I knew I wanted to write about America and American music this weekend. It’s been in my brain ever since Joseph Moore and I got stuck on a tangent about Jason Isbell in his Intentional Investor conversation. But then I got distracted with my epic new car playlist and, while it was stewing, the other morning in the shower the answer finally dawned on me:

“American Music” by The Violent Femmes is the greatest American music song ever.

Plus it’s kinda funny I’m sharing it on July 5th, in a slightly troll-y, passive aggressive belated birthday way, you know?

But seriously, I believe these truths to be self-evident and I want to explain why.

Listen to it first if you don’t know it. The video is actually worth it too. It makes the points even better, visually, and - god, I love this song. AMERICA (via almost Canada):

“American Music” got released on April 30th, 1991. I didn’t discover it until about 1993, when they put out their Add It Up compilation, and one of those 13 CDs for a penny scams sent me my copy for a penny, because who doesn’t trust teenagers without credit cards to pay them, and this is the industry that us teenagers would thank for their trust by inventing/using Napster, aggressively, a few short years later (take that, cassingle shillers).

At face value it’s a folk-punk singalong anthem. You play it and get notes of Bruce via the organs, with hints of a cheaper studio attempt at making a Wall of Sound (that floor tom that wants to be a timpani drum is just so great). It’s the kind of song you might not think twice about against all of their other hits on a CD like this.

I fell in love with this song right away. It became one of my favorites and I used to sing and play it on guitar to nobody, because nobody else loved them except my friend Jeff, and as great as all the girls thought “Add It Up” was in Reality Bites, the band deserved more than that (including “Blister in the Sun” singalongs - which is about masturbation, even if he says it’s about drug use and not masturbation, and I can’t believe not everybody seems to know either of those facts, to this day when the song comes on at random, family friendly events).

America, in the hands of Gordon Gano - born to actor parents in NYC, briefly raised in CT, and then fully formed in Wisconsin, at Baptist church outings and community theater events - is a pickup line.

Not a good pickup line, either.

But one you try, because everybody loves America, right?

Do YOU like American music? I like American music.

It should be so easy.

It never is. The song tells you everything you need to know with the rushed count off into the slowdown question. It’s all a failed attempt at awkward romance, and none of its pretty, but it’s a little catchy, so what else are we going to do but sing along.

The metaphors are a little on the nose. American culture is basically a reminder of all the things you don’t have. Even the common themes, the ones we want the most, like the promise of making love under the moon, or moonlight on the lake, and the purity of nature - “Do you do too many drugs? I did too many drugs. Did you do too many drugs, too?”

In Gordon’s hands, the moon is ugly. The lake is ugly. The romantic gesture and a likely awkward age gap is just another sign of the lack of connection anybody is actually feeling. It’s pretty tragic. But it sure is magic tragic.

Because when we get to the bridge the song finally let’s us know it’s ok.

We get a call and response. Classic roots music style. There’s a gang vocal and Gordon’s voice is suddenly not alone, and in conversation.

He says he likes American music and they say, “We like all kinds of music.” He doesn’t find it, but he fumbles with it a little, throws out an “but I like American music best,” followed by his just-below-register “bayyybeeee” crooner attempt, and we move forward, as a group.

The crowd lets him know to not be so narrow and weird about what he likes. It’s the ultimate pickup line critique, in a way. It’s also a, “Hey, broaden your standards” thing, if not a “maybe lower your standards while you’re over there too, buddy.”

To this day, when I get to that point in the song, I feel like I’m sitting, maybe mildly buzzed, looking out upon all of my failures, basking in the glow of the fairy tale successes that all seemed so possible at one point or another in my life so far, and it hits me like a wave of mutilation when he sings how it, “reminds me of me.”

Because they moved on as a group, but there’s still the individuality of it all.

“I like a little music.” “It reminds me of me.” “Sweet, sweet music.”

THAT is America.

So, look in that ugly lake, fellow narcissist who clearly aren’t narcissists because we’re self-aware of what we’re doing.

We’re American (or not). We like music (we do, it’s true). All we want to do is singalong with people who understand THIS experience of being human. Even if we sing over each other sometimes, or even if it doesn’t make perfect sense, we sing it out - because we’re in love with it.

No pick up required. The song ends at the originally counted-off fever pace, flying off the tracks into a glorious, reverbed, voice and guitar decay.

Perfect song. 10/10. No notes except these notes. Put it down on my permanent record.

PS. OK OK OK. Honorable mention: