A church, a courtroom and then goodbye...
No one seems to notice how profoundly depressed some of our favorite singers were. We've somehow failed to acknowledge what kind of misery it takes to be one of the greats.
Of course i'm sitting here listening to Patsy Cline, so i probably have a skewed perception of things, but the more that background twang hits my cochlea, the more i want to slit my fucking wrists. So many absolutely wonderful songs, in one of the hands-down best voices ever to grace the mic, and still we exonerate her without really listening to what she's saying.
Don't get me wrong, i know what she's saying. I listen to the lyrics, and, like so many others before me, i empathize so strongly it hurts. Patsy had an uncanny knack for cutting straight through the bullshit and the sternum and kicking your heart toward the stands. You get yourself a bottle of whiskey and Sweet Dreams and see if you don't try to drown yourself before the sun comes up.
That's my problem. I've listened to this lady's albums a thousand times (give or take a few) and while there have been plenty of nights i've sat on the floor weeping and drinking, i've never thought of what it must have been like to be Patsy Cline. How fucking terrible was this woman's love life? How amazingly wounded do you think she had to be to pen some of these tunes, not to mention belt them out with such force? And how in the hell do we fail to acknowledge that?
"Thank you, Ms. Cline, for saying what i've been trying to say for so long. Your songs are the only thing that's gotten me through these terrible times. Thank you so much. Please keep singing. Sincerely, Shirley Collins of Fort Worth, Texas."
Why not "Jesus Christ, Ms. Cline, i am so sorry. I hope singing about your fucking soulsucking relationships has helped purge some of your suicidal tendencies regarding them, and thank you for pouring your barely beating heart out on wax for all of us sad suckers who can't sing. Please don't kill yourself. Sincerely, Shirley Collins of Fort Worth, Texas."
Jesus. Next time you're playing Spiritualized or something, don't talk about how good it is. Get in your car and start driving and don't stop until you've given Jason Pierce an enormous, crushing hug and a full syringe of the bad stuff. Someone needs to acknowledge the misery that causes such good music.
-j.
ps: fuck ska.
Of course i'm sitting here listening to Patsy Cline, so i probably have a skewed perception of things, but the more that background twang hits my cochlea, the more i want to slit my fucking wrists. So many absolutely wonderful songs, in one of the hands-down best voices ever to grace the mic, and still we exonerate her without really listening to what she's saying.
Don't get me wrong, i know what she's saying. I listen to the lyrics, and, like so many others before me, i empathize so strongly it hurts. Patsy had an uncanny knack for cutting straight through the bullshit and the sternum and kicking your heart toward the stands. You get yourself a bottle of whiskey and Sweet Dreams and see if you don't try to drown yourself before the sun comes up.
That's my problem. I've listened to this lady's albums a thousand times (give or take a few) and while there have been plenty of nights i've sat on the floor weeping and drinking, i've never thought of what it must have been like to be Patsy Cline. How fucking terrible was this woman's love life? How amazingly wounded do you think she had to be to pen some of these tunes, not to mention belt them out with such force? And how in the hell do we fail to acknowledge that?
"Thank you, Ms. Cline, for saying what i've been trying to say for so long. Your songs are the only thing that's gotten me through these terrible times. Thank you so much. Please keep singing. Sincerely, Shirley Collins of Fort Worth, Texas."
Why not "Jesus Christ, Ms. Cline, i am so sorry. I hope singing about your fucking soulsucking relationships has helped purge some of your suicidal tendencies regarding them, and thank you for pouring your barely beating heart out on wax for all of us sad suckers who can't sing. Please don't kill yourself. Sincerely, Shirley Collins of Fort Worth, Texas."
Jesus. Next time you're playing Spiritualized or something, don't talk about how good it is. Get in your car and start driving and don't stop until you've given Jason Pierce an enormous, crushing hug and a full syringe of the bad stuff. Someone needs to acknowledge the misery that causes such good music.
-j.
ps: fuck ska.