk basketballs. We’re witnessing our true heroes in action right now: our doctors, nurses, and other medical personnel, together with our first responders, and those workers who stay in grocery stores, pharmacies, and the like and continue to serve us all despite the danger of contracting the coronavirus from customers. They are all selflessly resisting a threat too many of us either didn’t foresee or refused to treat seriously, most notably, of course, President Donald Trump: a pandemic that transcends borders and boundaries. But can Americans transcend the increasingly harsh and divisive borders and boundaries of our own minds? Can we come to work selflessly to save and improve the lives of others? Can we become, in a sense, lovers of humanity?

7. Finally, we must extend our love to encompass nature, our planet. For if we keep treating our lands, our waters, and our skies like a set of trash cans and garbage bins, our children and their children will inherit far harder times than the present moment, hard as it may be.

What these seven suggestions really amount to is rejecting a militarized mindset of aggression and a corporate mindset of exploitation for one that sees humanity and this planet more holistically. Isn’t it time to regain that vision of the earth we shared collectively during the Apollo moon missions: a fragile blue sanctuary floating in the velvety darkness of space, an irreplaceable home to be cared for and respected since there’s no other place for us to go? Otherwise, I fear that my father’s prediction will come true not just for me, but for generations to come and in ways that even he couldn’t have imagined.

[justforbooks]

On Western Stars, Bruce Springsteen Rides in the Whirlwind

A look inside the LP being hailed as The Boss’s best since Magic

In his memoir Born to Run and its live companion piece Springsteen on Broadway, Bruce Springsteen describes his first drive cross-country, when he was 21 years old. That would place that journey around 1970, ’71. Let’s pretend that at the end of the trip he found himself in sunny Southern California (not “down San Diego way,” but in Los Angeles) and decided to hang around there, writing songs, playing acoustic gigs, and by ’73 was getting some cuts on Linda Ronstadt albums, generating buzz as a solo performer from shows at the Troubadour, and the record labels started showing interest, resulting in a deal with Asylum, or Reprise.

Springsteen’s L.A. debut album released that year, let’s call it Greetings from Griffith Park, Ca., might’ve sounded something like his new Western Stars. When he began hinting about this solo project a few years back, Springsteen referenced the SoCal sound of the late ’60s, specifically Glen Campbell’s records of Jimmy Webb songs, and on Western Stars you can hear him aiming at the sweepingly melancholy vibe of “Wichita Lineman,” “Galveston,” and “By the Time I Get to Phoenix.” In Dylan Jones’s upcoming book The Wichita Lineman: Searching in the Sun for the World’s Great Unfinished Song, Springsteen says about Campbell’s singing, “It was simple on the surface but there was a lot of emotion underneath.”

Reviewers have been scrambling to play spot-the-musical-influences on Western Stars, and that’s fun to do. I hear some Johnny Rivers with the Wrecking Crew and Marty Paich’s strings lurking in the corners; Waylon Jennings’s version of “Good Time Charlie’s Got the Blues” (many people have pointed out how much “Hello Sunshine” resembles that song); the string arrangements Nick DeCaro did on Reprise albums for Gordon Lightfoot (Springsteen even has a song called “Sundown,” like Lightfoot’s big hit from ’74), Arlo Guthrie and Randy Newman, or the ones Bergen White charted for Tony Joe White; the hyper-literate, vivid Americana of Mickey Newbury. What a cool game! Nilsson! Jim Croce!

But Western Stars isn’t just evocative of the California sound of the early ’70s; it has, underneath its cinematic strings, the downbeat feeling of the movies that were coming out in 1973, populated by characters who couldn’t really be called heroes: Badlands (of course), Charlie Varrick, High Plains Drifter, Kid Blue, The Last American Hero (which Springsteen referenced on The River’s “Cadillac Ranch”), Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, Scarecrow, Walking Tall. (In ‘73, Springsteen’s not-yet-manager Jon Landau was reviewing films—including some on this list—for Rolling Stone.) Those Watergate-era films, road movies, neo-Westerns, stories of outcasts and revenge-seekers, inform the landscape of Western Stars. On the title track, Springsteen reaches back a bit further: “Here’s to the cowboys, riders in the whirlwind” (see: Ride in the Whirlwind, Monte Hellman’s existential black-and-white western from 1966, starring a pre–Easy Rider Jack Nicholson). Sometimes Western Stars feels like an unmade film with Michael Sarrazin, Barbara Hershey, and Warren Oates.

Oh, I haven’t mentioned how good this album is, how memorable many of its lines are. “Fingernail moon in a twilight sky/Ridin’ high grass of the switchback”: his imagery is as crisp and clean as his fictional Montana sky. “Boarded up and gone like an old summer song.” It’s Springsteen’s best album, by far, since Magic (2007), and I already prefer it to the much-revered (in some quarters) The Rising. For one thing, it isn’t carrying the burden of expectations of The Rising (“We need you now!” someone supposedly shouted at Bruce in the street after 9/11, and can you conceive of the pressure? Would anyone have yelled that at Billy Joel?), and it isn’t bearing the heavy sonic weight of Brendan O’Brien’s production. Western Stars feels more open. These tracks have been in the works for some time; he mentioned the project in interviews around the time of the autobiography, but it had to wait until the whole Born to Run/Springsteen on Broadway phase was over. Maybe, by that point, he’d tired of his own narrative voice and his own story and got down to shaping others. These songs are all in the first person, but that person isn’t Bruce Springsteen. They’re hitchhikers and wayfarers (aren’t they kind of the same thing?), stuntmen and bit players. They’re like the characters in the early ’70s novels by Larry McMurtry (Moving On and All My Friends Are Going to Be Strangers), and I wonder how Springsteen missed out on writing a song about a rodeo cowboy.

Springsteen is also liberated musically. He didn’t have to consider, as he did with the woeful Working on a Dream and the clunky, well-meaning Wrecking Ball, how the songs would translate in the context of a live show with the E Street Band. You can’t imagine them schlepping around a big string section to recreate these songs, and there wouldn’t be anything at all for Jake Clemons to do, and even Max Weinberg would be fiddling his thumbs for a big chunk of the set. No doubt a few of these tracks will find their way into the possible 2020 tour (please, not “There Goes My Miracle” and “Sleepy Joe’s Café”; we don’t need him straining to be Del Shannon, or the band pretending to have fun on a Jay and the Americans knockoff), and if “Hello Sunshine” gets to replace “Waitin’ on a Sunny Day,” all the better.

Western Stars suggests an America divorced from this moment in history. The only cultural reference is to John Wayne (in ’73 he was doing junk like The Train Robbers), and the one allusion that nudges the album into the late 20th century is to a blue pill for ED. Otherwise, the album would have sat pretty solidly in the Nixon era. For anyone who expected Springsteen to be a beacon of hope that the country will get through this current crisis the way it did through Watergate and 9/11, or who wanted him to draw stark pictures of our heroes and villains, Western Stars may feel slight, or like a challenge he gave himself to complete a genre exercise. But if Darkness on the Edge of Town was Springsteen’s film noir, this album is his bleak road movie, his characters nursing drinks, recalling old loves and old wounds. By the time we end up at the final track, looking at the remnants of a beaten-down motel, we’ve been along on one of Springsteen’s most rewarding rides.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[dweemeister]

McFarland, USA (2015)

In Hollywood, certain sports have dominated the sports genre. The proportions reflect their popularity as Hollywood’s Studio System reached its zenith. America’s national pastime, baseball, is well represented. As is boxing, which was once arguably one of the United States’ favorite sports alongside horse racing. American football and basketball had been underrepresented until the last few decades; soccer and ice hockey – perhaps given the demographics of the average Hollywood executive past and present – have not gained much traction among major movie studios (how I hope that changes soon for soccer, but among all the sports I have mentioned, it is the hardest to “fake”). Track and field and distance running occasionally have their moments, like Chariots of Fire (1981) and Race (2016). Simulating amateur or professional running comes down to correcting an actors’ running form – a far cry from teaching someone how to kick a soccer ball properly and strenuous boxing training.

McFarland, USA, directed by New Zealander Niki Caro (2002’s Whale Rider, the pandemic-delayed live-action adaptation of Disney’s Mulan), is the first Disney live-action film on a track and field/distance running story since The World’s Greatest Athlete (1973) – a film that slathers on the slapstick and the cultural stereotypes. Set in the small town of McFarland in California’s Central Valley, McFarland, USA looks at a community glanced over by Hollywood and independent filmmakers. A few hours’ drive from Los Angeles and the Pacific Ocean, McFarland is an agricultural community that is heavily Latino, with limited economic opportunities for its residents. That, of course, makes McFarland and places like it the butt of derision from some of its residents and those who do not know any better. It can be a difficult place to live, but even here, the film says, Americana thrives and the American Dream abides.

In the late summer/early fall of 1987, football coach Jim White (Kevin Costner) loses his job at an Idaho high school after losing his temper, accidentally injuring a smack-talking player. He and his family – wife Cheryl (Maria Bello), elder daughter Julie (Morgan Saylor), and younger daughter Jamie White (Elsie Fisher from 2018’s Eighth Grade) – pack their belongings and settle in McFarland, California. Even on their first day, the Whites are frightened of their new home. The place is unkempt, and it is difficult for the daughters to believe they are in America. Jim takes his new job as assistant football coach and PE teacher at McFarland High School, but is soon stripped of assistant coaching duties after a dispute with the head coach. Noticing how many of McFarland’s boys are excellent runners, he convinces the high school principal to support boys’ cross country running – the first year it is sanctioned by the California Interscholastic Federation (CIF, the governing body of California high school sports).

The team, some more skeptical than others, assemble: Thomas Valles (Carlos Pratts), Jose Cardenas (Johnny Ortiz), Johnny Sameniego (Hector Duran), Victor Puentes (Sergio Avelar), and brothers David (Rafael Martinez) and Danny Diaz (Ramiro Rodriguez).

When one thinks of the word “Americana”, certain things come to mind. Small towns with everybody knows your name and white picket fences, children playing baseball in the park, and the corner store/malt shop are elements of Americana, exported to the world via films and television shows made in the United States. But these images are specific to an America of an earlier, more monochromatic time and is arguably geographically specific (not reflecting the diverse Southwest, let alone Alaska and Hawai’i). The country, no matter the time period, is too large to distill into a single idea.

McFarland, California of the late 1980s looks a lot like what it is today. Instead of burger joints, there are taquerías. Quinceañeras are celebrated; there’s a group of men who get together to cruise their classic cars through town (they are mistaken by the White family as “gangbangers” their first night there); and much of the population works throughout the week picking fruits and vegetables in the fields – work that is backbreaking, sweltering, honest, essential.

What makes McFarland, USA most appealing is its normalization and celebration of life in McFarland. Though dramatized, the cinematic reality of this film’s McFarland, California is largely the reality for small agricultural towns up and down California’s Central Valley. The narratives of McFarland deserve to be considered as “American” as equally those from Bedford Falls (1946’s It’s a Wonderful Life), the middle of nowhere in Iowa (1989’s Field of Dreams); and Greenbow, Alabama (1994’s Forrest Gump). Conflict and personal discontent always simmered in these places, despite the idyllic community in Bedford Falls (minus Mr. Potter) and the natural beauty of the middle of nowhere in Iowa and Greenbow, Alabama.

Those things exist, too, in McFarland, California. Jim White, in his first days at McFarland High, obviously does not want to be there nor does he plan on staying longer than he needs to. In forming and coaching cross country, he contends with the familial, economic, and other cultural factors facing his student-athletes’ lives in addition to learning how to coach a sport he has no experience in. As the film reaches the end of its first act, the screenplay by Christopher Cleveland (2006’s Glory Road), Bettina Gilois (Glory Road), and Grant Thompson (his screenwriting debut for a feature film) strays from the White family to show us the familial and peer pressures the student-athletes face. Here, McFarland, USA captures the vulnerability, confusion, friendship (or lack of it), and desire to forge one’s own fate that high schoolers can easily identify with. Many sports movies focusing on a team rather than a single person would allow those individuals to be dramatically indistinguishable (a major problem in 1986’s Hoosiers, a personal favorite). That is not the case in McFarland, USA, which allows its young Latino characters to occupy their unique niche in this film. Thus, in conjunction with its normalization of McFarland’s heavily Latino culture, the film becomes a rousing slice of Americana. Certain people who might be defensive over what “Americana” entails might find issue with what I just wrote, but their definition is exclusionary by default.

With a white coach named White (if this was a professional sport, headline writers for sports sections might be having a field day) training and mentoring seven Latino cross country runners, some people might dismiss McFarland, USA outright as a “white savior” movie even though it avoids such trappings. The “white savior” narrative is one where a white character enters a difficult situation created or exacerbated by the personal/sociopolitical/cultural qualities of a non-white character(s) – the former, by exemplifying traits unlike the latter’s, rescues the non-white characters from that situation. The term “white savior” originated from academic analyses of narrative art and has passed into the political liberal vernacular. Too often among political liberals, the label of a “white savior” narrative is enough to dissuade certain individuals from even considering to consume such a narrative – this reviewer is guilty of using that term in a dismissive fashion.

McFarland, USA circumvents the tropes of white savior narratives by framing Jim White as a flawed character, its post-first act glimpses at life among the boys’ families, and White’s attempts to understand the lives of his student-athletes and neighbors. White, who comes off as an impersonal and stubborn ass with a short-fused temper at first, is played wonderfully by Costner. His character learns, through cultural and neighborly diffusion, how those qualities fail to resonant with his student-athletes, their elders, his wife, and two daughters. Over time, he learns more about the boys’ lives and – on his own volition – the difficult work their families tend to. He acknowledges their personal and familial sacrifices, acknowledging that his hardscrabble life is fundamentally different than theirs. In a final pep talk before the inaugural CIF state championships for cross country, White says:

Every team that’s here deserves to be, including you. But they haven’t got what you got. All right? They don’t get up at dawn like you and go to work in the fields… They don’t go to school all day and then go back to those same fields… These kids don’t do what you do. They can’t even imagine it… What you endure just to be here, to get a shot at this, the kind of privilege that someone like me takes for granted? There’s nothing you can’t do with that kind of strength, with that kind of heart.

It is a beautiful moment made possible by the acting from all involved. That though someone like Jim White may never understand the poverty or the anguish that comes with these boys’ lives, their dedication and work ethic is equal to, if not surpassing, that of their affluent counterparts. To whom much is given, much is required. Jim White has given the boys his dedication to themselves as athletes, students, and human beings; the boys of McFarland’s cross country team have given to their coach lifelong respect and the embrace of community.

As a sports film, McFarland, USA is neither innovative nor does it shake off the coil of predictability that almost every sports film is plagued with. Quite a few of its elements are simplified and sanitized (White revived a cross country program that had been dropped rather than establishing it, he also revived the girls’ cross country team that is not depicted at all here, among other things) but that might be expected given the studio (Disney) behind it. But this film is based on a real story and hews as closely as it can to the spirit of the actual story when it can. If I saw the pitch for this film without any prior knowledge, I might have dismissed it as fantasy. McFarland High School’s boys’ cross country team won nine state championships under White until his retirement in the early 2000s, and qualified for consecutive state championships from 1987 to 2013.

Prior to Jim White’s pre-meet speech, there is a montage set to “The Star-Spangled Banner” – commemorating the boys’ brotherhood now linked inextricably with their coach. The attendees’ and athletes’ singing gives way to a solo guitar, showing the audience scenes of that brotherhood. We see the team on a late afternoon run just outside the barbed wire fencing surrounding the prison located near their school. After that run, we see them, talking with their coach amid the crepuscular Central Valley sun, taking a moment to catch their breath. They are all sitting and relaxing atop a tarp-covered mound of almonds ready for market. If that isn’t an example of Americana at its finest, I don’t know what is.

My rating: 7/10

^ Based on my personal imdb rating. Half-points are always rounded down. My interpretation of that ratings system can be found here.

For more of my reviews tagged “My Movie Odyssey”, click here.

[vulcandyke]

Okay, I ranted a lot in the tags on that post I reblogged but I have a Lot Of Thoughts about country music so here we go! This got long so scroll to the very bottom for a tl;dr.

I grew up on what a lot of people consider to be “good” country: Hank Williams, George Strait, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Robert Earl Keen, etc. (Not to mention a lot of blues, which is objectively the biggest influence on country as a genre; without blues, we wouldn’t have country and similar genres at all, but that’s a topic for another rant.) 

Mainstream country has diverged from their styles a lot. Just look at songs like “Man in Black” by Johnny Cash. It’s about why he chose his infamous all-black style. Here’s the first verse: “I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down/Living in the hopeless, hungry side of town/I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime/But is there because he's a victim of the times”. It’s so exemplary of what country is supposed to be about; a way to speak out against injustice and give a voice to the voiceless. In the same song, a few verses later, he speaks out against the Vietnam War with the following lyrics: ”Each week we lose a hundred fine young men/And, I wear it for the thousands who have died/Believing that the Lord was on their side/I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died/Believing that we all were on their side”. Keep in mind that this album is from 1971, so it was a VERY big deal for him to be vocally anti-Vietnam, but he was. 

Now let’s look at what is, according to Billboard, 2019′s number one country song: “Whiskey Glasses” by Morgan Wallen. It’s not a bad song, and it’s catchy as hell, but it doesn’t hold the same weight that “Man in Black” does. Here’s a snippet of “Whiskey Glasses”:  “Don't wanna think about her/Or wear a ring without her/Don't wanna hit the karaoke bar/Can't sing without her/So make them drinks strong/'Cause, brother, she's gone/And if I’m ever gonna move on/I’ma need some whiskey glasses,”. The whole song is exactly what people think all modern country is; repetitive, simple lyrics without much meaning behind them beyond “My girlfriend left me and I’m sad”. 

But modern country music extends WAY beyond songs like “Whiskey Glasses” or “Big Green Tractor” or all the variations on “My Truck is Big and My Beer is Cold”. A lot of it gets labelled folk or americana, but there’s still a lot of good country music being made that has meaning. Let’s take a look at one of my favorite modern country artists, Jason Isbell. He’s got a song called “White Man’s World” that’s literally just about how awful the world is for anyone who isn’t a white man. I could talk about this one song for forever, but I’ll break it down. He starts off singing about how he has a baby daughter and he “thought this world could be hers one day, but her mama knew better.” He also references the current climate in modern country music in the next verse with the line “Mama wants to change that Nashville sound, but they’re never gonna let her,” referencing how the country scene is extremely hard to break into for anyone that isn’t a cishet white man. Then there’s the chorus: “There's no such thing as someone else's war/Your creature comforts aren't the only things worth fighting for/Still breathing, it's not too late/We're all carrying one big burden, sharing one fate.” Then he acknowledges how easy it is for people to shrug off discrimination/racism when it isn’t directly affecting them: “I'm a white man looking in a black man's eyes/Wishing I'd never been one of the guys/Who pretended not to hear another white man's joke/Oh, the times ain't forgotten”. He finishes it off by saying that “the man upstairs must’ve took a vacation” but that he still has faith because of the fire in his little girl’s eyes. This is a lot closer to what country used to be than “Whiskey Glasses”. Acknowledging injustice and working to make things better, and hoping for a future where that work pays off. 

Another modern artist that I would argue is one of the best today is Tyler Childers. A large portion of his discography is about poverty, particularly among coal miners. “Hard Times” is about a man who’s so desperate for money to feed his family that, when the mining job isn’t paying enough, he robs a gas station and gets killed in the process. “Coal” is about the overall struggles of being a coal miner, and it has some of my favorite lyrics out of any of his songs: “When God spoke out "Let there be light"/He put the first of us in the ground” and “Now it's darker than a dungeon/And it's deeper than a well/So sometimes I imagine that I'm getting pretty close to Hell/And in my darkest hour I cry out to the Lord/He says "Keep on a'mining, boy, 'cause that's why you were born". “Banded Clovis” is about a poor man who’s so desperate for cash that, when he’s out sifting for gold with his friends and one of them finds a Clovis point (a prehistoric tool that can sell for hundreds to thousands of dollars), he kills him for it and ends up in jail. So much of his music is the perfect shade of melancholy and it represents what it’s like growing up poor in the south with amazing accuracy. 

There’s also a lot of lighter-hearted modern country music, especially love songs, that are SO much better than what’s being played on the radio. “If We Were Vampires” by Jason Isbell has the lines, “If we were vampires and death was a joke/We’d go out on the sidewalk and smoke/We’d laugh at all the lovers and their plans/I wouldn’t feel the need to hold your hand./Maybe time running out is a gift/I’ll work hard till the end of my shift/And give you every second I can find/And hope it isn’t me who’s left behind.” There’s something so heartfelt about the fact that he wouldn’t want to be immortal because he wants to make sure that he appreciates her to the degree that she deserves to be appreciated. Slaid Cleaves has a really cute, lighthearted song called “Texas Love Song” about how he loves the subject of the song more than he loves Texas, which as any Texan knows, is a hell of a thing to say.

Anyway, I’ve talked a lot about Jason Isbell and Tyler Childers but my point is that there are so many artists out there who are making genuine art in the country genre, not the commercialized “bro country” that a lot of people are familiar with. There’s still a huge issue with POC and female representation in mainstream country, and believe me, I could spend hours talking about that, but I want to defend the fact that there’s still a lot of good country music being made. For every Florida Georgia Line, Jason Aldean, and Blake Shelton, there’s also a Tyler Childers and Jason Isbell. You just have to know how to find it.

If you’ve somehow made it this far, first of all, bless you. Thank you for entertaining my rant. Second of all, if you’re interested in getting into country music, I’ve got a few suggestions. The best place to start is probably with the classics I mentioned earlier. Dolly Parton is a must, especially “9 to 5″, which I maintain is the modern musical Communist Manifesto. Robert Earl Keen is one of my all-time favorite musicians particularly because of how his songs feel so nostalgic. “No Kinda Dancer” and “Feelin’ Good Again” are both amazing. If you want to get into more modern artists, though, here’s a few:

Jason Isbell

Tyler Childers

Tejon Street Corner Thieves: you could argue that they’re closer to blues than to alt-country, but like I said before, blues is a HUGE influence on country and if you like one. I’m willing to bet you’ll like the other.

Colter Wall: I’ve just started listening to him but he has vibes similar to a lot of older country music. Deep voice, acoustic guitar. It slaps.

Justin Townes Earle: he’s got a really good song called “Harlem River Blues” about suicide. Also, he’s Steve Earle’s son!

Amigo the Devil: if you’re into darker themes and a little rougher music, you’ll love him. I’d classify his music specifically as “murder folk”. “I Hope Your Husband Dies” and “Delilah” (although the latter is a cover) are good place to start. 

Shakey Graves: his cover of A Dream Is A Wish Your Heart makes from Cinderella is fucking gold. I don’t think there’s a single song of his that I don’t like.

This is getting REALLY long, so I’ll stop. 

TL;DR Country music isn’t bad! A lot of people hate it because mainstream country is shallow and repetitive but it isn’t all like that! Broaden your horizons!

[supercantaloupe]

this oklahoma fucks

my thoughts on the oklahoma revival (6/8/19 matinee) under the cut! 

this show. i was absolutely blown away. i see a lot of shows (one glance at my theater page will tell you that much...) and at this point it’s rare that i see something which i feel in my gut from start to finish how incredible it is, but, wow, oklahoma lives up to the hype. it’s 2 hours and 45 minutes plus a 15 minute intermission, and i swear i didn’t stop grinning or giggling for that entire 3 hours.

it’s also sometimes a rarity now for me to go into a show blind. i certainly was familiar with oklahoma before today -- i knew the basic storyline, i’d even heard some of the songs from this cast, and hell, the musical’s almost a century old (it basically founded the modern broadway musical!) -- but i didn’t know it very intimately going in. from the moment i entered that theater, though, i was enraptured. 

the show has a comfortable feel to it, with its old-timey wild-west drawling dialect and a loveable-as-always rogers & hammerstein score, but it’s reimagined in a way that makes it feel both completely new and completely familiar at once. it’s an intimate theatrical experience, one i haven’t really felt since great comet took its final bows. i’ve always been a fan of intimate and innovative productions but this show really excelled. playing in the round is the perfect way to welcome an audience into your world on a personal level, but oklahoma takes it a step further. there isn’t even a shift in lighting from the beginning of the show; it looks the same from the momeny you walk in and sit down through the first two numbers. it’s a small detail but it really works wonders in creating a world that the audience feels a welcome part in from the get-go. and that’s not even mentioning the tables onstage, the crockpots full of chili, the table of yet-to-be-made cornbread (all of which gets to be enjoyed by the audience during intermission!). and the string band right there on stage! with pedal steel and mandolin and banjo! what better way to welcome your audience into your world than to incorporate real elements of americana: a barnyard hoedown, a cultural centerpiece in american mythos and identity. (plus, i’m always a sucker for country twang in my music and a band onstage. pit musicians never get enough love!)

and man oh man, the cast. they are all phenomenal. my selected and personal commendations go out to mary testa, whose aunt eller COMMANDED the room and oozed a lovable familial flavor; ali stroker, for her charming, bubbly, and completely endearing brand of wildness in her portrayal of ado annie; patrick vaill, for his deeply chilling performance as jud; rebecca naomi jones, for the surprisingly deep layers of thought and emotion she brings to her laurey; and to damon daunno, for his downright enchanting vocal performance, southern drawl, and ass-waggling swagger all the way to the drama of his more serious scenes, like in “poor jud is dead” and the wedding (dudes got raaaaange. just sayin.). i need a cast album immediately!

it needs to be mentioned how much personality and charm put into every aspect of each actor’s performances. the choreography was just wonderful, from the corn-shucking “many a new day” to curly and will prancing around the stage slapping their thighs (there’s a lot of chaps and a lot of ass wiggling in this show. make your peace with that right away.) to the delightful hoedown-style group dancing in “farmer and the cowman”. i’m absolutely delighted at how seamlessly integrated the wheelchair-bound ali stroker is in every aspect of choreography -- it’s skillful, it’s full of personality, it’s unique and fun to watch. really the only choreography (and really the only scene in general) that i failed to fully appreciate was the dream ballet: as cool as it was, i personally am just Not A Dancer in any shape or form and such an interpretive, almost contextless solo dance kind of flew over my head. i still appreciate the artistry and skill involved in it but i’m sure there are other people out there who got a lot more out of that scene than i did.

to take a moment to appreciate the more technical aspects of the show: firstly, i was impressed by the subtlety employed in the sound design. i’m pretty sure all the actors were all wearing body mics (pretty much standard practice nowadays), though they were either very hard or downright impossible to spy. (nice job to the costume and hair departments for concealing those even from audiences so close!) my theory is that the mics were placed higher up on the actors’ heads, effectively concealing them in their hair and distancing the mic from their mouths -- thereby lessening their ability to pic up the actor’s voices. in a huge, proscenium-style theater, that’d be a problem, but here, in a theater and a show where intimacy is the name of the game, that works. you still heard the actors’ voices from where they were onstage, not just pumped in from speakers (if they were at all!). effects were used sparingly but to great effect: i noticed even in the opening number the reverb effect used only at the ends of certain words or lines to evoke the echoing of a voice over the prairie, which i thought was a very nice touch. and in addition to body mics there were handheld and stage mics, which indeed functioned as handheld and stage mics, with a clear auditory difference between when the actors used them and when they didn’t. again, this built up the believability and intimacy of the world, as well as contributing another layer of coolness to certain scenes (like “poor jud is dead”, which is done almost entirely in the dark and almost entirely on one handheld mic between curly and jud. the upped volume and closeness evoked using the handheld mic brought the entire audience in that much closer into that small and intimate space of the smokehouse and heightened the tension masterfully.)

and, oh my god, the lighting. the biggest snub of the tonys this year is oklahoma not even getting a NOMINATION (atw turn on your location i just wanna talk). i mentioned before those house lights not changing from when you enter the theater through the first few numbers but when they do -- when curly and laurey lock eyes and really consider each other -- there’s a sudden and unexpected shift, going from the bright full house lights to dark everywhere, with the stage lit completely in a dreamlike green. and just as quickly as it came it goes, snapping back to those full house lights again. what a simple but very strong way to convey a message! the show also makes really great use of directional lighting, projection, and colored ambient lighting, with the latter i find particularly notable in the late part of the barn party scene when laurey has her encounters with jud and curly (with these interactions lit a cool and creepy red, mostly by the colored fairy lights strung from the ceiling among the streamers). also an effective surprise is this show’s use of blackouts, its use of complete darkness. i’ve seen a lot of shows but i’ve NEVER seen a show use a blackout like this before. 

for example, in the scene leading up to “poor jud is dead”, when curly goes to talk to jud in the smokehouse, the lights suddenly cut out, entirely, like we’ve stepped into a dark and sordid little corner of the world, jud’s domain. the whole beginning of this scene is played ENTIRELY in the dark, with naught but the sound of the two men’s conversation to tell us what’s going on. it’s creepy as hell and so effective. and then, as curly sings, a projector comes on, shining onto the back wall of the theater, an extreme black-and-white closeup, first of jud, then of curly, and of the two of them together, literally being broadcast from a camera held right up then and there. and after the song, after the projection fades away, we get a single spotlight, a pinpoint of light streaming from above; it shines onto the table directly between the two men, illuminating that patch of space, casting an eerie glow on the scene. and then, finally, the end, when auntie eller walks in, and the lights fade up just a bit, like would realistically happen if someone cracked open the door in a dark room. everything about the lighting in this scene plays up the creepiness of jud, the unpredictability of his madness, it plays with the suspicion and nerves of the audience by literally depriving them of information in the form of visuals. it plays similarly to jud’s and laurey’s encounter in act ii, when the lights cut to complete black again as he kisses her. we can’t see them, but we hear everything: kissing. metal clinking. footsteps, retreating. and then, those red party lights fade in, just enough to see laurey retreat to the opposite end of the stage, just enough to see jud’s unbuckled belt and confused, angry expression.

yeah, this oklahoma doesn’t pull its punches when it comes to jud. they make it crystal fucking clear who he is and what he’s trying to do. the lights, the sound, the whole production works to this end. and it doesn’t pull its punches with its finale, either. those of you familiar with the original show know that jud shows up to the wedding with a knife, and after a skirmish with curly, ends up falling on it and dying. this oklahoma did something else: jud shows up, asking only for a kiss from the bride and to give a gift to the groom. inside the box he brings is a shiny pistol, thrust into curly’s hand and trained on jud, standing open and ready for death, a forced assisted suicide. and after several long, tense, silent seconds, curly pulls the trigger. (i actually wasn’t even sure if they were going to go that far, but, yeah, they did that.) and the blood that splatters both on jud’s shirt and on the faces and white wedding outfits of laurey and curly is copious, and raw. it stays there for the rest of the show, a reminder. the finale ultimo is no longer a happy, triumphant reprise of the title number. it’s sung, powerfully and communally, by everyone with dead-fucking-straight faces. 

this isn’t your grandmother’s oklahoma, that’s for sure. 

what it is is a fantastic new staging of one of the biggest, most familiar classic pieces of american theater ever written. it’s simultaneously a back-to-its-roots retelling and a refreshing new take of classic material. it manages to be fresh and nostalgic, old and contemporary, mythologized and contemporary all at once. it’s not quite a masterpiece, but it’s damn near close to it. 

in short, i haven’t seen a show this good in a long time. if you get the chance, you should too. it’s not one you’ll want to miss.

[djbimbu-blog]

Bruce Springsteen - Darkness on the Edge of Town

For the first review why not start with the album this blog is named after, Bruce Springsteen’s fourth album, 1978’s Darkness on the Edge of Town. Why did I name my blog after this album? Is it my favorite album? Favorite album by the Boss? Nope. It’s not even my favorite Springsteen album (that would probably go Born to Run, but Darkness is close). It’s just what I happened to be listening to when I decided to start a blog because I needed a hobby, and I spend most of my time reading about whatever record I’m listening to anyway, so I might as well write down my half assed research and opinions.

I don’t remember when I got this record, a few years ago at some point. I bought it from one of my usual record stores. I had already tried to buy it once at a flea market, but when I got it home  the record actually was an Elvis Costello record inside of a Springsteen sleeve. And try as I might, I just can’t get into Costello. I learned the hard way (probably about $8 hard) that you don’t just look at some of the grooves for scratches, look at the label and make sure its the right fucking record in there. So I had to buy a second copy. It’s in decent shape, has a few crackles here and there, but I don’t go for mint condition stuff. I go for the record that’s the cheapest one out of the three copies the store has, because the sleeve is a little worn and one song has a scratch in it. I buy records to listen to first and foremost. I’m not rich, and I’m not buying them to look at, so some of my records are of questionable condition. 

The first copy I bought is now framed and hangs right above my stereo. A reminder not to be such a dumbass with my record shopping, and a reminder to stop being so quick to shit on artists based off mental cliches you’ve made about their fans. Basically a reminder to be a more open minded person, and less of an asshole.

Most of my life I had written off the Boss as boring baby boomer dad rock, stuff you hear on the radio in the waiting room of an automatic car wash, stuff along with solo Clapton, Toto, The Eagles, Journey’s slow songs. So you’re drinking free Keurig coffee while ESPN plays on the TV, hoping the balding, goateed man next to you doesn’t ask you you’re opinion on the draft because you didn’t watch it and don’t want to deal with the awkwardness of a judgmental look for being a 20 something man who doesn’t care about sports. In his mind my dull, offended, smart phone generation is destroying the spirit of the country, and in my mind, I thought Springsteen was his music, music from when “men were men”, worked at factories, ate McDonalds when it was still legally a food product, and Reagan was going to turn everything around from the malaise years of Carter. He probably listened to Springsteen back in 1980, played high school baseball, dealt with all the bullshit in his life by looking forward to Friday night when he could get drunk, hang out with his girlfriend, and drive around with his friends in a shitty rust box Nova (with the inline six, not even the v8 that still didn’t make 200 horsepower). Needless to say, I had judgmental opinions about Bruce Springsteen and the kinds of people who listened to him.

At some point something happened. I honestly think it was mostly just that I grew the fuck up just enough to hear Springsteen on the right day and it finally connected, finally all made sense. I remember where the change happened. I was sitting in one of my old apartments, a few years out of a bad break up (and dropping out of college), living with some of my best friends, working a dead end job, starting to drink too much, mentally planning a half impulsive move across the country away from it all…and binging The Sopranos for the first time. At the end of the first season finale, Tony and his family are driving in a bad storm, and seek shelter in the restaurant of Tony’s long time friend Artie. Artie, trying to close up, reluctantly lets them in to eat. Other friends and family are there dining, Tony and his family sit down, then Tony toasts to remembering “the little moments, like this…that were good.” Fade to black, and this faint acoustic guitar comes in over the credits, with this haunting voice, coated in a slap back delay, singing about having a “clear conscience for the things that I’ve done.” It’s a beautiful scene from one of the pinnacles of television. And I had to find out what the fuck that song was. It was like a combination of Elvis singing “Blue Moon”, Bob Dylan’s “The Ballad of Hollis Brown” with a touch of Suicide’s Alan Vega thrown in. I do some internet digging, and find out it’s this song called “State Trooper” by Bruce Springsteen. Bruce Springsteen? The guy behind that “Born In The USA” song drunk assholes ironically jammed on the Fourth of July, that I couldn’t stand? Was I wrong about him this whole time? So I started to dig into the Boss, first into the Born to Run album, since the song “Born To Run” I always had sort of guilty pleasure liked when it came on the radio. Within a year or so I would consider Springsteen a musical genius, and one of my absolute favorite musicians of all time (though I must admit I only deeply know his first 7 albums). All from hearing one of his least Springsteeny songs in the end credits of a tv show I was watching more than 10 years after airing.

On to the album. Springsteen had already recorded three albums, his last, Born to Run was a massive success, that had him maturing as an artist and writing songs that were absolutely beautiful and somehow could be absolutely depressing at the same time. Listen to “Jungleland". If it doesn’t make you feel every emotion at once, you’re not human. The lyrics tell a story I’m still not quite sure I understand, and it has the best saxophone solo ever put on a record (and for what it’s worth, the “Jungleland" sax solo is my favorite part of any song ever). It’s a perfect fucking song. It was a hard album to top, and I’m still not sure if he did. Darkness is a fantastic record, though I’m not sure if it’s as good as Born to Run (I’m also not sure if it’s worse). But you have to applaud Springsteen for not pulling an AC/DC, writing more of the same, and riding it out for the next 30 years. He came into the studio with a new band member, Steven Van Zandt (who I will still always think of first and foremost as Silvio Dante), and recorded a massive collection of over 50 songs. Some are available on the album The Promise which didn’t come out until 2010. 

Ten were picked for the record, which was harder hitting, darker, rawer, and more stripped down. It wasn’t as poppy (if you could consider Born To Run that), and wasn't as successful. The highest single off Darkness only made it’s way to No. 33 on the Billboard charts. How could he top Born To Run? He couldn’t, but the lack of relative success doesn’t make it any less of an album. It’s his In Utero, so to speak.

“Badlands” kicks off the album. With a rhythm Springsteen claims to have “borrowed” from The Animals “Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood” it moves quick. It has raw, crunchy guitars, you can already tell this isn’t Born To Run. The lyrics follow similar Springsteen territory, but you can tell right away this is a different album. The problem with “Badlands” though is the version on the Live 1975-1985 album just has that little bit extra. “Badlands” is a great song, but I usually find it just leaves me wanting the live version instead. The version of the live album comes from a 1980 show in Tempe, Arizona, which has concert footage on youtube. Honestly, most of the tracks from that show are better than the album. I have a hard time finishing Darkness sometimes without getting sidetracked watching Springsteen live videos on youtube about halfway through.

“Adam Raised A Cain” is maybe Springsteen’s heaviest song. It starts off with a fast, overdriven guitar, and goes right into a ripping, pissed off, guitar solo. The tempo picks up a bit in the bridge, and then the chorus hits you hard, with yelling background vocals and squealing lead guitar. The guitar solo comes in later, reminiscent of the intro solo, but with a few unique lines thrown in. At the end they go back into the chorus for a solid minute, and jam on it until the end. Springsteen doesn’t have many songs like this. I wish he did. It’s really fucking good.

“Something in the Night” is a slower tune. It’s not bad, but I find it a little forgettable. If I’m scrolling through Spotify for the car or something, it’s not the tune I’d pick out if I only have a 5 minute drive. I do really like last half though, where the vocals get a little less ballad, and a little rougher, a little louder.

“Candy’s Room” has just not aged well. Something about the piano line, the driving bass, the drums, I’m not sure what. Some of the production on this album is pretty dated, but for some reason more so on this one. Maybe because it’s about a girl named Candy, and nobody’s been born with that name in quite a while (at least not that I know). It just sounds very 1970’s, and not in the good way. It’s a little boring, and the lyrics don’t really do much for me. It has a pretty good guitar solo though, so points for that. Probably my least favorite track.

“Racing In The Street” heads right into a different direction. It starts off with a solo piano, and Springsteen singing about his 69 Chevy. I’m a bit of a classic car lover myself, so I appreciate the references, and only a few people could sing a love song about girls and muscle cars and not make it hokey as shit. It’s definitely not Van Halen’s Panama. How though? A song with this subject matter should be corny and terrible, but it’s really fucking good. It’s pure beautiful Americana. It’s the musical equivalent of having a fire on the beach with your best friends in the summertime. It’s simple, but taking simple stories and making them something relatable to everyone is what Springsteen is the best at. Even if you don’t like cars, anyone can listen to this song and have something in you’re life it could be about.

“The Promised Land” starts off with a midtempo guitar and a matching harmonica. I don’t quite know what the lyrics mean, but you sure as hell want to get to the promised land too. The song slows down in the middle, with a guitar solo, and rips right into a classic Clarence Clemons sax solo. This is probably the “poppiest” song on the album, which is not to say it’s “Dancing In The Dark.” It’s still in full rock and roll territory, but it’s fucking catchy. Another song you need to watch the footage of from the 1980 Arizona show. The album version is good, the live one is perfect.

“Factory” is one of the lesser songs on the album. I honestly usually skip it. It’s just a little too slow after “The Promised Land” and the song after “Factory” is really good. It’s not a bad song, but just a victim of track listing choice. Especially if I’m not listening to the vinyl, in the car or the gym or something, it’s getting skipped. If it’s on the record, I’ll listen, but I’m not that invested. The lyrics aren’t Springsteen’s best, a little too on the nose.

“Streets of Fire” is another slower tune, but a little harder. I doesn’t have that much in common, but it reminds me a lot of “Backstreets” off Born To Run. It starts off pretty mellow, with just an organ (some sort of keyboard, I’m going with organ), but starts to pick up and hits hard when the guitars come in, and then goes right into one of the coolest guitar solo’s on a Springsteen album. The guitar tone is just fuzzy enough, it’s loud, drenched in reverb, and the rest of the band just lays back. It comes out of nowhere. The rest of the song is more of the same and fades out, but that solo makes the song.

“Prove It All Night” is a classic mid tempo Springsteen rock and roll love song. Nothing ground breaking, but it’s still one of the better tracks on the album. In the middle it goes into a sax solo, and then up another level with another great guitar solo. This is definitely the best Springsteen guitar album. The solo’s hit hard, sound mean, but aren’t showy or lame 1970’s rock show off stuff. They serve the songs really well. Something about this song though makes me feel like it would fit better on The River. Another song to check out live footage of. It turns into an extended jam, and is just a little bit quicker. I think if they recorded it with the tempo of the live show, it would have brought it from one of the decent tracks on the album to one of the best. I don’t know why, there’s nothing about this song particularly interesting, but I find myself throwing it on quite a bit.

“Darkness on the Edge of Town” ends the album. It’s a little bit of a middle ground between “Racing In The Street” and “Streets of Fire.” It’s one of Springsteens more critically regarded songs, Rolling Stone rated it the #8th best song by him apparently, but I don’t really see it. It’s good, but even on this album there’s quite a few better songs. It’s okay, it’s a good outro to the album, I can see what they were going for, but it just never really jelled with me that well.

Final thoughts:

Favorite songs: “Adam Raised a Cain,” “Racing In The Street,” “The Promised Land,” “Streets of Fire.” 

Least favorite songs: “Candy’s Room,” “Factory”