I remember in the mid-oughts somewhere my family picked up a best of Patsy Cline cassette tape. I think my sister Josephine might have found it at a thrift shop. Of course "Crazy," her biggest hit, was on there. There was also the calypso-inspired "Foolin' Round," a campy country fusion song that feels perfect for the lido deck of a Carnival cruise ship.
"I Fall To Pieces" really grabbed my mother, my sister, and me. Driving around the Western Pennsylvania countryside in the evening, being at a really hard time in our collective lives, there was something cathartic about listening to Patsy Cline describing just utter devastation and heartbreak. The shock of young adulthood was absolutely paralyzing to me, at that point unmedicated and not in therapy. My Dad's health was a mess. My sister had an on-and-off psychotic boyfriend who gaslit and terrorized my family. These were really dark times in our life that brought us all to feel a certain kinship with Patsy and her sorrow.
The right song in the right car on the right night with the right people. That tape got a lot of play, and if the song hadn't finished we'd sit in the car until it did, or better yet drive around more, on windy roads through the woods and past old dilapidated barns, the warm cinnamon-like smell of cow manure in the air.
There are few singers that can break your heart the way Patsy Cline can. Listening to the song, I could see her sitting there in the bar, watching as her lost love walks towards her. The glimmer of hope, the swelling of courage, followed by the absolute emotional crash as he walks by.
I've heard many people say, "I like all kinds of music, well, except for country and rap." While I've found very little appealing about modern mainstream country, the phrase feels like a middle finger to Patsy Cline, Loretta Lynn, Hank Williams, Slim Whitman, Johnny Cash, Graham Nash on the country side of things. On the rap side of things it's usually people just showing some lowkey racism. Sit down, try to understand what it's like to live in Compton in the 90s and blast the Chronic on a hot summer's day. Or try to understand what it's like you be a young queer black man now and listen to Igor. Art is a window into other people's perspectives and a way for us to find commonality
One looked rather intriguing. A young woman in a silver wig and a 70s style jacket (my fashion knowledge is lacking here, what kind of jacket is that?) singing straight to the camera. We were immediately raptured. Who is this woman with an absolutely mesmerizing voice that can break your heart in an instant with the pop sensibilities that simultaneously remind me of Big Star, the Replacements, and Nevermind era Nirvana? I'm sure the comparison gets made a ton, but she feels like a new Patsy Cline who can seamlessly blend alt-rock and country while still breaking your heart with every single song.
Enamored we explored further. We watched the video for "Sister" and having recently watched the film "Ingrid Goes West" for a moment we were scared that we had found ourselves in the Coachella/Venice Beach/Influencer side of indie pop. Was this just tailored vibe? The sunsets in the hills of Southern California scared me.
Around the same time, I think we watched "Paris, Texas." Harry Dean Stanton wonders out the desert, dehydrated, and unable to communicate. A doctor calls his brother Dean Stockwell, who drives him from Texas the hills of LA where he's reunited with his son for whom his brother and wife have provided kinship care.
We learn that he's on a mission to find his son's mother, a woman to whom he was abusive. He finds her, played by Natassja Kinski, working at a rather elaborate peepshow/phone sex facility, where she performs in a little room with a prison style phone connecting her to the audience on the other side of a two-way mirror.
Harry Dean visits the booth twice. Once to confirm it's her, a second to tell her a story. It's the story of their relationship that ended because of his abuse. He says this tenderly and with no intention of getting her back, rather he just wants her back with their son. He doesn't care what happens to himself.
This has perhaps become one of my very favorite scenes in film history.
I drew a connection from this film to Angel Olsen's album "My Woman." The telephone in the video for "Shut Up Kiss Me" and the Southern California hills in "Sister" felt connected to this slow, quiet, and gentle movie. The video on the opening song of the album, "Intern," felt like a direct reference.
"My Woman" has since become one of my absolute favorite albums in the 2010s. There are few artists that bring you to such deep empathy with their music, and she has only continued to do so with her following albums going from the moody synth ballads of "All Mirrors" to the big band Grand Ole Opry style country of "Big Time."
"All Mirrors" invites obvious comparison to some of Kate Bush's best work, but also to me I heard some of Scott Walker's weird solo orchestral pop in the absolute best way.
My wife and I saw her perform when she came to Pittsburgh this year. She was brilliant. Probably the best musician I've ever seen perform. I'm not sure who's she's dethroned for me.
She's a generational talent, and one with a unique deep humanity to her music that few musicians possess. Despite her talent there's a humility and a vulnerability that most hyper talented musicians possess. Her music brings you to care and feel for her, and invites a real deep empathy for her womanhood and humanhood in a way that few can.
Want to listen to more? I made a playlist.
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