I had been planning to write something really profound about my impending nuptials on Friday (and it is definitely profound in so many ways), but a moment last night really brought it all home. After a late night of doing some last-minute wedding preparations and errands in which copy machines played a critical role, we were driving when I cued up a Silver Jews album in the car.
(For those of you not familiar with the Silver Jews, their Wikipedia entry reads in part: “The Silver Jews were always a conduit for David Berman’s brand of sardonic, countrified indie rock.” Hmmm. . . . “sardonic countrified indie rock” is about as close to my ideal as one could imagine, suggesting the perfect mixture of Stephin Merritt‘s raised-eyebrow lyrics, Gram Parson‘s “Cosmic American Music,” and a nice dose of Bakesale-era Sebadoh thrown in for good measure.)
So, it only makes sense that when I put on track one of the Silver Jews’ excellent 1998 record American Water (9.9 from Pitchfork — whoa!), an album we had never listened to together or even discussed before, we sang the first wonderful sardonic-countrified-indie-rock line in unison, completely unprompted:
In 1984, I was hospitalized for approaching perfection
In that simple shared moment, I experienced the powerful feeling of knowing that things were just plain right.