Posted on by Matt Thomas

Craig Finn on Nightlife and Adult Relationships II: Killer Parties

Note: This is the second part of our series on songs of The Hold Steady which take up the dual themes of nightlife and the complexities of adult relationships. Part I is available. This piece will deal with the song “Killer Parties.”

“Killer Parties” written by Craig Finn, is track ten, the final track, on the Hold Steady’s debut, Almost Killed Me from 2003, however this piece will take up the live version from 2008’s A Positive Rage. The song contains the title line for their debut album, and is one of their most indelible songs.

The live version is over 10 minutes long, and opens with a classic Finn spoken piece. The song features swirling guitars and a propulsive, if simmering, bass line. If “Most People are DJs” is a banger, “Killer Parties” is more of a slow burn. The A Positive Rage version has a long musical intro before Finn speaks:

“Alright, alright, alright, alright, Halloween 2007 metro (?) what’s up? I’m looking out at you now and I’m pretty sure I’ve met over half of you (laughs). And so, if we’ve spent all this time together and maybe you know, it’s maybe, sometimes I might happen to tend to talk too much. Everyone has their faults. I’m in a 12 step program as we speak for it. It’s called shutting up. But I am gonna say one more thing. And then, I say the same thing almost every night. I don’t, I don’t, I’m not fooling anyone. But I only say it cause it’s true. The thing is it’s just well, it’s just that, I don’t, well, well, it’s there is so much joy in what we do up here. I want to thank you for sharing that joy with us. Chicago Illinois we’re The Hold Steady, thanks for being here.”

Here we see Finn’s conception of his band. The Hold Steady is a community (“I think I’ve met more than half of you,” with Finn as the leader. I have been to see The Hold Steady live and wrote about it here (Austin is a music fan I connected with at the Steady shows at the Brooklyn Bowl in 2018):

Hold Steady fans are pretty much fanatics, and along with Austin and I there were a handful of serious Steadyheads who were there early to grab their slice of territory right in front of the stage. They were super possessive about the space they had claimed, and they all seemed to know each other. This crew was welcoming enough to me as a newcomer to their little universe, but they were also a little cliquey. At that time I was in my extraverted mode and I was rapping with all and sundry. There was this one guy I specifically remember who sized me up and said “I want to not like you, but there’s some kind of aura around you man.” Thanks buddy.

All big bands have their version of the Steadyheads of course, but there is no mystery about why people love this band and return again and again. Finn and company are open and inviting–I believe they genuinely love their audience and Finn’s gratitude for his fans is one of his most appealing traits.

The song opens with a verse about Charlemagne, a recurring character in Hold Steady songs whom I believe to be a drug dealer:

If they ask about Charlemagne
Be polite and say something vague
Like another lover lost to the restaurant raids

Finn loves this conceit whereby a song opens with the report of “something happening,” and that something is unsaid. He uses it to great effect on “A Bathtub in a Kitchen,” which opens thusly:

Francis, I was lying when I said I hadn’t heard what happened
I probably heard later on the very same day it went down
That’s the funny thing about people moving into big cities
Spend so much time trying to turn it into their tiny town

Francis, our guess is, suffered an overdose. Did the same thing happen to Charlemagne? It’s possible, but whatever it was we needn’t talk about it. Finn demonstrates right away his trademark compassion. Charlemagne’s life is his own, and it’s personal. Best not to ask; best to keep it vague.

If we have lived long enough we all have people from our lives like this, people to whom something happened and they just kind of fell off the map. Drugs, bad relationships, mental crises, or just the cutting off of ties as someone moves on, shit does happen. I don’t know what the restaurant raids are, but apparently somewhere where people go to get lost. When and if we do find them again we sometimes find the same person, and sometimes someone different.

Verses two and three open into the chorus:

And if they ask why we left in the first place
Say we were young and we were so in love
And I guess we just needed space
We heard about this place they called the United States

And we found out Virginia really is for the lovers
Philly is full of friendly friends that will love you like a brother
Pensacola parties hard with poppers, pills and Pepsi
Ybor City is tres speedy, but they throw such killer parties

Killer parties almost killed me
Killer parties almost killed me

Finn is from the (relatively) small town of Minneapolis, and moved to New York City, I believe in the late 90s. When we leave, we inevitably leave people behind, and sometimes this hurts, both the leaver and the leavee. I know this first hand as a long-term expat I have left my family and friends behind in large part for a life in Asia. While I still keep up relationships, it is never quite the same as staying in your hometown around those with whom you grew up. I don’t regret leaving, but there are pangs of sorrow when I think of all I have missed. Like Finn, and maybe for similar reasons, I just needed some space.

When Finn sings “we heard about this place called The United States,” I think he is talking about New York and the real big city, a mythical place where the lights are brighter, the parties bigger, and opportunity abounds. This is also an oddly patriotic statement–the U.S. here comes across as the promised land in its most classical conception.

In addition to New York, Finn and crew have been around, Virginia (the landing place of Europeans in America), Philadelphia, the first capital, Pensacola, and of course Ybor City, the party capital of Florida which Finn references repeatedly in his songs. Ybor City serves as the ultimate destination for killer parties, the last place you end up on the back end of an epic bender.

And then the payoff, “killer parties almost killed me.” Finn is pretty open about his early carousing, and it is easy to believe that some of these nights led to near-death scenarios. While I myself have sampled pretty liberally of the nightlife in my own time, this was nothing like Finn. However, I would say, I’ve been around, and there are times and situations that “almost killed me” as well. I know where Finn is coming from. He is here looking back on an earlier era–his partying days may not be over but now he is in an up and coming band and has other responsibilities to take care of. Nonetheless, he can still live vicariously through his earlier incarnation, as well as the youth of today.

Verses four, five and six are repeated and the song is over:

And if she says we partied then I’m pretty sure we partied
I really don’t remember
I remember we departed from our bodies
We woke up in Ybor City

And if she says we partied then I’m pretty sure we partied
I really don’t remember
I remember we departed from our bodies
We woke up in Ybor City

If she says we partied then I’m pretty sure we partied
I really don’t remember
I remember we departed from our bodies
And we woke up in Ybor City

The nights are a blur–Finn partied but he gets the details second hand. He does remember transcending, and the long hangover of a killer run, in good old Ybor City. I feel like Ybor City, which Finn may or may not have actually been to, serves sort of like El Dorado here, the lost city of gold in South America. Is Ybor City even real? Can you get there from here, or do you have to run the gauntlet of long days and longer nights to get there? I’m not sure, and am not sure Ybor City would be good for me.

I am an ex-introvert reinvented as an extravert, a topic I have spoken about this at length with several friends. While I am a little long in the tooth for a lot of clubbing these days, I do love the nightlife and love running around, meeting people, and seeing where the night takes me. And it takes you to some strange places. I think this is the real theme of the song–the appeal of the night, of the road, and the need to leave and get out in the great wide world. I love this song, and return to it regularly in all manner of personal circumstances. It’s a relatively simple song–Finn conceals nothing up his sleeve except the exact nature of Charlemagne’s fate, but in my opinion a great one.

to be continued…

Posted on by Matt Thomas

Craig Finn on Nightlife and Adult Relationships I: Most People are DJs

Note: This series will take up several songs from Craig Finn of The Hold Steady. All of the songs deal with one or both of Finn’s two major themes, nightlife and the complexities of adult relationships. This first piece will deal with the song “Most People are DJs” from The Hold Steady’s first record, Almost Killed Me.

“Most People are DJs” is track three from the Hold Steady’s debut, Almost Killed Me. It’s actually kind of the second song, as the first song is more of a spoken introduction. The song covers some different territory and fits a little awkwardly into our main theme, however it’s a good starting point. Here is what Finn says it is about:

“Just a reaction to life in NYC in the 2000s. The part I don’t get is when I get emails that start with, ‘Come see me DJ’ and end with, ‘Here is what I’m going to play….’ I think that DJing, like rock criticism, tends to be a way for people to participate in the ‘scene’ without taking the risks to the ego that go along with producing music or any other art. ‘Look at me! I’m playing records!” Of course, I don’t apply this to all DJs.'”

Despite Finn’s somewhat cynical take on his own song, I find the song joyous and life affirming. It is very upbeat–a banger in the parlance.

“Most People are DJs” opens in Ybor City, which is part of Tampa, Florida and is apparently infamous for being a party town. Finn loves the sound of Ybor City and references it several times on various Hold Steady songs. Here are the first three verses:

Well, hold steady Ybor City
You’re up to your neck in the sweat and wet confetti
If you want to get a little bit light in the heady
It’s gonna have to get a little bit heavy

They’re jamming jet skis into the jetty now
With some guy who looks like Rocco Siffredi
And I’ve heard he’s been dead once already

It’s going down right now in Lowertown
They’re skipping off the good ship U.S.S.S.S.S.S.S.S.S. Sexuality
Searching for the merchant with the five second delivery

Almost Killed Me is an announcement record. Finn had an earlier band called Lifter Puller, which also wrote extensively, almost obsessively, about nightlife, and Finn through this record makes it clear that The Hold Steady is here, and here to stay. Thus, the band title in the first line. The first line is also a statement of purpose–parties such as those held in Ybor City and New York almost killed him, but he will hold fast in the face of the danger and temptations.

Right away we also see Finn’s penchant for alliteration and in-line rhymes. Lifter Puller songs are so full of alliteration as to be almost distracting, and Finn starts where he left off with “jamming jet skies into the jetty,” skipping off the good ship…” and “searching for the merchant.” Over time, Finn will back off from the up-frontness of this conceit, but it is still in full force on Almost Killed Me.

We are also firmly in the nightlife milieu with wet confetti and a five second merchant, presumably a drug dealer. Drugs and drinking are a persistent aspect of Finn’s songs, from the very earliest to today. Rocco Siffredi is an Italian male adult actor, and someone looks just like him.

The next two verses change the frame a little:

They’re slipping soft rock into their setlist now
They got some new guy that looks just like Phil Lynott
We’re stumbling but I think we’re still in it

It’s a big world, girl, and I can’t understand it
We’re tiny white specks in a bright blue planet

Soft rock here does not refer to Steely Dan, but rather to Lifter Puller’s 2002 compilation album. Finn is letting us know he has been in a band and that the band did OK. This is a theme of the song–Finn self-identifies as an artist and is sort of calling out those that aren’t, or just sit on the sidelines. Phil Lynott was the lead singer of the band Thin Lizzy–presumably Finn is talking about a band with the “they” in line two here. Finn and his crew are wobbly, but still on their feet.

Verse five zooms out from a close-up view of New York City nightlife, suggesting that in the long run our concerns and running around are pretty minor with “we’re tiny white specks in a bright blue planet.” I feel like Finn is also saying, in a sense, you only live once. Our concerns may be minor but we have to make the best of what we are given. I like this line, but the next three verses are where, in my opinion, the song really hits its stride:

I was a teenage ice machine
I kept it cool in coolers and I drank until I dreamed
And when I dream, I always dream about the scene
All these kids they look like little lambs looking up at me

I was a Twin Cities trash bin
I did everything they’d give me
I’d jam it into my system

She got me cornered by the kitchen
And I said I’ll do anything but listen
To some weird-talking chick who just can’t understand
That we’re hot soft spots on a hard rock planet

Finn is pretty directly referencing heavy drug use in his earlier days. It is well known that Finn grew up in Minneapolis, and came up in the hardcore scene. He details this time in the epic “It’s Never Been a Fair Fight,” which I have written about elsewhere. It is clear that a younger Finn was looking for all the action he could handle.

I feel that Finn’s use of alliteration pays off here with “kept it cool in coolers,” “Twin Cities trash bin,” and “hot soft spots on a hard rock planet.” Whereas now the kids are looking up to Finn as a veteran of the scene, he clearly understands the kids in all of their glory and all of their self-destructive urges. Also, the lines “she got me cornered in the kitchen/ And I said I’ll do anything but listen” is really funny and once again indexes Finn’s need for speed, so to speak. Finally, “we’re hot soft spots on a hard rock planet” refers back to the earlier line but changes the context–tiny white sparks we may be, but we still have a beating heart.

Verse nine takes up the title of the song and contains its thesis:

Baby, take off your beret
Everyone’s a critic and most people are DJs
And everything gets played

As we have seen, Finn himself says the song is about how most people don’t take the risk to make art themselves, and instead criticize or play other people’s songs. His fairly straightforward criticism of DJs, with only the most unconvincing hedge at the end, is interesting. Finn’s overt self-identification as an artist is again a statement of purpose, however are critics not artists? I think they are, or can be, but I also understand the sometimes antipathy of a working artist to those who simply opine. I can see it both ways. As for DJs, this is not a job I fully understand as I have never DJd, but like most people I DJ my own life, with a little help from Spotify. I mean, when I dial up a little Daddy Issues on my commute, or Happyness when writing, I feel pretty in control and pretty good about matters. Before taking a close look at the song, I thought Finn was kind of celebrating the fact that people DJ their own lives–that is make their own calls and run their own decks. But apparently not. I guess what I’m saying is I don’t fully agree with Finn here–but his point of view is his point of view. I think he is also writing quite specifically about the early 2000s in New York and I wasn’t there, so there’s that.

The final verse brings us full circle deep into the nightlife, and here Finn celebrates the mess and adrenaline that comes with going out, especially when you are young:

Working backwards from the doctor to the drugs
From the packie to the taxi, to the cabbie, to the club
A thousand kids will fall in love in all these clubs tonight
A thousand other kids will end up gushing blood tonight
Two thousand kids won’t get all that much sleep tonight
Two thousand kids they still feel pretty sweet tonight
Yeah, and I still feel pretty sweet

Falling in love, gushing blood, losing sleep, and still feeling pretty sweet, that’s the gamble one takes with the night.

Overall, “Most People are DJs” is far from Finn’s best song in my opinion, but the sound and the energy holds up. It’s a good entry point into Finn’s post-Lifter Puller songs on nightlife and has an interesting, if somewhat controversial message. I also really like his snapshot of his mis-spent youth as a Twin Cities trash bin, and that’s the best line of the song.

to be continued…

Posted on by Matt Thomas

On Craig Finn’s “A Bathtub in a Kitchen”

Note: This is the third piece on the kibbitzer to deal with the songwriter Craig Finn. I wrote at length about his song “It’s Never Been a Fair Fight,” and a little bit more in my piece on Katie Park and The Bad Moves. Although my primary allegiance will always be to Dylan, if I am totally honest Finn is my favorite songwriter. Dylan is a transcendent force, world-historical, and therefore also sort of unapproachable. Finn is a little more down-to-earth–I can imagine having a drink or three with Finn whereas Dylan, I don’t know, he’d probably have his hoodie up. So for the record, my favorite band is Luna, my favorite songwriter is Craig Finn, and the greatest is Dylan. My three favorite Finn songs are “It’s Never Been a Fair Fight,” “A Bathtub in a Kitchen,” and “Killer Parties,” which I hope to write about soon. This post will take a close look at “A Bathtub in a Kitchen,” with the aim of explicating both the song and making some notes on Finn’s delivery.

“A Bathtub in a Kitchen” is track three on Craig Finn’s 2019 album I Need a New War. For my money, it is not only the standout track on the record, but also one of the three greatest songs of my all time favorite songwriter. The song is ostensibly about an old friend of the narrator (I will refer to him as C. for convenience) called Francis, but it’s also about trying to make it in the big city, and about moving on from the past. Making it, or not making it, in the big city is a classic Finn theme.

The song opens with the report of an accident of some kind. The nature of the event is unspecified, but my best guess is an overdose.

Francis, I was lying when I said I hadn’t heard what happened
I probably heard later on the very same day it went down
That’s the funny thing about people moving into big cities
Spend so much time trying to turn it into their tiny town

As with all of Finn’s work, he manages here to pack a huge amount into four short lines. We learn that the C’s relationship with Francis includes deception, that C. and Francis still have acquaintances in common, and that presumably both C. and Francis are originally from out of town. The last line is a somewhat sharp commentary on how big city transplants may retain a small town mindset as well as a suggestion that this is the very thing that C. is trying to get away from. Regardless of the C.’s desire to break free, he too, thought to a lesser degree than Francis, is stuck in the past, and with an old crowd.

By the second part of the verse it seems that Francis has recovered to some extent from whatever befell him, and C. has met with him.

Francis, is there someway to help that’s not just handing you money?
There’s something unsaid in the way that you say it’s your health
Whatever happened to the elegant guy you used to always bring to the Parkside?
Seems like he’d be in a better position to help

Again, I am simply in awe of Finn’s concision. In just eight lines, we already have a very good idea of who these two characters are and what they are about. We can assume that C. has some money to spare, and wants to help Francis, but he knows he’s just throwing money down the drain, or into Francis’ veins. Francis is most probably an addict, however that’s left unsaid by both C. and Francis. Here we also get a glimpse of Francis in his better days (the Parkside is apparently a bar in NYC)–he had elegant friends, and, as we will realize, C. at one point sort of looked up to Francis and wanted to run in his circle. However, it is clear that C. has no idea if the elegant friend is in any position to help, or even if he is still in Francis’ life. I think that this line intentionally, and not for the last time, sketches C. as somewhat selfish. He knows Francis is in trouble, know he needs help, and is trying to pass the buck to someone, anyone, else.

Selfish as he may be, we can relate to C. here as well. We have all had the experience of having someone in our life asking for too much, pushing our boundaries, or just simply being beyond helping. And maybe we have put others in a similar position. I know I have. So I can see it both ways. C. may be trying to pawn Francis off, but Francis is clearly not helping himself.

After verse two comes the chorus, and I challenge anyone to find a more moving and beautiful chorus anywhere. Finn’s voice here rises to a higher pitch on the line “I was drinking, I was dancing” as he packs his delivery with maximum emotion.


I was waiting for a package
I was hoping something happens
I was desperate for New York to ask me out
I was trying to find my footing
I was drinking, I was dancing
Francis let me crash out on his couch

The chorus is a flashback to C.’s early days in New York, when he was new in town, broke, and crashing with Francis. We have a portrait of young C. as a yearning, but passive character, very much trying to find his way. Perhaps at this point Francis was in a better economic position than C. Finn underlines C.’s passivity and naivety three times “waiting for a package,” “hoping something happens,” “desperate for New York to ask me out.”

Again, the nostalgic sentiments outlined here are universally relatable. All big cities can be exciting, and overwhelming, but New York is, in my experience singular in these respects. I remember the first time I visited New York; I was a junior in college and went there as part of a trip for my Art History class at the university I was attending upstate. We arrived at the train station, took a subway uptown, and emerged onto the street. I was instantly flooded with sensation and nerves–it was like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. Here was New York. I have since been to the city many times, and I love it, and every time I go I feel a similar feeling when arriving. I have had the good fortune to visit many great cities, Tokyo, London, Singapore, Amsterdam, Melbourne, Hong Kong, Kuala Lumpur, and they all have their own feel, but there is nowhere like New York.

But precisely because there is so much going on in a city like New York, it can be really hard to get something going. Everyone there seems to have their own purpose, their own deal, and how do you penetrate the shell of the city? Finn is writing about the classic American theme of “making it”; C. is desperate for it, but for now he’s carousing, waiting, and sleeping on the couch.

The second verse takes place back in the present, and sees C. reflecting on Francis’ living situation. Here too we have the title of the song.


23 years is a while in a place with a bathtub in the kitchen
Up on the roof for cigarettes and better reception
Yeah, it’s a whole other scene but how can anyone blame ’em?
You get a new number when the old one gets disconnected

So Francis has been in New York for 23 years, and C. maybe nearly as long because he is able to be precise about Francis’ history. Francis lives in a prototypically small New York apartment “bathtub in the kitchen,” and has to go to the roof for wifi. Here we get confirmation that C. has moved on, both personally and economically, as Francis is in “a whole other scene,” one where his phone gets periodically disconnected, presumably for non-payment. C. is not judging Francis, at least not yet–he just feels something along the lines of “there but for the grace of god go I.”

With the return of the chorus, we have a slight addition and a slight change that sheds more light on C.’s early days in the city as well as underlining his gratefulness to Francis.


I was waiting for a package
I was hoping something happens
I was desperate for New York to take me out
I was trying to find my footing
I was doing things I shouldn’t
Francis let me crash out on his couch
Francis let me crash out on his couch

The repetition of the last line serves to literally double down on the importance at the time of the couch offer–C. was clearly grateful and remains so. I think the song overall is a sort of confession in that C. is writing as much out of guilt as a wish to distance himself from his old friend. I showed my “It’s Never Been a Fair Fight” piece to my father during the writing stage, and he commented, without knowing anything about Craig Finn, that he detected a strong vein of midwestern Catholicism in Finn’s lyrics. And he was exactly right; Finn did grow up Catholic in Minnesota, and writes about the classic Catholic themes of guilt, forgiveness, and redemption regularly. In the chorus C is saying, I think, that he too has made mistakes, has crossed lines, and that Francis took him in when he needed it most. However, in the post-chorus the song pivots back to C. distancing himself from Francis, and here is where the confessional aspect really comes into its own. There is a You Tube video of Finn doing “Bathtub in a Kitchen” live, and when he sings the post-chorus the performance takes on a seriously spiritual component.


But I can’t keep saying thank you, Francis
I can’t keep saying thank you
I can’t keep saying thank you, Francis
I can’t keep saying thank you

These lines cut two ways–on the one hand C. is saying that the couch surfing was a long time ago, and he’s done his part to pay Francis back. As I said above, Francis seems like he might be beyond help, and C. has kind of had it with reaching out. On the other hand, C. is confessing that, although he clearly cares about Francis, he doesn’t have the depth of compassion needed to be there for him on an ongoing way. I don’t know, I just think the lyrics are every bit as much directed at himself as his friend.

Verse three sees C. reminiscing again about the early days of their friendship, before indicating that he has in fact given Francis some money. However, it is the end of the verse, again in a repeated line, that underlines C.’s feeling that Francis is just not pulling himself together, and he looks down on him for it.


Francis always said, “You gotta befriend the bartenders”
He told me to tip really big on the opening round
Francis did me a favor I’ll always remember
He let me stay at his place when I first came to town
Francis said the guy at his job’s got a thing for the new girl
His landlord’s a dick and he’s sure that he won’t understand
The 200 bucks will help him breathe a bit easy
Francis, do you even have a plan?
Francis, do you even have a plan?

So the first four lines here are back in the past, and we learn that Francis, more than just letting C. stay at his place, really showed him the ropes. C., drinking, dancing, and desperate, learned how to navigate New York and its nightlife with Francis, learned that bartenders are the key to the city. Here too C. confesses that he “will always remember” the favor Francis did him, so while he can’t keep saying thank you, he also can’t forget.

The next four lines (five with the repetition) are set in the present, where we learn that Francis manages to hold down a job (I am curious but Finn of course omits what kind–Finn is a master of both concision and omission. One of the best examples of this is the song “Jessamine” from A Legacy of Rentals, which maybe I’ll write about some time). We get a glimpse of Francis’ domestic life in the apartment with the bathtub in the kitchen–predictably his landlord is a dick. And, as above, C. has given Francis money, but not a lot. Like I said, I’ve been to New York and 200 dollars isn’t going to get you very far. C. had handed over the money that he resisted in the first verse, but he is also content to let Francis sink or swim to some extent.

Finally, we have an outro, where again it is worth checking out the You Tube video of his performance at the Murmrr Theatre in Brooklyn to better understand the real nature of what Finn is getting at with the song.


I can’t keep saying thank you, Francis
I can’t keep saying thank you
I can’t keep saying thank you, Francis
I can’t keep saying thank you
I can’t keep saying thank you

Overall, A Bathtub in the Kitchen is a great song about youth and aging, about friendship and how it both lasts over time and changes with time and experience, about guilt, and about human selfishness is the face of the needs of others. Most of all, it is an incredibly rich and resonant sketch of what it is like to try and get by in New York. As Finn gets older, his earlier rave-up Hold Steady songs, which he can still write, have somewhat given way to more reflective and somber pieces such as Bathtub.

The reason I think this song, like “It’ Never Been a Fair Fight,” is more personal and even autobiographical than some of his other songs which are clearly about characters, is that the narrator here has clearly “made it”–he’s doing well. Finn himself is an immigrant to New York, having moved there from Minnesota, and has sampled deeply of the night life he writes about. Indeed, nightlife, in all its glory and sordidness, is one of Finn’s favorite themes, and I can’t think of anyone who has written more consistently or more interestingly about it. But that’s a topic for another piece. I would just say that even if C. can’t keep saying thank you, I am thankful for this song, which touches me in ways I have tried to express here but can’t fully get my arms around.

Posted on by Matt Thomas

On Subcultures and Scenes in Craig Finn’s “It’s Never Been a Fair Fight”

This piece is about an absolutely amazing song by Craig Finn called “It’s Never Been a Fair Fight.” We will also expand on the song’s theme, which is how subcultures (and “scenes”) operate. Finn is, in my opinion, the greatest lyricist working today (not the greatest living lyricist, that’s still Dylan). I’ve written about about Finn before here, and here.

Finn himself says that “It’s Never Been A Fair Fight”:

“is about the extreme difficulty of staying true to the rigid rules of a subculture as you get older. The character in the song revisits an old peer and finds struggle and disappointment in the place he left behind.”

In this case, the narrator had been part of the punk/hardcore scene in the 1980’s and 1990’s, has left the scene, and reflects on his time there and what it meant as he meets his old friend, and we suppose former lover, Vanessa. I’m not sure I understand the entire chronology of the song, as it engages in some apparent time jumps that can be little hard to follow. Overall however, it is pretty clear what the song is about. The opening verse sees the narrator (let’s call him C., because while we will grant Finn the understanding as an artist that his characters are characters, in this case the song feels pretty autobiographical) checking in with Vanessa. The song opens in the present day.

I met Vanessa right in front of her building/ she was vague in taste and drowning/ she says she’s got a new man and he’s in a new band/ and they’ve got a new sound

I said hardcore’s in the eye of the beholder/ I’ve got a broken heart from 1989/ I was holding me head in my hands from the heat/ there were elbows in my eyes.

While we get the impression that C. has been out of the scene for a while, Vanessa is very much still in it, new man, new band, new sound, same old place. Vanessa’s man, we assume, is in a hardcore band, and I believe it is the case that Finn came up through the hardcore scene before forming his first band Lifter Puller. Lifter Puller is not a hardcore band, and I don’t know if Finn was actually in a hardcore band or just in the scene.

“Hardcore’s in the eye of the beholder” is a funny line for a number of reasons (it also reminds me of the classic David Berman line “punk rock died when the first kid said/ punk’s not dead/ punk’s not dead”). In any case, after C. recalls his broken heart from 1989, the song shifts back in time, back to when C. was attending hardcore shows, hot and sweaty, elbows in his eyes.

Vanessa said that there’s threads that connect us/ flags and wars we should never accept/ Angelo said that there’s snakes in the smoke/ from the cigarettes

Ivan isn’t all that concerned/ he said it’s mostly about what you wear to the show/ I think the scene’s gonna fall apart pretty soon/ heard a song that I liked on the radio

Finn is an absolute master of sketching characters in just a line or two. Here, he uses a sort of pointillistic approach to introduce us to two additional members of the scene, Angelo and Ivan. With just a few short verses we already understand a great deal about “the scene.” Here is what we can deduce:

i) All four members of the scene have very differently valenced loyalties. Put another way, they want different things from it. Vanessa is a purist; for her being part of the scene is like being part of an tribe, an army, and we take her to be a fierce protector of the in-group/ out-group aspects that tend to arise in subcultures. Angelo, it seems, is a little out there; he’s seeing snakes in the cigarette smoke and probably not all that interested in the ultimate nature or meaning of the scene. Ivan likes the t-shirts and jeans, likes the look. He’s not a purist either. And C., well he likes a little pop music, an inclination we assume is strictly verboten for folks like Vanessa.

ii) Probably because of the differences in ideas and ideologies between the scene members, C. sees things coming to an end, both with the scene and between he and Vanessa. Here we are reminded of the difficulty of keeping any kind of group together, whether a scene, a band, or just a group of friends. Everyone knows the feeling of having a group of friends who tell each other they will be tight forever, however life doesn’t usually work that way. The best film about this dynamic is Whit Stillman’s Metropolitan, which depicts a young group of friends in Manhattan who come together and then slowly, but inevitably, come apart over the course of a winter. There is a great moment in Metropolitan where the main character, Tom, looks around and realizes the scene is dead. Where did it go? It was here one day, gone the next. Scenes are like that, and this is what Finn is writing about.

iii) The inherent differences between people which make keeping the scene together are also something that Finn celebrates to a certain extent I think. One of the most salient features of Finn’s writing is his compassion. Finn has compassion for Angelo and his snakes, Ivan and his jeans, and for Vanessa, in all of her rigidity. As of the time of the song we know for sure that Vanessa is still in the scene and C. is not. I guess that neither Angelo or Ivan is still around, however if only one of them is my money’s on Angelo, if he’s still alive.

Through the course of my own life, I have been involved, for a shorter or longer time, with a variety of subcultures. One category of subculture that I have frequented is what we could broadly call “new age.” My explorations of this category have been reasonably extensive. Back in my early 20s, I was involved for about 4-5 months with a Tibetan Buddhist group back in Washington State. I would get up at 4 AM, drive an hour across town to a beautiful old house on the hill, and meditate with the folks there. This group also organized some outings, such as mountain hiking.

I enjoyed the group and the meditation. The group leader, a slightly older woman who was lovely, asked me to pay like 6 dollars for a little book with chants in it, which I did. There was a total cross-section of people in the group of different ages and backgrounds, and all in all I liked it there. However, I peeled off from the group after a time for reasons very similar to those discussed by Finn. There were two specific things that led to me leaving. The second I’ll discuss a little later. The first was one day I was chatting with one of the members on the street outside after meditation. He was telling me how his daughter used to play chess, however he would no longer allow her to do so because it was interfering with her studies of Tibetan Buddhism. “There’s just not enough time,” he told me.

I had talked with this guy before and he was a perfectly nice guy, but I didn’t agree with his approach. I felt, in fact, that it was bad action. Now, I understood that people joined the group for different reasons and had different levels of investment. I was not looking to become a Tibetan Buddhist or anything—I was just “checking it out.” To circle back to Finn, the valence gap between this fellow’s take on the subculture and my own was vast, and his entire approach turned me off. This was the first step in my deciding to leave.

The next three verses of “It’s Never Been a Fair Fight” see C. trying to keep the door open to Vanessa even as he edges out of the scene. He wants to meet her and if she agrees he will know that she like him feels that “punk is not a fair fight.” Finn doesn’t say, but I’m guessing Vanessa doesn’t show.

If things change quickly/ just remember I still love you/ and I’ll circle ’round the block tonight/ between 9 and 10 o’clock tonight

If you’re still standing here, I’ll take that as a sign/ that you agree it was a sucker punch/ punk is not a fair fight/ it’s never been a fair fight

We said there weren’t any rules/ but there were so many goddamn rules/ we said that they’d be cool/ but then there were so many goddamn rules

Verse VII is the hinge-point of the song and basically its thesis. Finn’s point is straightforward: the appeal of the scene was the potential for freedom, exploration, rebellion, however once inside the subculture C. finds himself increasingly hemmed in by the strictures of that culture and the requirements necessary to remain within it. The very thing that drew C. to the subculture (flight from an over-determined social reality) is that thing that ultimately drives him away. “It’s Never Been a Fair Fight,” appears in two versions on the 2021 record All These Perfect Crosses; the main version is horn driven and upbeat, and there is also an acoustic version. On the main version, Finn, realizing perhaps that the repeated line is a bit poetically unorthodox, spits out a laugh on the “then” in “but then there were so many goddamn rules,” and in the process underlines the centrality of the sentiment to the song as a whole. It’s a great verse, and one which tells us something fundamental about C.’s nature: he likes the action, and as such needs to be free to pursue it wherever it may be. Action is not limited to the Minneapolis hardcore scene, after all.

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Posted on by Matt Thomas

The Thin Man in Singapore Part V: Alice’s Birthday and a Guardian Angel

You clean yourself to meet/ a man who isn’t me/ you’re putting on a shirt/ a shirt I’ll never see/ ’cause you’re too smart to remember/ you’re too smart/ lucky you

The National

Dateline Singapore: November 3rd, 13:06

The phone rings, jarring the thin man out of sleep. “Where the/ what the/ who the…” Images in shards–his grandmother’s house and he is six, sun streaming through a late afternoon window. He rolls over. No by god, a bed, an adult body within. He picks up the phone. “Uh huh?”

“It’s Alejandro. Your passport will be ready tomorrow morning and you’re on an Emirates flight to Rome via Dubai tomorrow at 9 PM. In the meantime Alice is having a birthday party and you’re invited.”

“Alice?”

“Miller’s secretary. You might have heard the rumors, but she’s a cool cat and it’ll be fun. 17:00 at Chijmes. Be there.”

“Seriously? I don’t know Alice and, I’d rather just rest up you know.”

“Not an option. You’re not invited, more required. From Miller directly. Buck up man and see you at 5.”

Holy Jesus, another evening. The thin man rises, splashes cold water on his face and when this doesn’t do the trick, fills the sink with cold water and plunges his face into the water, eyes wide open. He exhales; water goes everywhere. He dabs at it with a hand towel. Breakfast is long over–lunch is a maybe. 20 minutes later he has showered and shaved and limps downstairs.

“Lunch is still open?”

The man’s smile masks a scowl. Rolling into a buffet that closes at 14:00 at 13:46 is no way to endear yourself to staff. He takes a seat by the window, wanders the buffet. Two bowls of mushroom soup, two watermelon juices, a roll with butter, salmon sashimi and an Americano. Vague feelings of humanity follow.

On his phone the thin man peruses “The Essentials of Casino Game Design” as he eats. This is more out of habit than interest–he has no desire to re-enter the gambling demi-monde. Reflex is a bitch though. The waiter circles, pressing his point from 5 feet away. “I got you babe,” thinks the thin man. He makes marginal eye contact, figures he has another 20 minutes give or take. He resolves to relax into the spacetime as fully as possible before the waiter pulls rank. He has no desire to make trouble but at the same time, a customer is a customer and soup is soup. A game for two players. Eventually, he makes his move before the waiter is forced to make his.

“On my room please, 727,” he says, with studied nonchalance. Everything takes all afternoon.

The thin man has a number of flaws but he does clean up well. That’s a skill, a blessing, a bonus. Re-showered, shaved, and an app-assisted breathing exercise later, he shows at Chijmes on time and on point. Miller himself greets him with a slap on the back.

“Mr. Bishop, your work is appreciated. Much appreciated. I heard that you will be staying with the firm. Rome is beautiful this time of year. You are a lucky man.”

“It is my pleasure to be of service.” The thin man is not serious, yet not unserious. The work is the work and he has no other. “Anyway, happy birthday to Alice hey?”

“Hehe, haha. Alice, yes,” salivates Miller.

Another day, another passport thinks the thin man. Several people he doesn’t know are there. The crew moves to an outdoor restaurant; the usual wrangling over orders ensues and Long Island Ice Teas appear. There is no drink more perfectly positioned to cause trouble than a Long Island Ice Tea. The thin man downs two before the Nachos arrive. A waitress circles. “White or red,” she asks. “Both please” replies the thin man. It’s early and he has no intention of sticking with this group after dinner. Why not make the most of the moment.

The food is a B at best, but the drinks are loaded. The sun shines in the late evening. The usual Singapore rain squall has not appeared today. 6 PM, the magical hour, and the thin man begins to fade into the perfect liminality that only occurs between drinks three and four.

Titters from Alice. Winks from Alejandro. Miller sits straight up, what a spine. The thin man is bored. Time passes; the sun sets.

“One more?” asks Miller.

“How about the hotel bar?”asks the thin man. The sooner near home the better. Miller covers the bill and tracks are made.

The thin man and crew enter the bar and the mood is boisterous. The thin man feels as thin as paper. He needs an ally. As his party makes its way to a table, he approaches the barmaid. Her tag identifies her as “May.” Always approach service workers with kindness and respect–they get so little of it so it goes a long way.

“Good evening May. My friends and I are looking to enjoy the bar tonight. Only, I have been on the road for weeks and I’m a little tired.” He slips her a $50 bill. “I know bars don’t love to serve water, but if you could keep an eye on me and refill my water glass I’d be in your debt.”

May looks him up and down.

“No problem. Rely on me.”

The thin man makes it to the booth where Company X holds court. Miller and Alice’s hands dance a protracted duet. Alejandro sits a foot away, just keeping an eye on things.

A round of drinks, another. May keeps her end of things and the thin man hydrates, for a while. A woman called Marta had introduced herself at dinner and slides into the booth next to the thin man.

“How do you know Alice?” she asks.

“I don’t.”

“Oh. I have a bet with Jeffrey over there. He thinks you are on his team.”

“On his team?”

“You know,” she drops into a stage whisper, “Jeffrey likes men.”

“I see. I don’t have a team,” replies the thin man. “I’m a free agent.”

“Not so fast,” interjects Alejandro, who seems to register everything that is said at the table. “You are on our team. You have a contract.”

“A contract? I haven’t seen anything like that. And besides I don’t see how that would be possible. Text is dead, or that’s what I’ve heard.”

“Don’t mind him,” says Alejandro, “he likes being heavily humorous.”

Marta doesn’t seem to mind. Somehow her arms and legs are entangled with the Thin Man’s. How does that even happen? he thinks. He’s lost the touch he never had, but matters seems to be progressing anyway. Amazing. He hears Jeffrey calling for champagne. Now, even from deep in a haze the thin man knows that ordering a bottle of champagne in a hotel bar is not exactly value for money. A commotion is taking place across the bar. Men from the Green Group are hassling the bar staff, something has gone wrong with an order they allege. The Thin Man swivels his head around to take a look and his mind recedes into fantasy:

Shut your traps and stop hassling the waiter! We’re trying to enjoy a birthday! And if I have to tell you again, we’re gonna take it outside and I’m gonna show you what it’s like! You understand me? Now, shut your mouths or I’ll shut’em for ya, and if you think I’m kidding, just try me. Try me. Because I would love it!

He glances at the bar, catches May’s eye. She shakes her head imperceptibly, reading his mind. Absurd ideas of accosting the group and defending her honor recede. He breathes a sigh of relief.

A second bottle of champagne arrives, a third. We are at the stage of the evening where petty arguments break out all of the sudden, and are as quickly forgotten. The thin man, Marta and the sofa seem to have merged into a single entity. This is pleasant.

He snaps back into consciousness. The party seems to have thinned out. Miller and Alice are gone. Alejandro gets up to leave and Jeffrey waives off his efforts to pay. It’s true Alejandro drank only club soda. A steady hand, this guy. He leans over to the thin man, lets him know his passport will arrive in the morning.

“We’ll be in touch.”

“Oh good.” It’s all he can think of to say. He sees 120 Singapore dollars on the table, begins to calculate. The bill will be a lot higher than that. What’s happened here is he has fallen prey to the cruel economics of party leaving whereby early leavers underestimate their impact on the total bill. Marta is warm but the future is cold. It’ll be him and Jeffrey splitting the bill.

“Maybe we should call it an evening,” he says. He draws himself to his feet, a mighty effort, and approaches May. “What do we owe?”

“It’s all taken care of,” she says.

“Miller paid on his way out?”

She shakes her head, whispers in his ear, “your bill was charged to the Green Group. They probably won’t know the difference and if they do, they check out the day after tomorrow so…” May places her index finger on thin man’s lips and presses gently. He goggles, is in love.

“You are an angel,” he says.

“Shhh, silly. You’ll get me in trouble.”

He circles back to the table. “The bill is paid,” he tells Marta and Jeffrey. “Leave the cash as a tip.” They don’t bat an eye–too far gone to care. “I told you he isn’t on your team,” says Marta. “I win the bet.”

“It’s too early to tell,” says Jeffrey.

The thin man gives Marta a kiss goodnight. “I’ve got to fly tomorrow.”

“I know.” Theirs was an encounter based in a specific locale, a specific moment. Some encounters are like that.

Dateline Singapore: November 4th, 10:00

Ah the Sabbath. The thin man had managed to set his alarm for 10:30 but it’s not needed. The phone rings at 10 AM, and the receptionist tells him he’s been cleared for a late check out of 17:00. How did that happen? She doesn’t know. “It says right here sir.” 11 hours before the flight. What would a human do with 11 hours, he thinks? He takes a swim, showers, eats mushroom soup and indulges in a few slices of roast beef this time. He remembers a much loved song:

I’m so sorry but the motorcade will have to go around me this time/ ’cause God is on my side

That’s attitude. He tries to summon 1/10th of that mood, says a little prayer to his angels. On the way back to room 727 a maid smiles at him. “You must be the British gentleman,” she says.

“Oh, why is that?”

“Because your room, it’s so neat and clean.”

British rooms are neat and clean? That’s news to the thin man. Am I British, he wonders? The reason his room is clean is because there’s next to nothing in it.

“Thank you. Have a wonderful day.”

“You too sir.” There is nothing that he has ever done in his life to deserve such respect, he feels. Life is good.

Under his door there is a manila envelope. Inside is a passport in the name of Jack Bishop and $3000. There is also an index card with a phone number. At the bottom of the card he reads “May.” Life is good? Hell, god is good man. The thin man smiles and packs his valise. 8 hours later he is airborne en route to Rome.

to be continued…

Dedication: For Mint.

Posted on by Matt Thomas

Song of the Day: Luna’s “Tracy I Luv You”

The song of the day is “Tracy I Luv You,” from Luna. Tracy was first recorded for the Penthouse sessions (released in 1995), and left off the record. It was later collected on the deluxe version. The Penthouse version sounds pretty finished to me, however the band would hold it back and rework it for Pup Tent. It is hard to say where the song would have been sequenced if it had made the cut. Especially in the early version, it is not as uptempo as “Chinatown,” still the obvious single. It would also not have fit well around “23 Minutes in Brussels,” which needs its own space. I could see it sequenced second, with “Sideshow by the Seashore” moved to anchor the back half somewhere–but that’s party because I like Tracy better than Sideshow. Or, it could have gone late–say 11th if Penthouse had had 12 tracks. I like a really sneaky good song like Tracy second to last. A good example of this move is on Lambchop’s Flotus, where “NIV” sits 10th and sets up the shaggy-epic “The Hustle.” Here, Tracy would set up “Bonnie and Clyde,” maybe not a natural fit but I kind of like it. The Penthouse version is only 3:50 though, while the Pup Tent version is 4:50. 4:50 is a better length to set up a song like Bonnie.

Anyway, the slightly more syrupy, marginally slower early version was redone and ended up on 1997’s Pup Tent. I like the fact that the new version gets an one minute extended outro with the cascade of “doooo/ doo doo doo,” though I’m not sure that I don’t like the early version better. Pup Tent’s sound was notoriously labored over, and in his memoir Wareham writes that Tracy was especially tough to get the vocal for. Although the album was trying to record, Wareham writes that “Pup Tent was not our best record, but it was our best-sounding record, containing all kinds of sonic textures.” He also told filmmaker Noah Baumbach in 2016 that “there are some really cool sounding things on Pup Tent; ‘Pup Tent’ itself, ‘Tracy I Love You,’ ‘Fuzzy Wuzzy.’ So, sonically, I love it.” Indeed Tracy has stayed on the set list and established itself as one of the standouts of Luna’s catalog.

The song opens with a classic Wareham verse:

Tell me stories on my birthday/ buy me gifts on Halloween/ she’s pretending not to know me/ but I know where she’s been.

Nobody does needy/ cheeky/ sly/ sexy in quite the same combination as peak Wareham.

Two verses later we get another deeply quotable verse:

I spend too much time in airplanes/ eating peanuts and getting high/ don’t know why I can’t stop smiling/ when I only need to cry.

It is this verse especially that I prefer on the Penthouse sessions–there is a weird stuttering reverb that almost pulls the vocal back in time–it’s like a car trying and not quite getting into third gear. For the Pup Tent version, Eden’s guitar behind the vocal has been improved, and the vocal is much smoother. To each their own–both versions rock.

Posted on by Matt Thomas

On Kris Kristofferson’s “To Beat the Devil”

This piece takes a look at Kris Kristofferson’s “To Beat the Devil.” The song appears on Kristofferson’s self-titled debut album from 1970 on Monument, which is, by any standard, an astonishingly good record. The album features “Me and Bobby McGee,” “Sunday Morning Coming Down,” and “Just the Other Side of Nowhere,” along with the ol’ Devil. That’s four absolute classics right there for ya.

Sunday Morning features an opening quatrain that most other songwriters would trade their career for:

Well I woke up Sunday morning/ with no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt/ and the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad/ so I had one more for dessert

(I could play this game all day—Jason Isbell’s Southeastern features another couple life-work worthy couplets:

The first two lines of “Super 8”:

Don’t wanna die in a super 8 motel/ just because somebody’s evening didn’t go so well

And from “Different Days”:

Time went by and I left and I left again/ Jesus loves a sinner but the highway loves a sin.

If I’d written lines that great I’d call it a career and sip martinis on the house for the duration.)

Sunday Morning and Bobby are probably objectively better songs than To Beat the Devil, yet what I like about this one is that Kristofferson states very clearly a kind of founding intention for his life in song and art, right out of the gate. The only parallel I can think of is Craig Finn’s The Hold Steady, whose first album Almost Killed Me kicks off with “A Positive Jam.”

(Here’s Finn telling it like it is:

I got bored when I didn’t have a band/ so I started a band/ we’re gonna start it with a positive jam/ hold steady.

Rock on Craig baby.)

Anyway, let’s get to the focus of this piece. Kristofferson opens with a spoken intro.:

A couple of years back I come across a great and wasted friend of mine in the hallway of a recording studio. And while he was reciting some poetry to me that he had written, I saw that he was about a step away from dying, and I couldn’t help but wonder why. And the lines of this song occurred to me.

Here the singer is looking up at his idol who is both “great and wasted.” I wasn’t around quite yet in 1970, yet I can easily imagine Ginsberg’s “best minds” line hanging over talented folks across a lot of zones. Klosterman wasn’t quite there either (June 5, 1972–a mid Gemini of course), but he was close, and to indulge not for the last time in a little Klostermania, the zeitgeist seemed to be making people thirsty.

The singer receives some scraps of poetry, shards of shattered inspiration, and a song “occurs” to him. He doesn’t state it directly, however we imagine the song arrives fully formed, like “Pancho and Lefty,” or “Kubla Khan.” Thus, To Beat the Devil is also both an answer and an offer of redemption to his idol, who here is John(ny) Cash.

I’m happy to say he’s no longer wasted, and he’s got him a good woman. And I’d like to dedicate this to John and June, who helped showed me how to beat the devil.

The singer takes up the mantle of the master, and in so doing opens a possibility window onto redemption for his senior. This is no exaggeration—Cash also recorded To Beat the Devil in 1970 and we are basically stipulating that Kristofferson’s genius, descended from Cash while also original to himself, helped rescue Cash from addiction and the whole deal there. We won’t be deep diving into the archive on this one—as we said we’re just keeping it local and breaking it down, so you’ll have to take my word on it or search it up your own self.

Here’s the first verse; the words speak for themselves:

It was wintertime in Nashville/ down on Music City Row/ and I was looking for a place/ and to get myself out of the cold/ to warm the frozen feeling that was eating at my soul/ keep the chilly wind off my guitar

A classic down and out in the big city piece of scene-setting. The singer is physiologically and psychologically frozen, a cold wind gusts across his art. The man needs a break.

My thirsty wanted whiskey/ my hungry needed beans/ but it had been a month of paydays/ since I’d heard that eagle scream/ so with a stomach full of empty/ and a pocket full of dreams/ I left my pride and stepped inside a bar

You might think that the operative nouns here would be “thirst” and “hunger,” but no. This is not a man with a thirst; this is a thirsty man. We also hear an echo of a now-ancient American past where a man with an empty stomach would go in search of, of all things, “beans.”

Anyway, he’s got no money, can’t really bring himself to care. So, a singer walks into a bar.

Actually I’d guess you’d call it a tavern/ cigarette smoke to the ceiling
and sawdust on the floor/ friendly shadows/ I saw that there was just one old man sitting at the bar/ and in the mirror I could see him checking me and my guitar/ and he turned and said/ come up here, boy, and show us what you are/ I said I’m dry, and he bought me a beer

The man in the mirror, the devil himself. The singer comes face to face with the man who checks him out and summons him over. Kristofferson then enters into a bargain–offers up the terms of an encounter: a beer on the old man’s tab. Score one for the thirsty man. The singer faces the old man; it’s to be a showdown. He doesn’t have much, but he’s got some “friendly shadows,” traces of an older map perhaps, an older memory.

I can’t help here but engage in a bit of presumption. When I play the song in my head, I want to hear “in the mirror I saw him casing me and my guitar,” (listen to the way he pronounces “guitar” on the track. Kristofferson was born in Brownsville, Texas in ‘36 and behind the laid back folksinger you can here some roots here baby).

If I could make one edit to the song, it would be to replace “checking me,” with “casing me.” What a great verb “to case” is.

Lexical Interlude: “To case the joint”

1. slang To observe a place in order to familiarize oneself with its workings in preparation for some criminal activity (often robbery). Judging from the security footage, those men cased the joint hours before robbing it.

2. slang By extension, to thoroughly examine a place. In this usage, no devious motive is implied. As soon as my kids walking into the hotel room, they started casing the joint, exclaiming about everything from the TV to the mini-fridge.

The seminal use of this verb phrase comes from Bill Callahan, formerly of Smog. Callahan is an odd duck—he is so artificial, so obviously self-created as an entertainer, that he has become almost post-authentic.  Callahan contains multitudes.

My favorite Smog album, well in the top two, is Red Apple Falls, which features “Ex-Con,” on which Callahan sings: 

Jean jacket and tie/ feel like such a lie/ when I go to your house/ I feel like I’m/ casing the joint

Devious motive implied.

=====

He nodded at my guitar and said/ it’s a tough life, ain’t it?/ I just looked at him/ he said “you ain’t making any money, are you?“/ I said, you been reading my mail/ he just smiled and said, let me see that guitar/ I got something you ought to hear/ and then he laid it on me

The devil has a bead on the singer, and he’s not far off.  Yes he’s broke.  Yes he’s down and out.  Whaddaya want?

=====

Filmic Interlude I: The Long Goodbye

In Robert Altman The Long Goodbye, written by Leigh Brackett, the main character Philip Marlowe gets out of jail somewhere in the first act and heads to a all-purpose pit stop restaurant who’s owner apparently collects Marlowe’s mail. The dialogue is exquisite.

Marlowe: You got any messages for me?

Owner: Believe we’ve got a few over there. As a matter of fact, you’ll find my phone bill in there too.

Marlowe: I wouldn’t worry about that.

When you ain’t got nothing you got nothing to lose. Kristofferson’s got nothing to hide in his mail. Those bills go straight to the wastebasket.

=====

If you waste your time a talkin’ / to the people who don’t listen/ to the things that you are saying/ who do you thinks gonna hear?/ and if you should die explaining how/ the things that they complain about/ are things they could be changing/ who do you thinks gonna care?

there were other lonely singers/ in a world turned deaf and blind/ who were crucified for what they tried to show/ and their voices have been scattered by the swirling winds of time/ ‘cause the truth remains that no one wants to know

The devil’s words speak for themselves. The path of the troubadour is a dead end. The world has not ears to hear nor eyes to see. Truth tellers meet a bad end. Whiners gonna whine. It’s a strong opening bet, made, we presume, with his red right hand.

Well the old man was a stranger/ but I’d heard his song before/ back when failure had me locked out/ on the wrong side of the door/ when no one stood behind me/ but my shadow on the floor/ and lonesome was more than a state of mind

The singer is on familiar territory; he’s has been tempted by this cynical incantation, he’s not immune to tuning out his calling when out in the cold. Who is?

You see, the devil haunts a hungry man/ if you don’t want to join him/ you gotta beat him/ I ain’t saying I beat the devil/ but I drank his beer for nothing/ then I stole his song

This is the key verse in our little tale. You see, when we tango with the devil the devil usually gets to lead. That’s just the way it goes. But the thing about the devil is, his game is a bit of a bluff. A couple of low pairs, maybe. You just gotta call.

and you still can hear me singing/ to the people who don’t listen/ to the things that I am saying/ praying someone’s gonna hear/ and I guess I’ll die explaining how/ the things that they complain about/ are things they could be changing/ hoping someone’s gonna care

I was born a lonely singer/ and I’m bound to die the same/ but I’ve gotta feed the hunger in my soul/ and if I never have a nickel/ I won’t ever die ashamed/ ‘cause I don’t believe that no one wants to know

Kristoffeson flips it right around. The devil’s got a point; the singer may die dead broke, that’s fine. Songs are borne on the wind in any case. The thing is to have faith in your audience. To believe someone is out there, heart in their hands and ear to the wind. And to hold this faith as a mantra. That’ll keep ‘em guessing, cause then you’re not playing their game, you’re playing your own.

Overall, To Beat the Devil is a young man’s song. It’s got a confidence, a swagger, even a hubris. So, after drafting most of this piece I wanted to find a recent live version, see how it’s aged. I stumbled on a version from a live set with Lou Reed released in 2017. The set is part of The Bottom Line Archive, and it finds Kristofferson in a Waitsian stage of life. The voice is richer than ever, but he’s not exactly singing. Then again, that’s what they said about Dylan and it’s B.S. The voice is the voice; singing is just a category.

The set is interspersed with short interviews of the two songwriters. Here is Kristofferson’s spoken introduction that precedes To Beat the Devil. It is instructive.

Interviewer: The devil figures in some of your songs, you know there’s that silver tongued devil and he pops up from time to time. Who’s the devil? What’s the devil for you? What are your demons?

K.K.: Well, I, I’ll do that song then. Ahhh…

Interviewer: Is that a metaphor or is that something real for you?

K.K.: Well here’s a song called To Beat the Devil. Maybe it’ll explain it. I can’t.