"And I wouldn't trade a tree;
For the way I feel about you in the morning:
Anyhow, I love you."
Guy Clark, 'Anyhow, I Love You'
Guy Clark died before I moved to Austin. That sounds odd - like I was waiting for him to pass before I could head on over. No. That's obviously not what I mean. I meant, that I never got to live in Austin at the same time as him.
There is something to walking the same streets, at the same time, as the great American poets. It makes you feel recycled. Like a soul tracing footsteps a second time.
And the thing about it is, Clark didn't really spend that much time living in Austin. He moved out to Nashville in the 70's and lived there till the end of his days. But, he was always a Texan and his music was always of Texas. The languid delivery; the sparse gaps in the imagery; the certainty of the moment and the clarity of a heavy past - all those things are particularly Texan.
Because, at their core, Texans are always certain. Certain of what has been; certain of what will come; and certain of what it is right now. And yes, those long hot Austin days do wear down the volume and speed of their delivery - but nothing shakes that certainty. Not even when they are clearly wrong.
---
Back in the late 80's and early 90's, when Crowded House were at the peak of their powers, I lived on the same block as Neil and Tim Finn. This was in a inner-city, Melbourne neighborhood filled, mainly, with Jewish folk and artists. So, it made complete sense that we were all there.
In those days, Crowded House songs were always on the radio. This was when radio stations were still the main music game in town. I can remember catching different parts of their songs at different times. Though I did sorta like them, I certainly wasn't someone you'd call a 'fan'.
I guess I didn't feel connected to them at the time.
Their melodies were sweet and lilting and Paul's drumming was fun, loose and driving. They fit real well as the soundtrack to a barbecue or rolling out of a portable cassette stereo on someone's beach towel laid out on the dunes behind me.
But still, through my teenage years, they ended up occupying that weird space where I knew tons of their music; could hum or mumble an estimation of the lyrics; knew who the band members were; but never really LISTENED to their music.
Years later, I was living in Los Angeles and Spotify was now the biggest game in town. All that choice on that green app is overwhelming. To me, anyways. I usually end up just choosing the same songs I already have on an old, uncharged iPod, that is taking up space in the front pocket of a suitcase somewhere.
One day - probably because I was pining for a walk down a windy, Melbourne beach - I flicked across to Crowded House. It'd been years since I'd heard anything from them. But it didn't feel like it had been. The music filled me up like I had never stopped living with it.
The words seemed familiar and connected. To me. As in, I felt connected to them. 'Four Seasons In One Day'; 'Fall At Your Feet'; 'Weather With You'; 'Mean To Me'; and on and on. I had once lived in the same place that those songs were created, yet it took a couple of decades and oceans to arrive there.
---
Somewhere deep inside;
Something's got a hold on you;
And it's pushing me aside;
See it stretch on forever;
Crowded House, 'Better Be Home Soon'
Folks like to call New Orleans 'The Home of Jazz'. And I suppose it is. But it's more than that. It's the home of music that reaches for what it knows it will never have. Songs that sing about knowing things could get better - whilst simultaneously acknowledging that they probably won't.
The Blues floated here down The Delta and collided with the energy of folks paddling the other way - scrambling to get out.
These are two opposing forces. And this leaves music that pulls and pushes you into both hope and despair. Songs that talk of the "sun shining in my backdoor again some day", whilst also calling for the "219 Train to come along and pacify my mind".
And however confusing it may seem that both of these cries are in the same song, it doesn't confuse me at all. I totally get it. Now. In this time, that I am here in this place, I feel together with the music and songs of this place.
Look - I don't feel defeated. I don't feel deflated. I don't feel lost. I know what happened. And I know why. I also know what better looks like. I feel hopeful and excited to set out on a trip that I know will only bring me right back to the same exact same spot I was standing in before I left.
And that's ok. For now. Because I'm here and there's melody and song. And when all else fails, I can choose between the river and a rocking chair or blood that dries up like rain.
