Secretly Canadian just released a tenth anniversary edition of their first Damien Jurado LP, with some incredible demos that they say came from reel-to-reel tapes stashed in Damien’s basement. This is the point where I’d get on my horse and go around touting Jurado as one of the best songwriters of his generation, except I never really got off that horse to begin with. He tells so many good stories, creates so many evocative characters. And he tells it in a high, bittersweet warble that falls somewhere between Michael Hurley and Hank Williams.
I’ve had this metaphor in my head for days now, feeling like a stone in the stream. I used to think of something more noble, like Seamus Heaney’s “St. Kevin and the Blackbird”, but it’s all pretense, really.
Of course, no one is, not if it’s winter like it is here. I used to plan ahead and try to “take on” winter, as if I was going to vanquish it. That was stupid.
Let’s you and I move someplace warm. There will be roaches and geckos, sure, but we won’t have to shovel them off the car every morning. There will be hurricanes, but people who survive hurricanes are “victims”, not stupid people who live where it it snows half the year.
We can live there so long that we get bored with our own contentment, and we’ll devise imaginary problems to be passionate about, follow high school football obsessively as if it wasn’t being played by children, and forget everything we’ve ever learned about anything at all.