The Singles Jukebox

Just to be clear, this post was *not* sponsored by the Vermont Tourism Board...

[5.10]

Total writers: 20
Highest score: [9]
Lowest score: [2]
Controversy index: 2.13

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: A [2] or an [8] depending on how much this alerts your anti-Mumford and Sons or anti-Lewis Capaldi radar, and whether or not you have a soft spot for self-deprecating white men telling jokes and making confessions at their own expense. We’ll skew higher since this has aged surprisingly well.
[7]

Jacob Satter: Back when they were riding the wave of stardom for the first time, I bought tickets to see Counting Crows and a pre-dreadlocked Adam Duritz was going through it. He spent most of the show baffling the audience by lying flat on his back at center stage, talk-singing his way through August and Everything After, genuinely unable to look success in the eye. I take this trip down memory lane to clarify that when I say that every generation gets the self-actualizing folk dorkery it deserves, I'm not exculpating X while side-eying any COVID-worn millennials who embrace Mr. More-Mumford-Than-Mumford here for their mental balm.
[3]

Isabel Cole: Mumford-lite, nasal whine, uninspired lyrics: sure. And I, who tend towards particular indifference in the face of men with their guitars, should of all people be somewhere between immune and repelled. But this one fucking got me, I don’t know. There’s something about the unrelenting quickness of the verses, the way it slips heedlessly along axes of register and mood and scope: from the mannered poetry of “all the miles combined” to the indignantly conversational “like halfway through the drive,” from self-pity to self-recrimination, from daddy issues to drinking the pain away. It plunges into melodrama -- “I’m terrified of weather” -- and pivots to a gag, funny enough and also true, about air travel in the era of COVID. He says he’s stuck, and I believe him not because of that line but precisely because the song refuses to alight on any particular complaint for long. That’s what it’s like sometimes, when you’re in the long process of reconfiguring your life around an absence you never planned for. You scrabble for purchase amidst the concrete and specific, saying all the useless sayable things because the whole truth defies articulation. Your petty irritations and psychological fault lines alike draw you right back into the vortex. You do see him in the weather, which is a way of saying you see him everywhere, and also that you never realized your block had a particular smell in spring until one April morning you found yourself thinking of him and realized it had been a year. You dream a version of him and wake up unnerved and you don’t know if what disturbed you was what the dream got wrong or what the dream got right. You can’t believe you can't talk to him when your uncle dies and when #FreeBritney goes mainstream and every time Marvel puts out a new terrible movie, and in the peculiar gravity of loss these things feel somehow equally consequential. You wash the dishes and listen to a song that rattles off all these different ways to miss someone and you wonder how long he’ll be the person this type of song makes you think of, and you think about how much he would hate it, how mean he would be about Noah Kahan’s hair, how you have to look up every time if it’s Noah or Noel but you’re still crying at the kitchen sink, how much of your taste was his taste first, how you lost two people, really, because he took with him the person you were when he was here. I am no longer funny, ‘cause I miss the way you laugh. Your head says this is a generous [5], that it’s neither special nor smart enough to quit while it’s ahead, that while the line about being half a heart is trite but serviceable, the clarification of “the other half was you” is unforgivable, truly, taking you out of the song every time. Your heart thinks that so many of the funniest things you’ve ever said were things you only said because he was listening. Noah, not Noel, drops the strumming to sing that line about Vermont one more time and in the emptiness around him you can almost hear the whistling northern wind, the sound of a world turned brittle and cold. Stupid. These fucking songs always do that. It’ll be four years come April. You put the dish in the rack and wipe your eyes with your wrist and before you pick up another dirty plate you hit play one more time.
[8]

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