Lyrics on the first song of an album that looked at 2015 and thought “so what”, this is the year it feels like everyone is listening to skewed love songs for the first time again. The next post below blew our minds into collective action just like I confuse romance for reality all over again, Therese Raquin for Madame Bovary all over again, Willy Mason for Dostievsky all over again. Home, for here, back and forth again – post for past for pre-the-fact that I’m listening comfortably to Silver Jews.
They’re an introduction to the end of a stream of conscience, dramatic and addressed to something different every time, always footnoted invisibly with a kind of begrudgingly inviting lyricism.
There is this bestowed sexuality of sounding oddly. You think that fate is fate because Conor Obe TOLD YOU SOrst. One doesn’t tell anyone about that, because one doesn’t want others to know, even the others who’ve listened to him and know that too. You let those ones know quietly and loudly, intermittently.
These lyrics aren’t Mitski, and there’s something about that that excites me. Then of course maybe that’s because she ends my sentences right now. There’s a connection between Conor Oberst, between “Happy”, between Silver Jews and the connection between the people who know these connections. It’s a kind of twist you don’t want to expect, but you love helping yourself come back to keep intwined with the reality of phantoms like Donald Trump, . It kind of nudges you like a grudgy, beautiful thing you often forget you want to be comfortably lifeless around: those band sounds, you know, all over again as if for the first time.
But come on, that’s so eloquently not the case. The people who know the connection aren’t these songs. Not these kind of songs. These kind of songs makes me stop banging on about the people, start banging on about the songs, like The Libertines and how they’re all at sea, and stuff, you know, all over again.
Comedy and knowledge in rhythm with one another; “life should mean a lot less than this”… yeah that kinda drives it home, drives me home: hello again.