33. The Rising - (Bruce Springsteen)

"Come on up for the rising / Come on up lay your hands in mine..."

This is the most deceptively brilliant song I've ever heard.  Musically, it's not Springsteen's strongest.  Not by a longshot.  But lyrically, it may very well be my personal favorite. And from a guy like me who was born and raised in the Garden State? Picking your favorite Springsteen song is like telling one of your kids that you love them more than the rest. So that's saying something.

Let's do today's entry in the form of a guessing game:

Can you figure out what's so special about the narrator of this song before the end of this post?

To help you out, the pertinent clues have been highlighted. And to keep things interesting -- I'll throw in a few lines of smarmy analysis, just to throw you off the scent.

(If you haven't already -- click the video above and give this song a listen BEFORE reading today's entry. Things will make a lot more sense if you have a working knowledge of the piece before reading).

Now then -- let's get to it!

Can't see nothin' in front of me 

Can't see nothin' coming up behind 

I make my way through this darkness 

I can't feel nothing but this chain that binds me

From the sound of it, our story starts off like a typical "lone protagonist sets out on a voyage of self discovery" tale, yes?  Judging from the imagery in the first stanza, the world is a dark and spooky place, and our narrator feels like he's inexplicably tied to some force greater than himself.


Darth Vader: "Yes (deep breaths) The Force is strong with this one..."

Fair enough. Back to the lyrics...

Lost track of how far I've gone 

How far I've gone, how high I've climbed 

On my back's a sixty pound stone 

On my shoulder a half mile line

By the looks of things, our wandering hero has been at this "voyage of self discovery" thing for a while. You can hear it from the grit in his voice: he's a workin' man with that all-American toughness to him -- so we'll forgive the rather generic examples of figurative language. "Heavy" baggage, "long" ropes, "high" climbing -- we've heard these things before. It's not earth-shatteringly original, but it's a Springsteen protagonist: blue collar through and through. So we'll give him the benefit of the doubt.

Moving on to the refrain...

Come on up for the rising 

Come on up, lay your hands in mine 

Come on up for the rising 

Come on up for the rising tonight

Well, so much for that solo voyage for self awareness, eh?  Hmm.  Springsteen's use of the second person pronoun ("your" hands) isn't just an indication that this guy isn't going on this journey alone, it's a flat-out invitation for the listener to come along for the ride.

The plot thickens...

Left the house this morning 

Bells ringing filled the air 

Wearin' the cross of my calling 

On wheels of fire I come rollin' down here

I know, I know -- so we're looking at just another Christian pilgrim chasing the American dream or some other nondescript message along those lines, right?  Not even close. The deeper meaning is simply too good to spoil just yet. But once you figure out what this song is actually about, the very act of re-reading these lines will give you chills. Seriously, it's that well-written.

Now for the freaky lyrics of the bridge:

Spirits above and behind me 

Faces gone, black eyes burnin' bright 

May their precious blood forever bind me 

Lord as I stand before your fiery light

Oooooo -- spooky! Spirits and ghosts flooding the skies! At this point, it's obvious that Springsteen's going a little heavy on "The Waste Land" imagery...


Ghost of T.S. Eliot: Seriously, Bruce -- enough already.

But the deeper meaning is just inches below the spectral surface. Didja' get it yet?  Only one verse to go ...

I see you Mary in the garden 

In the garden of a thousand sighs 

There's holy pictures of our children 

Dancin' in a sky filled with light 

May I feel your arms around me 

May I feel your blood mix with mine 

A dream of life comes to me 

Like a catfish dancin' on the end of the line

If you're keeping score at home, the narrator's story is a sad one since "Mary" is only a "dream of life" now that she's lost somewhere in this "garden of a thousand sighs." Translation: the girl is pushing up daisies.

Epiphany:

"Oh, so he's trying to put together the remains of his life after the death of a loved one!!!"

Gah -- you're ALMOST right. But the final imagery of the song actually reveals a story much deeper, broader, and more tragic than that. It's a classic twist ending -- M. Night Shyamalan style. Wait for it!!!

Sky of blackness and sorrow (a dream of life) 

Sky of love, sky of tears (a dream of life) 

Sky of glory and sadness (a dream of life) 

Sky of mercy, sky of fear (a dream of life)  

Sky of memory and shadow (a dream of life) 

Your burnin' wind fills my arms tonight 

Sky of longing and emptiness (a dream of life) 

Sky of fullness, sky of blessed life (a dream of life)

And this is where your brain explodes from the brilliance of this song. Ladies and gentlemen...

"The Rising."

Here's the recap, Sixth Sense style:

Song Lyric	Corresponding Image
Can't see nothin' in front of me  Can't see nothin' coming up behind  I make my way through this darkness  I can't feel nothing but this chain that binds me	A fireman ascending a rescue ladder into a smoke-filled building, tethered to a fire hose or a safety cable.
On my back's a sixty pound stone  On my shoulder a half mile line	The weight of the fireman's gear and oxygen tanks weighs roughly 60 pounds. Behind him, a safety cable (or fire hose) is anchored to the rescue vehicle
Come on up for the rising  Come on up, lay your hands in mine	The firefighter raises a wounded survivor from the wreckage of the ruined building. (Alternately: he implores fellow citizens to join in the relief efforts.)
Left the house this morning  Bells ringing filled the air  Wearin' the cross of my calling  On wheels of fire I come rollin' down here	The fire fighter left the fire station (affectionately, the "fire house") when the warning bells rang. The "cross of my calling" is not the mark of a Christian -- it's the crest of the fire company, on whose "wheels of fire" (a fire engine) he speeds to the site of the 9/11 attacks.
Spirits above and behind me  Faces gone, black eyes burnin' bright  May their precious blood forever bind me  Lord as I stand before your fiery light	Thousands are dead or wounded. Countless others are covered in heavy, black ash amid the rubble. The fiery light is both metaphorical of the afterlife and painfully literal, as the flames rise from the ruined buildings.
I see you Mary in the garden  In the garden of a thousand sighs  There's holy pictures of our children  Dancin' in a sky filled with light  May I feel your arms around me  May I feel your blood mix with mine  A dream of life comes to me  Like a catfish dancin' on the end of the line	In the days following the terror attacks of Sept. 11, 2001, New York City residents held candlelight vigils. Others posted a sea of homemade signs, photographs and posters and all across the city.  These "holy pictures of our children" with images from happier times prayed for the souls of loved ones and requested information regarding the whereabouts of those lost in the attacks -- "a garden of a thousand sighs."

*Are you viewing this article anywhere besides Blogger? Cool! Click here to check out the music video that's embedded in the original post.

31. And So It Goes - (Billy Joel)

"But still I feel I've said too much / my silence is my self defense."

Damned if ya' do, damned if ya' dont.

Ever find yourself heading home late at night with a police officer driving right down the road behind you? Inexplicably (and yet without fail) -- that old "Oh my God, what have I done wrong?" instinct kicks in, and you find yourself overcorrecting at every turn.
Such is the story of the Piano Man in this, arguably one of the few truly great songs on his (regrettably) uneven "Greatest Hits: Volume 3" collection.

By way of an extended metaphor of every heart being a series of rooms in which people build themselves an inner sanctum while past lovers come and go, Billy Joel paints for us a picture of a guy -- let's call him "Billy" -- who's finding it hard to figure out just how far to let somebody in when it comes to romance. Don't believe me? Just ask him:

"In every heart, there is a room 

A sanctuary safe and strong 

To heal the wounds of lovers past 

Until a new one comes along."

Damn -- this guy's puttin' up some serious walls.

But really, who can blame him? When you've had as many ex-wives and alimony payments as The Entertainer, it's only natural to keep those Uptown Girls at something of an arm's distance whilst you sing us a song and drown your sorrows in a bottle of red (...a bottle of white).

(Yup, that's four -- count 'em, FOUR -- Billy Joel jokes in one sentence. Boo ya).


Let's be honest here: if you got dumped by *THIS*? You'd drink, too.
Boozy meanderings not withstanding -- the gist of the piece rings loud and clear: Billy doesn't quite know what to do or say when those familiar feelings of love start bubbling right back on up to the surface, and so he chooses to keep his mouth shut altogether. For (in his own words) "my silence is my self defense."

Not the worst play in the world -- well, until we get to this fun little wrinkle right here:

But if my silence made you leave... 

Then *that* would be my worst mistake."

Oh snap.
So *talking* didn't get the job done, but now poor old Billy boy is right back on the outside looking in simply because he WASN'T talking? Hey, that sounds an awful lot like...

"He who hesitates is lost."- Joseph Addison, "Cato" (1712)
Moral of the story?

While there's certainly merit to letting your heart "heal the wounds of lovers past / until a new one comes along," it looks as if Billy Joel's doleful ballad is a pretty solid example that there's also something to be said for striking while the iron's hot.

Or as that unrepentant ass clown* Oliver Cromwell once said:

"Not ONLY strike while the iron is hot... but make it hot by striking!"

*(re: "unrepentant ass clown" -- Look, the guy killed my ancestors by the thousands. Clearly, name-calling is well within the realm of appropriate recourse).

30. Why I Am - (The Dave Matthews Band)

"Heaven or hell, I'm goin' there with the GrooGrux King."
The elegy is one of the oldest and most widely accessible forms in all of poetry. What's an elegy, you ask? Simply put, an elegy is a poem of loss and remembrance -- and one that typically begins with a mood of lamentation before shifting toward one of consolation.

(In other words, it's an "I miss you" poem -- usually addressed to a deceased loved one -- which starts off sad and ends up hopeful).

The Dave Matthews Band's "Why I Am" is a fantastic contemporary example of precisely such a poem. In it, the band is waxing philosophical on old times and dedicating their verse to their recently departed saxophone player, the late, great LeRoi Moore:



Like any good elegy, "Why I Am" starts off by looking backwards and recalling a bunch of memories both happy and sad from yesteryear. To that end, it's no surprise that we encounter a whole bunch of verbs that are presented in the past tense: Dave sings about where he "grew" from and where he "was," then he recalls some of the crazy adventures (and mind-altering escapades) that brought him to this particular place and time.

As he retraces his nostalgic sojourns on the chemical frontier, Matthews talks about a "ghost" and makes repeated references to a mysterious "GrooGrux King."

"King of men? It makes no sense."

You're not kidding, Dave. But speaking of "makes no sense" -- just *what*, exactly, is a "GrooGrux King" anyhow?

According to DMB drummer Carter Beauford, "GrooGrux" was the band's made-up word to describe the overall vibe and energy of their sound. And since their late, great, saxophonist LeRoi Moore was at the epicenter of the "GrooGrux" vibe -- it seemed only natural to honor him with the title of "GrooGrux King."


"You're the Banana King, Charlieeeeeeeeeeeeeeee..."

Anyhow --

As the elegy unfolds, Dave recalls the good times he's shared with the newly-dubbed GrooGrux King, and proceeds to inform his listeners that even though the King's passing "makes no sense," he remains convinced that he'll see the big guy once more when all is said and done. Here, take a look:

"And when my story ends it's gonna' end with him
Heaven or hell, I'm goin' there with the GrooGrux King"

No longer is Dave simply mourning the loss of his storied bandmate. Instead? We gradually observe his shift towards a mindset of quietude and comfort. This is where the elegy really shines, as he stays true to the elegiac form by moving from lamentation to consolation, ultimately ending his refrain with the repeated chorus of:

"Don't cry baby, don't cry."

Say -- that's kinda' nice.

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29. Breathe (2 a.m.) - (Anna Nalick)

"Life's like an hourglass / glued to the table."

Fun fact: Anna Nalick, like, totally has a thing for similes.

(Similes -- for a quick refresher -- are comparisons using the words "like" or "as." To dust off an old joke -- one might even say they're "like" metaphors.)


See what he did there?

Similes (and metaphors) are a pretty handy tool* for songwriting, too. Since words are at a premium in your average pop ballad, you've really got to put some extra effort in so as to make sure that every last syllable on the page is actually being used to paint the kind of picture** you want your audience to receive. This is where stuff like similes (and metaphors, allusions, etc.) are worth their weight in gold*** -- because they allow an artist to use an existing image (or two, or ten) in order to pack an otherwise tiny track with some really big, broad imagery to get the listener's wheels a-spinnin'.****

(Meta-joke/ frame of reference: check out all of the handy examples of figurative language we used in the last paragraph alone!)

* Handy tool = likens an abstract technique to a physical instrument
** Paint the kind of picture = recalls an artist crafting a visual image
*** Worth their weight in gold = monetary image to suggest richness, value
**** Wheels a-spinnin' = implies momentum, forward-moving thought

As you can see, figurative language is a great way to draw on existing conventions, connotations, and imagery in order to get a really big message across in what might otherwise appear to be a relatively small window of opportunity. Heck, you might even call metaphors "bouillon cubes of brilliance."


Just add water poetry and let the truth soup flow!

Thanks to a steady diet of figurative language, one sees quickly why Anna Nalick's chart-topping "Breathe (2 a.m.)" is absolutely brimming with truth bouillons. Nalick tackles some pretty heavy life issues (unplanned pregnancy, abortion, alcoholism -- you name it). But thanks to the ever-present similes and metaphors? Our balladeer never actually has to come right out and address any one of these particularly loaded issues by name.

Instead, she employs some slick figurative language to draw on existing imagery and offer up repeated images of doubt, confusion, and an almost soul-crushing determinism. And in the end? Her song is all the more thought-provoking accordingly.

Here's a quick recap of the figurative language we encounter:

"And you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable."

"There's a light at the end of this tunnel..."

"I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd."

"These words are my diary screaming out loud."

(and my personal favorite)

"Life's like an hourglass glued to the table."

Ahh, so THAT's why Dorothy didn't just flip that sucker upside down when time started to run out.

(... the more you know... )

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28. Hear You Me - (Jimmy Eat World)

"May angels lead you in."

"Hear You Me" isn't exactly a phrase we tend to use all that often in the modern vernacular. After all, it's kinda' Yoda-esque to rearrange words in that particular fashion. "Hear YOU Me?" Wouldn't that be ten times easier to understand if it just said "listen to me" (where the sentence remains imperative and the word "you" is implied thanks to the more active verb)?

Like I said -- kind of unwieldy for everyday conversation.


"What I say what? Now hear you me, Mr. Smarty Pants..."

Funny thing is --

As languages evolve over generations and centuries, certain words, phrases, spellings, and semantic conventions typically end up being standardized or simplified in order to help the spoken and written word keep up with the times. "Colours" become "colors." "Inflammable" becomes "flammable." And longer, more complicated idioms typically end up finding themselves chopped, cropped, and condensed in order to make themselves easier to remember to the common ear.

For example:


"All that gliSters is not gold."
- Prince of Morocco The Merchant of Venice, II.vii

"Glister?" Who in the blue hell even knows what a "glister" is these days, anyhow? And thus we end up with a more modern approximation, like so:


Fun fact/ gratuitous pot-shot: "Glitter" was hardly gold OR platinum for that matter. Seriously, this album is terrible.

But anyway --

Words and phrases can change over time. And that means that even while we're speaking quote-unquote "English" today, the language that we take for granted as "standard" is actually a heckuva' lot different from the English that was spoken by our grandparents, our great grandparents, and the countless generations that preceded them all the way back to antiquity.

"Hear You Me" is precisely the type of clunky old phrase that time tends to erase. It basically means "listen up." But to the modern ear? It's almost as if the phrase is missing a word or two. That said -- waaaay back in the heyday of William Shakespeare? This kind of thing would actually sound quite commonplace. After all, when 'ish got real (i.e. -- like, for example, when a bunch of people ended up dead all at once) they were often known to start talking all super-formal and stuff. Kinda' like this:

"Good-night, sweet prince;
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!"
- Horatio Hamlet, V.ii.

Wait a minute -- singing to dead folks in sentences that could probably benefit from an extra noun of direct address?

Oh yeah. I've heard that one before:

"May angels lead you in
Hear you me, my friends
On a sleepless road the sleepless go
May angels lead you in."

The syntax is tricky. But the message is clear: "Hey man, I really miss you. And I hope you get to heaven."

Betcha' Shakespeare WISHES he'd thought of that!

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27. Into the Mystic - (Van Morrison)

"Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic"*

(spoiler: Yes, I realize that the above video is, in fact, Jakob Dylan and very much *not* the aforementioned Van Morrison. But Van is kind of ornery when it comes to letting his material be shared across los intrawebz -- hence the gratuitous Orlando Bloom video and accompanying Wallflowers soundtrack).

Now then...

Van Morrison has a total man crush on William Butler Yeats. He'll deny it, mind you -- but his music tells another tale entirely. Here's Morrison's own half-hearted attempt to distance himself from Ben Bulben's poet laureate, excerpeted from an old Rolling Stone article:


"[Critics would listen to my songs and say] this is sort of Yeatsian,’ and I’d go ‘Really? I didn’t know. I’d never read him.’ So I’d go out and get Yeats and see, but I hadn’t read him before the article.

(Ring ring... Um, Mr. Morrison? I have your bluff on line one.)

Gee, that's strange. For a guy who knows nothing about Yeats' writings, Van The Man "conveniently" found himself cribbing a boatload of the guy's material. Heck, just look at these Van Morrison record titles:

• Astral Weeks (1968)
• Moondance (1970)
• Beautiful Vision (1982)
• Cuchulain (2001)
• Magic Time (2005)

And then check out these Yeats writings from a full half-century prior:

• A Vision -- which deals extensively with which Yeats calls "astral" -- or star-like -- matters (1925)
• "The Phases of the Moon" (1919)
• Cuchulain's Fight with the Sea (1925)
• "Magic: An Essay" (1903)

But why stop there? Here's a verse from Morrison's 1983 song, "Rave On, John Donne" in which the songwriter comes mighty close to flat-out asking "that-guy-I-swear-I-never-read!" out on a man-date. Take a look:

"Rave on, let a man come out of Ireland
Rave on, on Mr. Yeats,
Rave on down through the Holy Rosey Cross
Rave on down through theosophy, and the Golden Dawn
Rave on through the writing of 'A Vision'
Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on, Rave on"

Oooh SNAP!


Yeah, you know what you did.

Ok, it's settled: Van Morrison pretty much made a career as a wholesale ripoff of his countryman and poetic forbear. But Morrison's BIGGEST Yeats ripoff of all time? None other than the songwriter’s classic 1970 hit “Into The Mystic.

As Morrison begins his 1970 track, he sets the stage for a song that takes place in a liminal threshold between two realms, singing:

“We were born before the wind / Also younger than the sun”

Just a simple throwaway line, right? Not on your life. We already know that Van Morrison is certainly not above cribbing from Yeats' source material. So let's see how these lines fit into the Yeats canon:


No, no, no -- not *that* Cannon.

"Into the Mystic" tells the story of two lovers who were born “before the wind" but "also younger than the sun." Conveniently (read: plagiarist-ically?) these two symbols also just so happen to rather neatly coincide with two actual events in the life of one W.B. Yeats.

First up: "born before the wind" -- in 1899, Yeats put himself on the map of literary giants with the publication of a collection of poems titled The Wind Among The Reeds. What were the poems about, you ask? Why what else besides all sorts of crazy and other-worldly themes like mist, mysticism, and matters of the occult.

(Hey wait a second here...)

Next up: "younger than the sun" -- true story: Yeats was obsessed with an impressive array of fringe religious sects in his lifetime (heh heh, "sects") -- the most noteworthy of which just so happened to be a quasi-cult known as The Order of The Golden Dawn. The group's philosophy? A full-tilt focus on worshipping (wait for it) the SUN, and a pretty clear-cut obsession with the unending circle of birth and death.

("Born before the..." ooooh, gotcha.)

How fitting that a song about going "Into the Mystic" is set smack-dab "before the wind" and "the sun," eh?

In the lines that follow, Morrison takes his Yeats influence a step further by lifting entire lines directly from Yeats' poetry (the NERVE of that guy!). Case in point: check out Yeats’ “Crazy Jane and the Bishop,” where the poet's heroine talks about how she dreams of a day when she can “wander out into the night.” And then Yeats' very next poem in the sequence (“Crazy Jane Reproved”), where as a blustery Bishop shoots Jane down, saying “I care not what the sailors say."

But in "Into the Mystic," Van turns the tables --

"Hark, now hear the sailors’ cry!
Smell the sea and feel the sky
Let your soul and spirit fly
Into the mystic"

Hey! That almost sounds like Van put Yeats' thing down, flipped it, and reversed it.


Missy Elliot: ".ti esrever dna pilf ,nwod gniht ym tup I"

Actually, the whole "flip it and reverse it" trick is a move stolen from right of Yeats' playbook, too -- since the man spent pages and pages of his life's work all but consumed by the image of the twisting gyres. Since Yeats' was something of a nutjob, however, his philosophy on the matter can get a bit convoluted -- so perhaps we'll wrap this entry up with a handy visual aid before segueing into our closing remarks:


Exhibit A: The gyre. See the twisting? Literally "it puts a thing down, then flips it and reverses it."
In Yeats' estimation, gyres were the ultimate symbol of an interpenetrating universe. He loved the notion of sunsets, twilights, sunrises, moonrises, and foggy periods of uncertainty where one realm gradually gave way to the next. To that end, a huge chunk of his poetry and philosophical writings were dedicated precisely to these "mystic" portals between two realms where fantasy and reality collided and anything was possible.

As Yeats saw things: with all of this liminal fluxuation twisting and unfolding around us, nobody can ever really quite tell you for sure if they are actually sleeping or awake in a given moment. Really, all we're doing is floating "into the mystic."

For Yeats, this was the stuff that dreams (and poems) were made of.

You might even call it "Magic Time."
Figures.

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26. Graceland - (Paul Simon)

"Losing love is like a window in your heart."
Earlier this week, the kind folks over at Spin Magazine compiled a list of what they believe to be the top 125 albums ever to have been released since their little publication debuted waaaaay back in 1985. Noticeably (and dare I say "egregiously") absent from that list? Paul Simon's Graceland (1986).

(Angry face).



SPOILER ALERT: Dynamite comes in small packages.
DOUBLE SPOILER ALERT: Expect a good number of "Paul Simon is short" jokes to follow accordingly.

How in the blue hell Spin hopes to be taken seriously after leaving such a monumental album off of its "best of" countdown is anybody's guess. Perhaps it wasn't tall enough to reach the minimum height requirement of their list?

(short joke #1).

But all kidding aside -- Spin's oversight is glaring, and it seems as if they're virtually alone in ignoring just how awesome Graceland really is. Time magazine loves the thing. Paul Simon called it the best work of his entire career. Fellow musicians emulate it to this day (I'm looking at YOU, Jason Mraz). Heck, even His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI has listed this little-album-that-could (short joke #2) among his own personal ten best pop albums of all time.

That's right: Paul Simon got a shout out from THE FREAKIN' POPE. How's that for high praise? The man is infallible!


Little-known fact: The Pope also has the ability to shoot evil Force lightning from out of his fingertips. I kid you not.

So for today's entry, howzabout we tackle "Graceland" and show those self-important hipsters from Spin just what they're missing?

Reason #1 Why "Graceland" is Certifiably Awesome: Figurative language!

"Figurative language" is pretty much the blanket term that we English dorks like to kick around when talking about writing that comes pre-packed with a boatload of imagery. Similes, metaphors, allusions -- you name it. Figurative language is the poet's go-to tool for "heavy lifting," as it allows an author to cram a pretty massive meaning (and some pretty big ideas) into what might otherwise seem like a relatively small amount of space.

We'll tackle these things immediately. But the key point to remember is that "Graceland" is absolutely brimming with the stuff.


Reason #2 Why "Graceland" is Certifiably Awesome: Similes.

Metaphors are comparisons that DON'T use the words "like" or "as." And similes are comparisons that do. Or, if you wanted to get cheeky -- one might even say that "similes are like metaphors" (see what I did there?).

Regardless, "Graceland" is full of both. Here's two killer similes to start us off:

"Mississippi Delta was shinin' like a national guitar."

Exhibit A: The Mississippi Delta -- (note: "shinin' like a national guitar" optional)
From the opening notes of the song, the pint-sized Paul Simon does a tremendous job of linking real, physical places with figurative and musical images. To that end, the "national guitar" that is so rich and storied in its own musical legacy (southern jazz, blues, and rock music) instantly becomes giant-sized as it seems to "shin[e]" amid the highways and rivers that criss-cross this basin of American culture.

Suddenly, real places take on near-mythic qualities. Open roads morph into oversized musical instruments. Graceland becomes Mecca and the Holy City all rolled into one. And our undersized-singer finds himself "falling, flying, [and] tumbling in turmoil" alongside "ghosts and empty sockets" on a quest to discover the deeper spiritual truths that lie within.


Animated Johnny Cash Coyote: "I'm your spirit guide, Homer."
But our pint-sized songwriter is just getting started. And the awesome similes continue throughout the song:

"Losing love is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everyone can feel the wind blow."

A "window in your heart," you say?


Ok, ok -- so Paul Simon is totally Jewish. Still, the "window in your heart" imagery is kinda' unavoidably spiritual, now that we look at it...

Christian or Jew, all this talk of "a window in your heart" seems to suggest a that our traveling troubadour is embarking on a much broader and more weighty voyage than a mere road trip to that oft-discussed Elvis Presley uber-mansion. And in the metaphorical imagery that follows, Paul Simon bears precisely such an explanation out to its logical end.


Reason #3 Why "Graceland" is Certifiably Awesome: The Grand Allusion (see what I did there?).

Since we were talking about "spiritual journeys," things can get heavy in a hurry -- and so metaphors are a must. As such, let's start with the most obvious, which we hear sung time and again throughout the song:

"For reasons I cannot explain
There's a part of me that longs to see Graceland"

Hmm -- if I'm hearing him right, it sounds like Paul Simon keeps finding himself drawn to seek a mythical "Land" of "Grace." But WHY? Who knows. Though I've gotta' say -- I really don't think we're just talking about Memphis, Tennessee anymore, Toto. And this is getting downright heavenly, now that you mention it.

The riddle goes even deeper just a few lines later:

"Maybe I have reason to believe
We all will be received in Graceland"

Now sure, Graceland could just be the former residence of The King of Rock and Roll. But when people start singing about how they have this deep and abiding sense that "poor boys, and pilgrims, and families... will be received" in this safe haven -- one can't help but wonder if our knee-high-balladeer isn't *only* singing about the brick-and-mortar resting place of one Elvis Presley.

In fact, this sounds an awful lot like...


(*Actual Heaven may vary. Jewish/Protestant/Buddhist/Muslim/etc. Heaven available upon request. See store for details)
Long story short?

"Graceland" isn't merely a tune about walkin' in Memphis. Instead, Paul Simon's musical pilgrimage takes him not only through the cradle of American rock & roll, but down into the very depths of his soul as a singer, songwriter. and a person of faith -- however allusive that faith may be.

Moral of the story:

Paul Simon is one tiny dude, but he can write pop music with the best of them. And in leaving Graceland off of their best albums of the past 25 years list? Spin Magazine missed the boat...

BIG time.

(Sorry, I couldn't resist)

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25. Why Can't I? - (Liz Phair)

"Something's growing out of this that we can't control / baby I am dying."

I've noticed that this blog is in some serious need of "girl power," and so today I thought we'd tackle one of the feistiest femme fatales ever to have picked up a six-string guitar. My dear readers (both of you), say hello to...


Liz Freakin' Phair: Best. Ever.
Well okay, maybe not "ever" -- but she's definitely towards the top of the list, and inarguably one of the most outspoken female voices in the history of modern music (no offense to Stevie Nicks and the rest). Seriously, her strident Exit in Guyville (1993) remains one of the most groundbreaking albums of all time -- and her gender-defying, convention-shattering swagger has spawned countless scores of imitators in the seventeen years since.

('sup, Katy Perry?).

For today's post, we're tackling "Why Can't I?" -- the biggest (radio-friendly) hit of Liz's career, and a song that has gone on to become a veritable staple of the Phair songbook and lovestruck movie montage cliches ever since. Has she written *better* and more thematically nuanced stuff than this? No question. But try as she might, this song is just so darned popular that it's pretty much become her calling card.

Perhaps this is no surprise, however, as the story Phair sings about here is as touching (trite?) as it is timeless:

Girl meets boy. Girl digs boy. Only problem? Both boy and girl have previously existing romantic entanglements (how's THAT for a "Bad Romance?"). Yet in spite of themselves, both boy and girl are increasingly powerless to resist the fickle finger of fate. As Phair says: "it's just like [they] were meant to be."

Being of a literary bent, one might even call these two puppy lovers "star cross'd."

(You totally know what's coming next, don't you?)

Romeo & Juliet (1597)- William Shakespeare
(Bingo)

Like Liz Phair's "Why Can't I?", Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet is arguably the single work in the artist's long and storied career that is most widely accessible to a casual audience. Has he written *better* stuff? And *deeper* stuff? Most definitely ('sup, Hamlet?) -- but the sheer enormity of this particular piece is just so freakin' ubiquitous that it has become virtually impossible to discuss the guy without paying at least some due degree of attention to that which has become his veritable calling card.

Fair enough. So here's the PG-version of the plot:

Romeo & Juliet: A tale of two "star cross'd lovers" from rival families who meet, fall in love, and ultimately take their own lives when the weight of the world threatens to destroy their forbidden bond (a.k.a - the prototypical "Bad Romance"). Not coincidentally, both Romeo and Juliet just so happen to meet by chance, and are "kinda-sorta' seeing other people" when they first "kinda-sorta" get together.

Or, as Liz Phair might say:

"Holding hands with you when we're out at night
You've got a girlfriend, you say it isn't right...
And I've got someone waiting, too."

Now sure, this might sound like simple puppy-love, "kid" stuff. But for those of us who wanna' venture a little deeper into the "adult" themes of this little story, Romeo & Juliet actually deals extensively with some seriously "mature" subject matter -- namely, issues of sex and death. Throughout the play, Shakespeare treats both events as transcendant equals, and puns on the Elizabethan notion that "to die" actually meant "to orgasm" (ahh, so THAT's what Cutting Crew meant when they sang "I just died in your arms tonight"). Far-fetched, you say? Hogwash -- it's right there in the text:

• The Capulet boy "worms" his way into the Montague girl's "tomb" (hey wait a second...)
• Romeo's "dagger" (wink!) penetrates Juliet's "sheath" (word origin of "sheath?" SCANDALOUS! Google it).
• And within mere hours of gettin' it on? The lovers (quite literally) end up "dying" in one another's arms.

Vulgar and obscure though it certainly may seem, it appears as if our girl Liz Phair is actually quite hip to this whole "sex & death" riddle. Heck, it's right there in her song, too. As she sings:

"Here we go, we're at the beginning
We havent f***ed yet, but my head's spinning
...
Something's growing out of this that we can't control
Baby I am dying."

Classy, Liz. Real classy.
But still, Shakespeare himself would agree that her point is well-taken:

You're not just "dying" to be WITH someone else, you're *dying* unto yourself by SURRENDERING your body/heart/mind/etc. on over to another person. You can't fight it. You can't control it. And in the end? You can't really do all that much to change it, either.


Joey Lawrence: Talk about your tales of "WHOA."
Hmm... maybe *that's* why Liz Phair's been having all of those breathing problems.

For her sake, here's hoping that she gets that stuff sorted out before Act V.

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24. Lovers In Japan - (Coldplay)

"I have no doubt / One day the sun'll come out."

In our last entry, we dove headlong into the melancholy end of the swimming pool and sized up F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby and the Counting Crows "A Murder of One." The moral of those stories? Life is hard and far too often wasted, so quit wasting yours watching other people waste theirs.

(Perhaps we should say "waste" one more time. Ahh, that's better).

In the interest of fairness, I thought it only fitting that we spend today's entry tackling a track that seems to be something of a thematic opposite to the stuff we covered in our last go-round. True, life may indeed be long and hard (that's what she said?) -- but this isn't anything to get all worked up over.*

(*Ending sentences with prepositions, however...)

But as far as Coldplay is concerned, the simple fact of the matter is that while yes, it might well be raining today -- one day the sun WILL come out, ya' know. And so sets the stage for our ensuing discussion on the perpetual optimism of this man:


Chris Martin: Quite possibly a space alien.

The Great Gatsby and "A Murder of One" tackled some pretty heavy thematic elements. Sex, death, wasted potential -- the whole nine. But literature and pop music needn't always be so gosh-darned Debbie Downer in order to rise to the level of certifiably awesome. In fact, Chris Martin and his Coldplay brethren have actually carved out a pretty respectable niche in the world of rock and roll by singing songs that are anything BUT depressing. True, they do lovez themz some ballads -- but just about every single track that Coldplay has ever penned typically ends up finding some small glimmer of hope in even the saddest and strangest of situations.

Sample lyrics include:

"When you try your best, but you don't succeed... I will try to fix you." (Fix You)
"Nobody said it was easy." (The Scientist)
"I don't wanna' follow Death and all of his friends." (Death And All His Friends)
"Death will never conquer us." (Death Will Never Conquer)
"Everything's not lost." (Everything's Not Lost)

Long story short:


Chris Martin and company are "glass half full" kinda guys.

*(Bonus fun fact: Coldplay actually released a B-side track called "Glass of Water" in 2008. Neat, huh?)

But anyway...

The band's perpetual optimism is made particularly evident in their 2008 track, "Lovers In Japan" -- a plucky, uptempo breeze that sails through the riddles of life while buoyed by an underlying belief that things usually end up working out for the best in the end. As Chris Martin begins:

"Lovers
Keep on the road you're on.
Runners
Until the race is run.
Soldiers
You've got to soldier on."

(Toldja' they were optimists)

True, individual patches of stuff might not always make sense along the way (Martin admits: "sometimes / even the right is wrong"). But this fact is neither anything new nor indeed cause for concern. Heck, Shakespeare's Hamlet famously grappled with precisely the same questions of relativism and self-doubt some 400 years earlier when he said:


"'Tis nothing either good nor bad, but thinking makes it so"
(Act II, scene ii).

In short: you can waste a whole lotta' time thinking yourself into or out of just about anything. But in the bigger picture of life? There's really no point in allowing yourself get hung up in such mental gymnastics, especially since Coldplay is pretty convinced that things will turn out alright in the end. Martin says as much right there in the chorus:

"I have no doubt
One day the sun'll come out."

And then later in the song...

"But I have no doubt
One day we'll work it out."

Translation: "Don't Panic" (hey look -- another Coldplay song title)! Or as Max Ehrmann might say:


"And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."
- Max Ehrmann, "Desiderata" (1952)

Coldplay's bottom line?

No point in stressing about the here and now -- simply trust that there is, in fact, a bigger plan in place, then stay the course while letting life unfold around you as it always has. After all, the glass is half full, and thus there should be "no doubt / [that] one day we'll work it out."


"Problem Play?" More like "problem solved."

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23. A Murder of One - (The Counting Crows)

"You don't wanna' waste your life, baby..."

Last week, I was talking with a friend of mine who teaches high school English. He also just so happens to be something of a huge nerd for music. Needless to say, we've got more than a lot in common -- and so I was delighted to wax philosophical on the subject of F. Scott Fitzgerald and the awesomeness that is the Counting Crows.

Particularly pertinent example of awesomeness? The Counting Crows critically underrated "A Murder of One"

How awesome is this song? Just look at the title. Right off the bat, we've got ourselves an archaic word AND a double meaning. It's like Christmas come early! Check it out:

"A murder" (translation: flock) "of one" (read: singular crow)

VS.

"A murder of one" (as in, "the death of a singular person"-- ahh... but *WHO?*).

Presumably, the "singular person" who's dying here is the girl toward whom the song is addressed -- or so we're lead to believe. Basically, the gal -- let's call her "Maria" -- is trapped in a dead-end relationship with a guy who's a total zero (Adam Duritz asks: "are you happy when you're sleepin?" Survey says: "nope").

In true hopeless romantic fashion, the ever introspective Duritz implores the girl to break things off with her boy-toy. Doleful and dejected as ever, our dreadlocked balladeer even takes to playing songs outside of her window, Say Anything style. There, he pours his heart out and urges her to "change, change, change" (after all, "you don't wanna' waste your life, baby," now do you?).


Clever -- but John Cusack totally beat you to the punch.

The irony here, of course, is that our protagonist is wasting *his* time pining after someone who simply is in no place to reciprocate. Rather than living his own life, the dude is just moping from the sidelines as he watches the lives of others unfold around him. And while urging them to "change, change, change" is all well and good, it seems our narrator would be well-served to take his own advice and actually -- ya' know -- *do something* with his own life besides whining about how screwed up the lives of others might be.

Because if you don't start living, you might as well start dying. And to that end, maybe the "murder of one" is actually a self-referential and ironic commentary on the fate of our unknowing narrator himself.

Say, I've heard that one before...

The Great Gatsby (1925)
- F. Scott Fitzgerald

Though widely dismissed as a trivial relic of a bygone era at the time of its original publication, Fitzgerald's Gatsby has gone on to achieve near boundless acclaim in the 80-plus years since, arguably to the point where it has become a regular fixture among most informed discussions of "The Great American Novel" if there ever was one. It's heartbreaking. Universal. And timeless.

Here's the Cliff's Notes:

A plucky young narrator (Nick Carraway) relocates to the old-money end of New York and finds himself simultaneously fascinated and disgusted by the high society life of excess of a man named Jay Gatsby and his socialite ilk. In Nick's eyes, Gatsby is the living embodiment of everything that's wrong with West Egg: the parties, the booze, the lies, the revelry, the love-without-sex, the sex-without-love -- you name it. For all of its gilded sheen and promise, the place turns out to be nothing more than a moral cesspool. Man, what a friggin' waste of life.


Adam Duritz: "You don't wanna' waste your life now, darlin'..."

Fun fact: speaking of "wasted" lives, F. Scott Fitzgerald was an American expat living in Paris at the time of Gatsby's publication in 1924. And like most of the Lost Generation, he was equal parts disillusioned with the U.S. and enamored of French culture of the time. So what does this have to do with "waste?"

Check out the French translation of the phrase "the waste."

"je gaspiller"

And the name of Fitzgerald's protagonist?

Jay Gatsby.
This guy = genius.

But in spite of the wasted life, wealth, and debauchery (or perhaps because of it), Nick encounters two clearly identifiable (though equally intangible) symbols that yes, gosh darnit -- there really *is* some good to be had in this crazy, crazy world.

The object of Gatsby's desires: An elusive green light that shines waaaaay off in the misty horizon, and a thoroughly unattainable girl-next-door named Daisy, who (surprise, surprise!) is trapped in a loveless relationship just outside of his very own window.

Stop me if you've heard this one before...

Daisy (like Maria) is smack-dab in the middle of a crappy relationship. Sure, she and her hubby run in the same social circles, but emotionally? They're worlds apart -- to the point where they literally sit at the same table and barely even manage to hold a simple conversation. And Daisy's beau doesn't just take her for granted and "tell her when she's wrong" (though he does plenty of that, too) -- he's a flat-out adulterer, to boot.

Enter Adam Duritz -- err, I mean -- Jay Gatsby: the sensitive outsider with a far-off dream and a heart of gold. It's obvious -- he's a better match for Daisy and they both know it, so Gatsby spends the better part of the novel throwing elaborate parties while trying to convince the poor girl to ditch her lesser-half. Gatsby's goal? Get Daisy to leave her old life behind to sail off with him towards that far-off green light and new world of promise that it represents.

Whoah -- "a glowing light" that inspires you to change? Let's get back to the Counting Crows again, for a second:

"I walk along these hillsides / In the summer 'neath the sunshine
I am feathered by the moonlight...Change, change, change!"

Dang.

First we've got two stories of dudes crushing on a girl who's stuck in a dead-end relationship. And now both protagonists are looking to ethereal, far-off sources of light to help them get their heads straight. Sounds like Gatsby and Duritz have a heckuvalot in common, eh?

More than you know.

Tell you what: let's wrap this entry up by looking at an excerpt from each of the pieces we've discussed. Keep an eye out for the tone and imagery throughout, and I think you'll see just how kindred the spirits of Mr. Duritz and Mr. Gatsby really are. We'll start with some Gatsby:

"This is a valley of ashes - a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of gray cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-gray men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight."

Ok -- so we've got: smoke, hills, impenetrable cloudiness, and an inability to see beyond the horizon and express what really needs to be said. Still with me? Good. And now, some Counting Crows to bring us home:

"Well I dreamt I saw you walking,
Up a hillside in the snow
Casting shadows on the winter sky,
As you stood there, counting crows

One for sorrow, two for joy,
Three for girls, and four for boys,
Five for silver, six for gold,
Seven for a secret, never to be told

There's a bird that nests inside you,
Sleeping underneath your skin
Yeah, when you open up your wings to speak,
I wish you'd let me in."

Hey -- *I* see what they did there.

Heartbreaking. Universal. And timeless.

(Toldja' the Counting Crows were awesome).

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22. Laughing With - (Regina Spektor)

"No one's laughing at God in a hospital / No one laughs at God in a war."

I don't think one has to be a particularly religious person to agree that if -- in fact, there *is* a God -- then The Almighty probably has a funny sense of humor. After all, this world is full of all sorts of crazy stuff that just doesn't quite make any logical sense -- almost to the point where it seems, at times, that certain things have been specifically designed for the sole purpose of making people laugh.

Take, for example...

Exibit A: The Duck-Billed Platypus
But when we're not chuckling from the sidelines at waddling punchlines, humans tend to do a whole lot of laughing at other things, too. Stuff like random coincidences, happenstance meetings, other people's misfortunes (e.g. "fat man fall down go boom"), and the rest of the crazy curveballs that life tends to throw our way at any given time.

And every now and again? We can't help but find ourselves laughing at God Himself ("Herself?" "Itself?") -- which is precisely where Regina Spektor's song picks up. I mean seriously -- how can you *not* laugh at God from time to time, especially in those moments where life makes virtually ZERO sence and yet God is (as she says):

"Presented like a genie who does magic like Houdini /
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus"

After all: when what we see unfolding in front of us is just so silly and senseless at times, it can seem kind of far-fetched to surrender to the notion of some bigger, broader, higher organizing power who's supposedly floating out there above the clouds and making sense of this crazy mess that we call life.

Voltaire would agree:


"If God did not exist, it would be necessary to invent him."

Long story short: life is silly, and we don't always do so great a job of appreciating the bigger picture. To that end (so says Voltaire), we can't help but think that there's simply GOT to be something larger than ourselves watching over this whole crazy charade in order to keep things running as they should. Otherwise, what meaning could our lives possibly have?

As far as Regina Spektor is concerned -- not much.

With this in mind, Spektor notes how it's mighty suspicious that all of this laughing at God nonsense seems to screech to a halt whenever something legitimately bad seems to be lurking just around the corner. And for all of our big, blustery cracks at The Big Man's expense -- the jokes do tend to fall off in short order when things get serious.

In a hospital...

In a war...

When the doctor calls after some routine tests...


Dr. Nick: Hi, everybody!
Well ok, maybe we're still laughing when the doctor calls... but only if it's Doctor Nick.

And even then, we're probably just doing like Regina Spektor sings and "laughing with God" -- not at Him.

(Because let's face it, even God would agree that Dr. Nick is pretty freakin' funny).

21. Even If It Breaks Your Heart - (Will Hoge)

"I can hear 'em sayin' / Keep on dreamin' even if it breaks your heart"

Last week, I had the opportunity to sneak on over to Washington D.C.'s famed 9:30 Club and catch a live performance by the phenomenally talented Will Hoge (picture a young Tom Petty. Yup, that's about it). I've been a fan of Will's music for a while, now -- but it wasn't until I had the chance to see him perform in front of a live audience that I actually managed to appreciate just how raw, honest, and introspective a songwriter the guy really is.


Will Hoge: A "working-man's Jason Mraz," if you will.

The centerpiece of Will's latest album? An intensely personal, uptempo track called "Even If It Breaks Your Heart," which recounts the story of a young boy growing up in Memphis, a burgeoning fascination with rock and roll music, and a crazy dream to take a shot at superstardom in spite of the staggering odds that might stand in his way.

Here, I'll let him tell you:

"Way back on the radio dial
Fire got lit inside a bright eyed child
Every note just wrapped around his soul
From steel guitar to Memphis all the way to rock and roll"

From an early age, our songwriter seems to have developed a pretty special place in his heart for this crazy bidnizz we like to call "rock and roll." And as the song rolls onward, Hoge makes it pretty clear that once the seeds of his rock and roll dreams began to take root, there wasn't really much that could be done to shake the fact that he knew he'd just have to buck up and try this whole "musician" thing for a living.

... even if it breaks his heart.

Again, as he says:

"Some dreams stay with you forever
Drag you around and lead you back to where you were
Some dreams keep on gettin' better
Gotta' keep believing if you wanna' know for sure"

In short (and as the chorus echoes)? "Keep on dreamin' even if it breaks your heart." Or as our favorite Sweet Transvestite might say:


Dr. Frank N' Furter: "Don't dream it, BE it."

Hoge's message is clear: dreams aren't merely passing distractions from the day-to-day grind of everyday existence. Instead, they stick with you, and they hurt for a reason -- because they challenge us to strive for the really good stuff that might just be waiting around the bend if only we're brave enough to take the shot and chase them.

(Even if it breaks our hearts).

Since we're on the subject of heartbreak and dreams, however -- betcha' didn't know that American Gothic uber-genius Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849) actually devoted a whole lot of his poetry to precisely such a topic, now didja'?


Yes, *that* Edgar Allan Poe (as in "That Guy Who Wrote 'The Raven'").

It's true: his "nightmare" stories are the ones that eventually earned Poe his reputation. But when he wasn't yammering away about pits, pendulums, tell-tale hearts, and unopened casks of Amontillado -- the nineteenth century Baltimore balladeer actually spent a pretty sizable chunk of his canon musing on the simple and happy stuff that we call dreams.

Here's a sample:

A Dream
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.
Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream - that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day-star?

Translation:

Dreams are like "lonely spirit[s]" -- they are "purely bright," but often as elusive as they are beautiful. And our inability to capture them is precisely the sort of thing that can leave a man "broken-hearted." But this isn't a reason to give up on them. For as Poe suggests, dreams can still lead us "throu[gh] storm and night" so as to draw us closer to bigger and better things in the long run.

In the end? Perhaps it's best to stick to the advice of our buddy Will Hoge:

"Keep on dreamin...'"

And whatever you do --

"... don't let it break your heart."

20. 100 Years - (Five For Fighting)

"Fifteen there's still time for you...
Time to buy and time to lose yourself within a morning star."
"Carpe diem," kiddies. That's Latin for "seize the freakin' day."


Horace (65 B.C. - 8 B.C.): "Hey - I never said 'freakin'"...

(Quiet, you).

The ancient fella's advice is as sound as it is age-old: you've only got a finite amount of time on this planet. So don't just let life happen to you -- take a chance, roll the dice, and savor each new opportunity wherever it may be.

Coincidentally, that's also the theme of John Ondrasik's "100 Years," and it just so happens to be one of the most powerful and recurrent messages in the entire canon of Western literature. Heck, the metaphysical poets (John Donne and his ilk) created an entire sub genre dedicated to this motif waaaaay back in the 1500's -- and thus the literary world ended up with a boatload of "DO IT NOW!" poems, plays, and stories popping up all throughout the Elizabethan era and beyond.


Ahhhnold: "GET TO THE CHOPPA!!! DO IT NOW!!!"

(Oh come on -- you never saw Predator?)

Anyhow -- the "carpe diem" tradition continued well into the modern era. And for well over 2000 years, writers and thinkers of all walks of life simply couldn't help but implore their audiences to take hold of whatever moments the world might present them in order to live our finite lives to their fullest potential. Need a contemporary example? Why just ask the ridiculously talented (though recently deceased) Saul Bellow:


(Doesn't get much clearer than *that*, now does it?)

But let's get back to the song:

"100 Years" tells the story of a man looking intently at different flash points of his life (past, present, and future) and recounting how -- at each of these given moments -- the problems of the world seemed to be just so gosh-darned important and all-encompassing that he simply couldn't help but get lost in the thick of things. In short: life moves so fast that his brain can't quite ever seem to catch up. And since he's either looking ahead or looking back, it's a perpetual challenge to make sense of things as they happen.

At "fifteen?" The songwriter is "caught in-between ten and twenty," but dreaming his life away.


Taylor Swift: "Cuz' when you're fifteen and somebody tells you they love you / You're gonna' believe them..."
*(True story: the chorus to Taylor's "Fifteen" sounds a whole lot like Five For Fighting's "100 Years." Crazy, huh?)

At twenty two?
The balladeer is "on fire," falling in love, and wondering what the future might hold.

At thirty three?
He's got "a kid on the way" and "a family on [his] mind."

At forty five?
He's "heading through a crisis / chasing the years of [his] life."

And so on, and so on...


Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855): "Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forward."

On and on the cycle continues until the protagonist ends up at "ninety nine, for a moment" -- and finds himself (what else?!) DREAMING his life away all over again. Except this time? He's dreaming *backwards* -- making sense of the events that brought him to that point and "dyin' for just another moment" (or more specifically, the chance to go back and enjoy each of those moments simply in their own time and for what they were).

As he says:

"Fifteen, there's never a wish better than this...
When you've only got a hundred years to live."

It's a classic paradox of human existence: young folks dream of what life will be like when they're old, and old folks reflect on the missed opportunities of their youth. In the end, we see that life is really no more than a series of moments along the way, and thus we're implored to "seize the day" as each new wrinkle arises.

In other words:

"Carpe freakin' diem."

Hmmm -- this sounds oddly reminiscent of a fellow American balladeer by the name of Robert Frost:


Robert Frost (1874 - 1963): Only had just shy of a hundred years to live.

Robert Frost is likely as beloved, influential, and ballyhooed an American poet as you're likely to find. And in the (not quite) hundred years or so of the man's long and storied career, he wrote a heckuva' lot of material about making the most of life and seizing each new day as it came along. Case in point:

"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on."

Moral of the story?

Don't sweat the small stuff, and do your best to appreciate every moment simply for what it is. But as Frost writes elsewhere -- this sort of thing is much easier said than done:

"Age saw two quiet children
Go loving by at twilight,
He knew not whether homeward,
Or outward from the village,
Or (chimes were ringing) churchward,
He waited, (they were strangers)
Till they were out of hearing
To bid them both be happy.
"Be happy, happy, happy,
And seize the day of pleasure."
The age-long theme is Age's.
'Twas Age imposed on poems
Their gather-roses burden
To warn against the danger
That overtaken lovers
From being overflooded
With happiness should have it.
And yet not know they have it.
But bid life seize the present?
It lives less in the present
Than in the future always,
And less in both together
Than in the past. The present
Is too much for the senses,
Too crowding, too confusing-
Too present to imagine."

Translation: Age bids us all to "seize the present." But there's just no getting around the fact that each new moment in life sure can be an awful lot to process when we're right there going through it.

Incidentally -- the name of this poem?

"Carpe Diem," of course.

Because when it comes right down to it, there really never was a wish better than this. After all:

"You've only got a hundred years to live."