Something else I wrote about the song from the previous post. This one isn’t about man cum, at least until the implied actions after the ending.
You know, you can hear an album a thousand times and you know the words and can gesticulate your body and punch the air at the exact right drum kick, but then there’s that one time that’s the first time really that you actually hear it, really truly hear it. In high school, which was hick school in some ways, and very rich white boy school in others, meaning that it was very rich white boys who bought very expensive trucks (with designer brand hick decals) and very expensive hunting equipment, I used to listen to this album a lot riding around in one of those gigantic-wheeled trucks. It sounded good. It sounded gritty. That wet squeal of a voice, the guitar licks all over the place, and ‘alright Wilson, hit me’ etcetera etcetera. Listened to it mostly in the fall, carpets of leaves blowing and throwing a backpack into the bed of a truck and campfire smoke and homecoming football games and etcetera etcetera again you get the idea.
But the first time I heard it, really heard it, was a couple years ago, and I was euthanized on two too many Dos Equis and mail-ordered ganja, both gratis from a very nice old man who my girl at the time was good friends with. At first, I thought he was a creep (who wouldn’t, old man hanging out with your girl, walking into her kitchen and her hanging up the phone and you saying who was that then her saying, oh nobody it was just this old guy) but then I met him and he picked up the bar tab and took her and I back to his place and rolled a mean little joint and I was thinking well damnit this guy ain’t so bad and then he put on this record and then left us alone in his house while he went to buy some wine.
I was euthanized, just kind of floating, standing up—thinking back on it now this was probably during ‘Running Dry’ with that just gorgeous violin that just crushes with the vocals, they are god damn whiskey and weed together, just soaring soaring soaring—and she comes over to me and wraps her arms around me and we stand there for years and years listening to that forty minute LP work it’s way through some of the most fantastic tracks I’ve ever heard.
Anyway, that’s about it. This is the album I want to hear as I’m dying, because I was pretty much dead that night in that room and it felt pretty divine. I was super transcendent messed up and heard this album and I can’t really write anything about it aside from it’s real good. You should go find that girl, she lives in Maine now, drag her back to that house and take those hits and empty those bottles and listen to it and maybe you’ll know what I’m trying to say.
The old man came back, and to be honest, I didn’t even know he’d left. We drank some wine on his porch and he told me some dirty story about Mardi Gras when she went inside that I can’t even begin to recollect. That’s all I remember about that.
Her and I had a conversation maybe when we got back to her bed.
Man, those songs, I said.
Which ones, she asked.
Neil Young, I said.
Right, she said.
And Crazy Horse, I said.
People say he wrote some of these songs when he had a temperature of a hundred and four and, man, did I feel like I was running a fever too that night. I was just burning up.
You know that album’s actually Neil Young with Crazy Horse, she said.
Shut up, I said.
Take your clothes off, she said.
We were just burning up.