Lana

We are witnessing one of the greats of American poetry, during a century when we might have assumed they had all already passed.

She’s simply lethal. An acquired taste, perhaps. Any single line on any given day could be a knock-out punch. Free-flowing, kaleidoscopic imagery. Like a Terrence Malick film, but with words. Summoning every memory inside of you via a crochet of inside and outside lyrical references, to her own songs, to everyone else’s, and to a broad universe of American cultural artifacts. National treasures like Elvis Presley, Norman Rockwell, Bruce Springsteen, and James Dean. Really though, to try and name the references is to gloss over hundreds, maybe thousands. They’re all there. Living, breathing inside of her poetry.

Her songs are the heartbeat of America. Like the ending of Kerouac’s On The Road. You just listen and you feel it.

I could have shared 50 other songs from her extensive catalogue here. But this one’s as good as any. It’s the title track off of her 2021 album, Chemtrails Over The Country Club, her first of two albums released this year. Normally, an artist releasing two albums in one year annoys the hell out of me. But for Lana, I’ll gladly make an exception.

Listen to the song and try to imagine the childhood of a woman in your life. And try not to be brought to your knees.

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