In Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury describes a dystopian society that has completely eliminated books, inspirations for free thought. Newspapers, films, and albums have also been shunned. Guilty pleasure television has taken over as the preferred recreational activity. After a life-altering incident, the protagonist, Guy Montag, realizes that something worth experiencing must lie inside books, and he begins a quest to discover the magic that has long been outlawed.
Somehow, every word that David Ford sings feels so personal that it hurts me to listen. I need 30-second breaks in between tracks. Lucinda Williams does this to me. So does Matthew Ryan. I try to relate, but I end up going numb, only because I have no idea of the pain they speak of in their songs. Somehow, every word that David Ford sings feels so personal that it hurts me to listen. I need 30-second breaks in between tracks. Lucinda Williams does this to me. So does Matthew Ryan. I try to relate, but I end up going numb, only because I have no idea of the pain they speak of in their songs. Somehow, every word that David Ford sings feels so personal that it hurts me to listen. I need 30-second breaks in between tracks. Lucinda Williams does this to me. So does Matthew Ryan. I try to relate, but I end up going numb, only because I have no idea of the pain they speak of in their songs.
On occasion, some of my friends will ask why I listen to such “depressing music,” and I’ve always found that curious. Sure, I see their point, a lot of the stuff I enjoy features subject matter that is dark and gloomy—but, in my opinion, there is a unique kind of hope buried deep within slow, sad songs. I love them.
I’m going to take you back a bit. Not back when Steve Earle was a guitar town hero in Nashville, hung up on heroin, behind bars, or even “just another country-rock artist.” I’m going to take you back when I first heard a Steve Earle song.