Deep Cuts

by Holly Brickley

I had this dreamlike feeling of nearing some place I’d been looking for—a vacancy just my shape, hidden inside an enormous puzzle.

It’s just that authenticity seems to me only one metric by which to judge music, and I don’t see why it should swallow all the other ones, including beauty and fun.

They were soulful and comfortable and had all the amenities that actually make people happy, like porches and window seats, and none of the things we believed to make us happy, like open-floor plans and living rooms optimized for Super Bowl viewing.

“Sometimes, you know, you’re with someone and you’re convinced that they have something to…to tell you…. So maybe nothing’s happening, but you keep telling yourself something’s happening. You know, innate communication. He’s just not saying anything. He’s moody or something. So you keep being there, pulling, giving, rapping, you know. And then, all of a sudden about four o’clock in the morning you realize that, flat ass, this motherfucker’s just lying there. He’s not balling me.

Worse, that it was more his fantasy than hers. Because “Our House” isn’t about Joni Mitchell. And “A Case of You” isn’t about Leonard Cohen, and “Chelsea Hotel #2” isn’t really about Janis Joplin either. We are all just writing about ourselves.