Funeral Song — Laura Gibson
#365Songs: March 9th
Obsession: what triggers it, and what redirects it.
When I discover a writer who leaves me in awe, I never stop there. I buy all the books. I devour every word, I tell everyone “stop stop stop read this now now now.” Often it isn’t until years later when I realize just how much I loved that artist, and wonder how it’s possible I’d gone so long without revisiting their work. And then as soon as the obsession has diverted to a new artist, they get lost in time. Of course this isn’t possible with major artists that are firmly rooted in pop culture: Velvet Underground, The Cure, Radiohead, even indie bands like The National — but it’s certainly a whole lot easier with the lesser known ones I tend to love most.
There are a few who never go away, bands and artists who’ve been on repeat for over a decade or two: Damien Jurado, Daniel Norgren, Neil Halstead’s Mojave 3, Lotte Kestner and Trespassers William, Jason Molina’s Songs;Ohia — all of whom will get a post of their own one day soon, for those who have not yet received my excessive love.
But in all honesty, I don’t know what separates one from the other. Mood? Life’s context? A fucking algorithm?
So let’s talk about one of these artists. I texted Jay, one of the other 365 writers, and asked him to name an artist he thought I would’ve already written about. He said, almost immediately: Laura Gibson.
I gasped. Like yeah, an actual cartoonish gasp. Laura fucking Gibson. What agitates me most is that I’ve done this with her a few times. Her debut album dropped in 2006, which means she’s been in my life for almost 20 years. Six stunningly beautiful albums, three EPs, and not a song I’d skip. The thing about the obsession-triggering artists is that all it takes is one song, and then whoosh. I’m stuck on repeat.
My longest stretch with Laura was in 2010. I ran to the Funeral Song for months, daily. Listen to the song and you might ask yourself, “What sort of person runs to that song?” This guy does, and I’m fucking proud of it. Running is my version of Leonard Cohen’s crack that lets the light in, it’s how I process the world, how I blend time together with feeling, where things that make no sense start to reveal themselves to me. This is never more important than when in grief, that perfect piece of art that serves as a salve for a wound. The saddest songs are the ones that welcome me in, a warm embrace. A voice, a lyric, a mood, a rhythm that breaks me down and builds me back up.
If these bare walls could sing
They would sing us a funeral song
Push their wooden words into your mouth
They would not wish to be
A burden to your tongue
Would not wish to carry on
Too long
With no sorrow
Ask no greater pardon
Than the pattern
Time is carving in your skin
I don’t think I’ve ever made this connection before, but I tend to have this magical experience when I enter certain bookstores where I’m drawn towards the book I need to read, as if it whispers to me and only me from across the room. Perhaps musical artists find me in the same way, a song that sparks a mood that burrows within and reminds me to keep listening, to keep feeling. It seems I’ll be spending considerable time with Laura Gibson for a while. Join me, eh?
If these pale bones could sway
They would march to a funeral song
And pull their milky way across the yard
They would not wish to keep
You tethered to their arms
They would not wish to carry on too far
With no sorrow
Ask no greater pardon
Than the pattern
Time is carving in your skin
Well if I could stretch my ears
Into a grand procession
And circle ‘round your wisdom
Like a song
I would not wish to be
The fire in your belly
I would not wish for
Holding you too long
With no sorrow
Ask no greater pardon
Than the pattern
Time is carving in your skin
