the island, part 3: west country dream.
This is the third in a song-by-song series about why I chose FULL FORCE GALESBURG by The Mountain Goats as the one CD I would take to a desert island.
The storm was on the horizon, and then it was here, and then any sense of paradise was obliterated. My cabin was weatherproofed, I thought, but you never know until the weather gives you what it has to offer. And now I know I was wrong.
If I believed in the gods, I would believe the gods were angry. The little shack is impossibly loud, the puddles on the floor are growing, the roof may blow off any minute.
It could be worse.
Securely on the table in the middle of the cabin, barely audible over the din, my CD boombox plays "West Country Dream", to remind me just how things could be worse.
I remember a ugly and claustrophobic hotel room in northern Michigan with identical ceiling tiles, and the nausea of being suddenly trapped with someone who has said something that changes the molecular composition of the air around you.
This is my story, not the story of "West Country Dream". But the desperate fright of "West Country Dream" helps me remember that being alone in a cabin, struggling to keep water out, has a simplicity and clarity of purpose. There becomes something soothing about the utter lack of emotional warfare in this situation. It is merely me against the implacable universe.
This, I can handle. This is just survival.
The narrative of "West Country Dream" is slight. Two verses of fragmentary details - no choruses - are all you get:
Sure as a surgeon, you slipped your hand into the door jamb
blood coursing through the air tonight, I know who I am
and I know who you are, who you were just an hour ago
static interference on the radio tonight, I know what I know
Quick as lightning, you brought your hand back inside
And you shut the door behind you, It's too hot out there tonight
Breath rising and falling, expansion contraction
Why'd you tell me this? Were you looking for my reaction?
The rest of the effect is the frantic and oft-hand muted guitar and the panic of the vocal delivery. The cumulative effect is blind panic.
Knowing who people are, this recurring theme. I know who you are, who you were just an hour ago. How somebody in the space of an hour can be a stranger to you, somebody who bears no relation to who you once knew despite carting around the same collection of hair, skin, bones, and organs.
And blood. Can't forget the blood. Coursing through the air tonight. A panic that is not what I have to face here, but a panic I must never forget.
Is the storm subsiding? The storm may be subsiding.
But the damage will take longer to clear.
The storm is going away. I am sure of it. I breathe, twice. Expansion, contraction.
And I think about other places I have been in my life, and how simple and soothing the task of clearing fallen branches from the beach will seem by comparison.
Wet feet, damaged home, ruined provisions and all, I am lucky to be here.
----------------
VIDEO #3 for people who don't give a shit about the Mountain Goats: Kenny Rogers, 1972. As somebody who only knows Rogers from THE GAMBLER, SIX-PACK, et al, I had no idea he was capable of a song this heart-breaking.
And for those who don't like either, a few songs live and interview from Superchunk's appearance at McCarren Pool this summer. It makes my heart soar to see Mac and Laura still pogoing.
The storm was on the horizon, and then it was here, and then any sense of paradise was obliterated. My cabin was weatherproofed, I thought, but you never know until the weather gives you what it has to offer. And now I know I was wrong.
If I believed in the gods, I would believe the gods were angry. The little shack is impossibly loud, the puddles on the floor are growing, the roof may blow off any minute.
It could be worse.
Securely on the table in the middle of the cabin, barely audible over the din, my CD boombox plays "West Country Dream", to remind me just how things could be worse.
I remember a ugly and claustrophobic hotel room in northern Michigan with identical ceiling tiles, and the nausea of being suddenly trapped with someone who has said something that changes the molecular composition of the air around you.
This is my story, not the story of "West Country Dream". But the desperate fright of "West Country Dream" helps me remember that being alone in a cabin, struggling to keep water out, has a simplicity and clarity of purpose. There becomes something soothing about the utter lack of emotional warfare in this situation. It is merely me against the implacable universe.
This, I can handle. This is just survival.
The narrative of "West Country Dream" is slight. Two verses of fragmentary details - no choruses - are all you get:
Sure as a surgeon, you slipped your hand into the door jamb
blood coursing through the air tonight, I know who I am
and I know who you are, who you were just an hour ago
static interference on the radio tonight, I know what I know
Quick as lightning, you brought your hand back inside
And you shut the door behind you, It's too hot out there tonight
Breath rising and falling, expansion contraction
Why'd you tell me this? Were you looking for my reaction?
The rest of the effect is the frantic and oft-hand muted guitar and the panic of the vocal delivery. The cumulative effect is blind panic.
Knowing who people are, this recurring theme. I know who you are, who you were just an hour ago. How somebody in the space of an hour can be a stranger to you, somebody who bears no relation to who you once knew despite carting around the same collection of hair, skin, bones, and organs.
And blood. Can't forget the blood. Coursing through the air tonight. A panic that is not what I have to face here, but a panic I must never forget.
Is the storm subsiding? The storm may be subsiding.
But the damage will take longer to clear.
The storm is going away. I am sure of it. I breathe, twice. Expansion, contraction.
And I think about other places I have been in my life, and how simple and soothing the task of clearing fallen branches from the beach will seem by comparison.
Wet feet, damaged home, ruined provisions and all, I am lucky to be here.
----------------
VIDEO #3 for people who don't give a shit about the Mountain Goats: Kenny Rogers, 1972. As somebody who only knows Rogers from THE GAMBLER, SIX-PACK, et al, I had no idea he was capable of a song this heart-breaking.
And for those who don't like either, a few songs live and interview from Superchunk's appearance at McCarren Pool this summer. It makes my heart soar to see Mac and Laura still pogoing.
Labels: the island, videos for people who don't give a shit about the Mountain Goats.
6 Comments:
If that's your only experience with Kenny, this is gonna, like, blow your mind, man.
ah, forgot that Kenny was involved with that song - came up earlier this year on NAP. Stupid post-viral rhinitis slowing down brain synapses.
But I'd never seen that video before. Were all the Smothers Brothers music performances that odd?
That was definitely before my time, so I couldn't say if they were all that odd. Though my memory of the variety shows that I did see is that they tended toward the odd. Even relatively tame things like the Donny and Marie show had some head scratchers.
wow. I had no idea kenny was in that song. I think if I were a guy I'd want that look. Reminds me of the ghost in the Ghost and Mrs. Muir look. Which I guess was that same time this song came out.
My next task is to figure out why The Mountain Goats are that damned good.
Oh, and speaking of being tested, let's see, the a.c. went out on the night before our three-day 'holiday.' Which never was going to be a holiday because of two children under age 5. Boys. Of course we've had terrible allergies for two weeks now already. And that bit of poison ivy. Working full time and in the process of creating a start-up meanwhile. Forge ahead with plans for moving 4 mattresses around, trimming a tree, attempting to eat in a regular establishment with the screaming 1 and a half year old, and cooking a meal. Some ahole tricks us into going to a Main Event. Each one of these tasks takes a whole day. Then the cell phone breaks mysteriously and what little amount of control we had gained at that point is gone.
Thank god for ice cream and cake. And VH1. We have survived our suburban tests which are way more complicated than I had ever thought I had observed. Off to watch the top 100 80s songs...
My next task is to figure out why The Mountain Goats are that damned good.
My take on it is that their attributes are pretty up-front, so if you don't get it, it may just not be your thing. People who habitually don't listen to lyrics or just can't deal with his voice are plentiful, as I've discovered. And I promise once this is done I'll avoid talking about them for a long, long time.
For what it's worth, I heard them a couple times, didn't think too much, borrowed ZOPILOTE MACHINE, noticed the song "Going to Georgia", put it on repeat play, went to sleep, and woke up a fan.
(Or maybe you mean that you know that they are that damned good and are just trying to figure out why. In which case, I dunno. Something in the water.)
I really enjoy Darnielle's directness. His voice doesn't bother me at all. What he does isn't easy, and he does it as well as anyone. I'd love to be able to do stuff like that. But I think we all know how frightening I am when I'm direct. Keep it going Doug, I don't comment much (time issues), but I am trolling our own blog and digging the MG posts.
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