The Art of the Lie
I am in full agreement
that John Grant is no name
for a rock star, and yet, he is,
nevertheless, a rock star to me,
and his most recent album,
The Art of the Lie,
has been in consistent, heavy
rotation. I listened to it today
in the car as I drove to Pure Life
Clinic for a massage and a meeting
with my chiropractor about this knee
and these hands.
I don’t usually talk when I get
a massage, but today the two of us
were downright gabby, and, although
he asked me how the family was doing,
we talked mostly about music,
about drumming, about music we liked
in common, about things we both
liked but felt differently about,
like lo-fi Mountain Goats vs. audiophile
Mountain Goats (he prefers the former,
I prefer the latter), and about which 80’s synth pop
bands were worth listening to (we agreed
that Depeche Mode was fairly skippable;
he recommended Joy Division).
Talk of synthesizers led me to John Grant,
and I told him I was seeing him in concert
this evening. He had never heard of him
and we both laughed at how pedestrian
the musician’s name was.
I tried to describe John Grant’s music
to my massage therapist and that was difficult.
He uses a lot of synthesizers, I said, but he’s a pianist
primarily, a good one, and he has this sonorous
baritone voice which can be quite soothing.
His lyrics are sometimes funny, satirical,
but they can often be profoundly serious
and moving, like the one song on this new
album where he talks about wanting
to run one more time into his father’s arms.
That song makes me cry almost every time,
especially if I try to sing along, which I did
in the car on my way to the appointment,
having to wipe away the tears so I could
see to drive. That whole thing, about that
song and crying while driving–
I didn’t tell that to my massage therapist
but I wanted to.
michael jarmer 