Heads
Last night, I had one of those philosophical conversations that always ends with life’s great intellectual volvulus: the question of whether anything matters.
I believe this is less of a question and more of a self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s easy to roll over absentmindedly and put your feet down into the slippers of nihilism – especially after your feet hit the cold floor first.
But, as Leigh Greaney so aptly captured in a recent “Good Fucking Advice” column, at some point, the positivity has to come from you. You have to decide to wax your skateboard heart so that when it hits a railing, it’s a smooth slide.
On days where you open yourself up to positivity, you catch the bus just as it arrives, you find the right change for that latte and the first album you listen to has the kind of vanilla bean beauty that only comes when you think about how hard other flavors try to be as good.
This is how great Kacey Musgraves’ album “Same Trailer, Different Park” is if you open yourself up to it. It makes you remember just how smart, comfortable and confident that female-fronted country music and singer-songwriter pop can be. None of the songs overstay their welcome. Most are around three minutes, and they’re deftly written – covering topics from homosexuality to religion and even touches on the belief in the societal pressure to stay thin, without any of the flair or nuance subtracted.
She writes “Bubbly” songs for the bubbler-smoking set, with a down-home persona that argues that in 2013, she should be able to smoke a little weed without having to play the bad girl role.
“Mama’s hooked on Mary Kay / Brother’s hooked on Mary Jane / And Daddies hooked on Mary two doors down / Mary Mary quite contrary, We get bored so we get married / And just like dust we settle in this town,” she sings on “Merry Go ‘Round.”
This line is a showstopper, using a classical songwriting formula to hit you with just the right punches. “Blowin’ Smoke” and “Stupid” are other tightly wound tunes. Their stomp is all Shania Twain, but the lyrics are a vanilla-flavored revelation.
However, there’s a problem a reviewer like me has when covering a pop album like this. If I like it, I’m being a contrarian. If I hate it, I hate it for Kacey Musgraves’ magazine-cover face, luscious legs and satin-sheet voice – or because I’m an elitist. No matter what, there’s no getting past this album and the way it grows like a smile on your face. Sometimes you just have to keep it simple and take the good when you can, wherever it comes from, ‘cuz God knows it can get so confusing sometimes.
Tails
“Yo bro—ahhhtttt-the-fuck you listening to this gay shit for?” your friend Nate, who recently began calling himself “N Dog” again because it’s “vintage,” says as he barges into your room and slams a Narragansett precariously near your Macbook
He takes his oven-mitt hands and goes right for you mouse, covering the sleek white curves with his Funyun-stained hands as “Step Off” and its smooth, Jack Johnson-solid melody bounces adeptly along. He looks at the album cover with Kacey Musgraves’ sweet, tender, artistic soul wrapped in a model body.
“Oh, she’s howt man, I’d stick it like ‘Oh-yeah.’ HAahahah! Remember the Kool-Aid guy? HAahahah!” he says, spitting all over your monitor, as he sputters this last line.
‘N Dog’ pushes you out of the chair, and you move to the bed. “I’d still bone it though. Eiffel Tower. HAahahah!” He goes for a high five, which you reluctantly return. Then, sitting in your chair now, he undoes the top button of his jeans like Al Bundy.
“You got that ‘Silver Linings Playbook’ soundtrack. Oh yeah, there’s this new band on there…The White Stripes. They’re like trying to be The Black Keys, but they’re OK.”
He looks over at your recently prepared dinner, the chive garnish sparkling on top of your entree. “You gonna stop listening to this gay shit and eat that podado?”
After a silence, he takes a bite anyway, but not before he puts on Ludacris’ “Red Light District” and begins nodding his head. “Oh yeah, this is the shit. Classic, bro,” he says, chewing loudly and breathing through his mouth.
Verdict: Heads
Pete Rizzo can be reached at prizzo@thoughtpollution.com.