Even as an alt-rockin’ chowderhead teenager who thought 42 was primo nursing-home age, I cowered ever-so-slightly in the presence of “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” the monster piano-driven heartbreak ballad to end them all: I had my little crushes, and my little mixtapes to feebly woo all my little crushes, but subconsciously I recognized this song as adult, as the Real Shit, and more importantly I recognized myself as being nowhere near adult enough to go near the Real Shit.
