#31: The Magnetic Fields: ‘I Don’t Want To Get Over You’ (1999)

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I was obsessed with ’69 Love Songs’ years before I knew anything much about it.

I was 16, browsing aimlessly in my local CD shop – this was during that cracked plastic era both before and after vinyl – and couldn’t help but be taken by its majestic presence near the front of the store: the stark, stylised artwork with that yin yang number on the front; the fact that it was three CDs crammed with songs all dealing in the most universal of concepts; the impossibly high price point (can’t remember exactly, but there’s no way I was dropping that much money on an unlistened whim); even the lyric booklet, which I read from front to back while the owner no doubt stared angrily and then tried to sell me one of those CD-cleaner kits that nobody bought and every store stocked. I read bits and pieces about this ambitious album over the years until I finally bought it. It’s a hard slog, cycling through genres without regard for sequencing, and I cherry-picked a few favourites, and largely ignored the rest.

Throughout the years, I found different songs appealed to me at different times; often I would hear a snippet of something in a random place, and make a note of some lyrics to later search out whatever this beacon of truth was. Quite often it was from this album, and I’d dig it out once again, play that song to death, and discover a handful of new favourites. I changed and it stayed the same. It was its own rich catalogue – complete and neat.

The concept for ’69 Love Songs’ began as an attempt by Stephin Merritt – the sole songwriter of the group – to compose a Sondheim-style theatre revue consisting of 100 love songs, inspired in part by Charles Ives’ 114 Songs, which he abandoned after releasing how epic an undertaking that would be. The idea morphed into an album – and subconsciously inspired this project, something I am only just realising while typing this, but hey!

Of course, despite being a down-scaling of his original vision, you can hardly call a triple-disc concept album containing 69 songs of wildly varying genres and moods anything but ambitious, and it’s an incredible collection with a high strike rate. Claymation pioneer Peter Gabriel later covered the lovely ‘Book Of Love’, opening Merritt’s songwriting up to an entirely new audience. He has a deep catalogue outside of this collection – as if this album wasn’t daunting enough.

‘I Don’t Want To Get Over You’ is one of the album’s standouts. It deals with Merritt’s refusal to stop wallowing in heartache, despite the knowledge that these feelings can be deadened a number of ways: sleeping pills; Prozac; an indiscriminate fling; delving into dark French philosophy; buying into the therapy he pays silly money for – they are all solutions, albeit band-aid ones. It doesn’t matter. He isn’t there yet.

One interesting thing to note about this song is that he doesn’t necessarily want to reignite the relationship, he just doesn’t want to let go of his love – and pain – just yet. He recognises that once the feelings fade, what they once had will be completely over; while ever he is holding onto this flame, there remains a bond.

The feeling in his stomach is the only remaining visceral sign their love ever existed – and Merritt isn’t ready or willing to give that away just so he can sleep at night.

@200sadsongs | @keirenjolly | @nathanjolly

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#30: Gladys Knight and the Pips – ‘Midnight Train To Georgia’ (1973)

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‘Midnight Train To Georgia’ is one of the first songs I can remember shifting my idea of love from a nice thing that teens on TV find and lose without too much discrimination or lasting anguish into a earth-shattering experience worth more than any life you could have built up before finding it. It showed me that people make sacrifices for love, start their lives over for love, and cannot make rational decisions while in love. Love is worth more to people than anything, and it can come along in an instant and shake whatever snow-globe world you thought was steady before. This scared the shit out of me.

“I’d rather live in his world, than live without him in mine.” That’s the crux of this song, and it’s a remarkably simple sentiment, with huge ramifications. Still, it doesn’t even seem like a choice in this song – and usually it isn’t. Not really. Not rationally.

The verses of ‘Midnight Train To Georgia’ detail her lover’s failed attempt to move from Georgia to L.A. to strike it big in the entertainment industry, and his retreat back to his previous life once he realises it’s simply not going to happen for him. His dreams of stardom are shattered, but while in L.A. it seems he picked up with Gladys, who is going quite well in Hollywood thank you very much. He is going back to find a simpler place in time, marking the gulf between the glitz of L.A. and the homespun pleasures of Georgia. She isn’t just choosing a dude, she is choosing a completely different world.

The song was originally written and recorded by Jim Weatherly as a country song named ‘Midnight Plane to Houston’, the story spawning from a conversation the songwriter had with Farrah Fawcett, of all people, who was travelling home to see her parents. She had just began seeing Lee Majors, and because privacy is overrated Weatherly  used the pair’s nascent relationship as fodder. Six months later he was contacted by someone who wanted Cissy Houston (Whitney’s mum) to record the track, but wanted to change the title to something more R’n’B sounding – plus having Houston in both the artist and song name wasn’t going to cut it. Weatherly agreed, Gladys Knight heard Houston’s version – which wasn’t a hit by any stretch – and recorded her own cover. It sold over half a million copies and hit #1.

Of course, regardless of transport mode and destination, the song is about someone leaving their established world to slot into someone else’s – for love. The midnight train scuttling across the country, taking you to a different life as you nod off to the rhythmic rattle is a nice poetic touch (half-hour cab to Sag Harbor doesn’t have quite the same ring) but it’s not vital to the story – every day there are people who are packing up and moving across states, cities, and planets to take a chance on that crazy little thing Freddie Mercury called love. “Pretty simple little story, but it felt real to me. It felt honest to me”, Weatherly remarked on the song, and that’s pretty much it.

The song strikes a deep chord in so many people; maybe you are currently weighing up options to decide whether to make the jump/train ride, or maybe you are years into your move, silently wondering whether the decision to give up your entire prior life for a fleeting feeling was a terrible mistake. Happily though, there are also those who cannot believe they ever considered not hopping the metaphorical midnight train. With the internet helping people from all different backgrounds and countries meet, fall in love, and relocate in hope of a beautiful new life, ‘Midnight Train To Georgia’ is more relevant now than ever before.

Love is where you find it – and sometimes it happens to be in Georgia.

@200sadsongs | @keirenjolly | @nathanjolly

#29: Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy – ‘I See A Darkness’ (1999)

‘I Can See A Darkness’ deals in friendship and depression.

Even when things are seemingly at their best, when you are filled with love for all the people you know, and you have clear hopes and plans for both the very near and the very far future, depression can still rise like the ‘Lost’ smoke monster and completely engulf you. Often it doesn’t make sense – also like the ‘Lost’ smoke monster – and when it happens a few times without any real world triggers to trace it to, it can make you stop being able to trust positive emotions – or rather you stop trusting the stability of them. Seeing “a darkness” is obviously not to be taken literally, but have you ever actually felt the lighting in a room shift when hit by a sudden thudding feeling of unspecified dread? It’s a very real sensation.

This song opens the first album that prolific songwriter Will Oldham released under the name Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy. A slow-burning, five minute plod, it was a stark opening statement after the lo-fi genre-blurring of his previous variously-named projects, and a clear sign that we were to take this new catalogue as a serious new start. The songs were focused, and adopted a more standard approach. “He’s going to sing songs that have verses, choruses, and bridges,” Oldham told the New Yorker of his new alias. “He’s, like, a Brill Building or Nashville songwriter.” Despite the third-person speak, the songs were more personal than ever before.

Close friendships are often the only anchors we can consistently rely upon, but as Oldham details in this song, even when you have the type of open relationship with a friend that allows you to detail your darkest feelings, and even when you know you share similar struggles with this person, you cannot be sure that you are being completely heard. “Many times we’ve been out drinking, and many times we’ve shared our thoughts”, he sings. “But did you ever notice the kind of thoughts I got?” Willpower to beat these dark thoughts is beside the point, too – Oldham knows logically that he has a drive to live and won’t let go of this, but he is also aware he is helpless to enforce this when his depression takes hold. He refers to his “drive” and “it’s opposition” as twin powers he has no agency over, but he still maintains hope. He hopes his friend can “somehow” save him from the darkness.

The second verse is infused with further simple hope – that one day he and his “buddy” will each have peace in their lives. His hope isn’t conditional on anything else – they can be alone, with wives, still friends, or not – as long as they can “light it up forever, and never go to sleep.” The fact he is looking into the future at all is a sign that perhaps the darkness will one day be beaten, but as of now, it still has a stronghold on him. Still, he does have hope…

@200sadsongs | @keirenjolly | @nathanjolly

#28: Janis Ian – ‘At Seventeen’ (1975)

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I learned the truth at seventeen

That love was meant for beauty queens
And high school girls with clear-skinned smiles
Who married young and then retired

Never has a more damning indictment of young love and the rigged system of society been written. ‘At Seventeen’ is an anthem for outcasts, for those who weren’t blessed in the genetic lottery, for those who never got an early chance to learn all the particulars of dating and mating and all the rest. Of course, this is the majority of us, but when you are a teenager, surrounded by whispered tales of “Friday night charades of youth”, you believe that you must be the only one who doesn’t know the dance yet.

Janis Ian was 22 when she was able to separate herself from those tortured teenage years enough to write with such outstanding clarity – it’s amazing how easily one can call bullshit on something when removed from the boiler room for even a few years. Ian surveyed her teenage pain, and was able to split the difference between reporter and victim in a way where the fundamental truths of the song remain timeless/timely, and also severely personal.

The sad thing is these fundamental issues don’t change throughout the decades. I haven’t been a teenage girl, but I would bet money that one attending school in 2016, negotiating the twin minefields of hormones and technology, would still relate to this song in a deep and personal way.

Those without real world romances to cling to would find comfort in pretense: the invention of teenage lovers, with even their imagined phone conversations sloppily sketched – her lack of real world romantic experience means she is only able to muster “vague obscenities” even from fantasy suitors. The self-delusion is rife: “We all play the game, and when we dare, 
we cheat ourselves at solitaire.” The irony that this song is in the style of a boss nova she never would have been asked to dance to is also fairly devastating.

Despite being firmly on the side of the outcast, Ian also shares some empathy for those who are given an early social advantage, knowing that this too is fleeting and in itself a trap. She warns that those who “win the game” only appear to. “Their small-town eyes will gape at you in dull surprise when payment due exceeds accounts received, at seventeen.” Peaking early is as much a curse as suffering through teenage years with “ravaged faces.” The game is rigged for all who play.

The song was written in 1973, recorded in 1974, released in 1975, and took six months of TV appearances to hit. The usual superficial concerns were raised by radio stations: it was too long, had too many lyrics, and was perceived as being aimed at women – as if this wasn’t the case for most popular music ever. Regardless of these petty issues, the song was a hit, reaching #3 in late ’75, and winning a Grammy.

Ian has since become inescapably linked to the plight of the “ugly duckling”; Tina Fey even wrote an unpopular character named Janis Ian into ‘Mean Girls’, itself the sharpest commentary on teenage popularity and cruelty since this song.

The story has a heart-warming ending. On Valentine’s Day in 1977, Ian received close to 500 cards from admirers and fans , each new suitor hoping to make up for those Valentines she never received as a youth.

@200sadsongs | @keirenjolly | @nathanjolly

#27: Alanis Morissette – ‘Head Over Feet’ (1995)

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It’s hard to explain exactly how massive ‘Jagged Little Pill’ was to someone who wasn’t alive in 1995, so frankly you shouldn’t bother. It will be boring for them, and unfulfilling for you, but as we speak there are people born after ’95 finding copies of this CD in Salvos and Vinnies and whatever hip new op shops have popped up recently, and considering this album sold 33 million copies during the period when it was all CDs, all the time, it’s fairly safe to assume copies will be finding their way into collections for many years to come, with the largest spike coming shortly after the 2021 Time article “Why CDs are groovy again.” (Spoiler: ‘Groovy’ comes back into style, too.)

‘Jagged Little Pill’ was a whirlwind of emotion and anger and Flea-bass, and all the things that hit hard at a certain age and mood and a few other ones. It was grunge but folk but Lilith Fair. It’s a feminist album, but it’s also a very teenage album as well. It was vicious, and sad, and if you hear it when you are 11 or 12, it seems adult in a way you don’t understand, but know you oughta (know). There are swear words, sure, but it also sounds similar to the songs that flood oldies FM – you could picture some of these tracks slipping between Carole King and Paul Simon in playlists and your parents probably tolerated it if not downright enjoyed it. You could not deny the craft. 33 million copies suggests it hit all the demographics fairly hard in the way that Really Great Albums tend to. Alanis turned 21 the week it was released.

‘Head Over Feet’ is the most happy song on the album, which is to say it’s the only happy song on the album – an openly-embarrassed love tune in which she doesn’t trust the feeling a bit. Falling in love (probably) is outside of our control, which is understandably an issue for some. In fact the first four words of the song are “I had no choice” and it continues down this spiral. She has been won over “in spite of me” – blaming her feelings squarely on him. “I couldn’t help it, it’s all your fault” she protests. She doesn’t trust it a bit.

She is suspicious of his motives, only because they seem so pure. “You treat me like I’m a princess, and I’m not used to liking that”. Note: she doesn’t specifically say she does like it, just that she isn’t used to it. “You ask how my day was” she marvels, as if he built a log cabin for her or something.

Of course, the minute she accepts this love might be good for her, she bemoans herself for taking this long to discover this: “What took me so long? I’ve never felt this healthy before. I’ve never wanted something rational. I am aware now.”

 

 

#26: Clare Bowen – ‘Change Your Mind’ (2013)

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While it is undoubtedly terrible when the object of your affection either never wanted you, or simply doesn’t anymore, at least there can be a calm sense of clarity in knowing you have no real agency in the situation. But when two people decide not to be together for reasons that place rationality above emotion, it’s way more difficult. We like to fool ourselves into believing that our willpower – usually trusted and implemented when we are at our strongest – will remain immovable even when we are crying and eating Cheetohs at 2am, looking through old photos and listening to old songs which trigger old feelings, typing and erasing variants of the same misguided missive as you think, “maybe this time it’ll be different…”

In ‘Change Your Mind’ Clare Bowen – or rather her ‘Nashville’ character, mercurial Southern belle Scarlett – is being strong for both her and the lover she knows she shouldn’t want anymore. “When you’re weak and all alone, and you’re reaching for the phone – change your mind”, she implores, and it’s mostly self preservation.

We learn during the song that he left her, and her main reason for keeping him away seems to be to avoid the dramatic retreading that would occur if she were to accept him back. It seems like a pattern she is keen to steer clear of. “Baby, don’t come back this time. Don’t wanna have to say goodbye all over again.”

Most readers will relate to the easy warmth of falling back into a familiar relationship. Bowen/Scarlett does and she wants no part of this cycle. “I don’t wanna do that dance, the push and pull, the second chance. I already know.” And she does. ‘Change Your Mind’ shoots down the easy platitudes that often arise during these emotionally-fraught encounters, ‘forever-speak’ as I am now dubbing it. “You’ll just promise me forever, and then you’ll take it back just like that. Say you can’t live without me, then you’ll change your mind.” It’s all too sadly familiar.

Despite her spot-on twang, Clare Bowen is actually an Australian, while her co-vocalist Sam Palladio is from London – although hopefully they signed draconian contracts that prevent them from ever singing in their natural accents in order to preserve the sanctity of these characters. They probably didn’t, though.

In the past fortnight ‘Nashville’ has unfortunately been cancelled by ABC, which is what happens when TV networks rely more on inaccurate and antiquated ratings systems than observing their fiercely loyal and vocal viewing base. It seems unlikely that the show won’t be given a Hail Mary, Y’all by Netflix (or one of the other streaming services that wants to be Netflix) and luckily the show’s cancellation and this second-life possibility has served to stir up a loyal fanbase over the past few days. The cast members tour frequently, the show rated well, and they sell soundtracks – so it makes sense someone will move to capitalise on all this. Of course, unlike Scarlett’s lover in this song, if any executives from ABC wake up filled with regret at their hasty decision, they should feel free to change their mind.

@200sadsongs | @keirenjolly | @nathanjolly

#25: Bright Eyes – ‘Poison Oak’ (2005)

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Because he spouts political screeds, spews sprawling folk songs, pounds a battered acoustic, cares not for hair brushes nor traditional release schedules, and infuses everything he does with a punk rock spirit, Conor Oberst often gets tagged as his generation’s Bob Dylan. But for all the easy comparisons, there are more points of difference: Oberst is blindingly earnest, Dylan is sarcastic, Conor writes personal, vulnerable songs, Bobby rarely peers out from behind his veneer; Conor is relatively straightforward, even Dylan’s most personal songs are veiled in dense references and shrill harmonica. Conor Oberst is – however – a gifted, prolific songwriter who commands critical respect and deep fandom alike, so I suppose the comparison does make sense. Who am I arguing with?

‘Poison Oak’ is a perfectly crafted song, tucked in the penultimate position on 2005’s ‘I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning’, one of two albums released by Bright Eyes on the same day, Gunners-style. It’s outstanding how many amazing songs Oberst wrote during this period – across 22 tracks, neither album has any real filler, plus he released the insanely popular Bush-bash ‘When the President Talks To God‘ around the same time.

‘Poison Oak’ details a friendship that sprouted at an early age. The plot is explicit yet manages to avoid hitting any of the big moments too overtly. There’s the childhood memory almost cliched with its tin-can phone imagery, the defiant drive towards Mexico, the heroin addiction, the hint at PTSD, the field trampled to mud, the shirt stained with grief. The friend died – specific causes unknown and largely irrelevant – and Oberst is reeling but sympathetic. “I’m glad you got away, but I’m still stuck out here. My clothes are soaking wet from your brother’s tears.”

The relationship spans decades, yet secrets are still discovered after death: the series of cross-dressing Polaroids locked away (“Were you made ashamed, why’d you lock them in a drawer?” Oberst wonders into the void). In the end, music is his salvation – in particular minor-key music – his emotion uncorked and loosened with alcohol. “Now I’m drunk as hell on a piano bench. And when I press the keys, it all gets reversed. The sound of loneliness makes me happier.”

That’s the secret, saving grace of sad music: it’s profoundly comforting to realise there is no emotion you can feel – regardless of how singular and solitary it may seem – that hasn’t been captured acutely in at least one song. Of course, finding that song is another story.

@200sadsongs | @keirenjolly | @nathanjolly

#24: Michael Jackson – ‘Childhood’ (1995)

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Michael Jackson’s tragic life is only the most famous cautionary tale of what happens when you rob a kid of his childhood, thrust him in front of the public eye, and force him to perform out of fear.

Shoving children into the public eye too early is something I have written about numerous times; for every person who seemingly makes the transition from child star to functioning adult, there is a road strewn with people who learned to equate applause with self-worth and then tore themselves apart once the clapping faded. Even actors like Jason Bateman, whose career remains successful, went through a cocaine and alcohol period in his teens. The straight guy on ‘Arrested Development.’ His teens!

But Michael (Jackson, not Bluth) was the rare case of a celebrity who first hit the spotlight at the age of ten, and became more and more famous over the years, until he was the Most Famous Human In The World. Working like a madman was all he knew since his primary school days, and the fear of not being the best – instilled by his ruthless father Joe, who would strike his children when they flubbed a dance move or a vocal melody – carried over to his obsessive studio methods on his solo albums, and his drive to make the highest-selling album of all time (a goal deemed ludicrous by even his producer Quincy Jones, but which MJ achieved with ‘Thriller’).

The more famous Jackson became, the more he isolated himself, and the stories he fed to the press in order to create a mysterious “wacky genius” persona backfired big time. Self-made myth tangled with self-imposed isolation to the point where sleepovers with kids at the Neverland ranch became his norm – presumably a way of freezing time forever at the age when his relatively normal childhood in Gary, Indiana was stolen. It’s kinda like the soap stories where a heartbroken widower would return over and over to the spot of their first date. But infinitely sadder.

‘Childhood’ is his aching realisation of what was robbed from him, sang over strings so syrupy you will probably need to be tested for diabetes after listening. His honeyed, high-pitched vocal coupled with these Disney strings attempt to recreate something magical that sadly never was. “Have you seen my childhood?”, he opens, and it just get more depressing. He lists off pirates and conquests and kings – a version of childhood adventure absorbed through his favourite ‘Peter Pan’ – but it’s the self-analysis that hits the hardest. “It’s been my fate to compensate, for the childhood I’ve never known”, he admits, and while we all knew this, it’s saddening to see he was aware of the traumas that shaped him. “No one understands me, they view it as such strange eccentricities. ‘Cause I keep kidding around like a child, but pardon me.”

In the end, however, Michael just wanted what we all want: love and understanding. We all saw his childhood, and wouldn’t wish that level of scrutiny and fear on anyone.

“Before you judge me, try hard to love me, the painful youth I’ve had. Have you seen my childhood?”

@200sadsongs | @keirenjolly | @nathanjolly

#23: Bone Thugs-n-Harmony – ‘Tha Crossroads’ (1996)

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‘Tha Crossroads’ is a requiem for those who passed too soon. The video clip opens with a church funeral and the emotional strains of “Mary Don’t You Weep” – a spiritual in which Mary of Bethany begs Jesus (Christ, religious leader of some note) to resurrect her brother Lazarus. Then the familiar ‘bone-bone bone-bone” intro kicks in, and the gospel themes continue, with both song and video observing a number of religious tenets: there shalt be epic mountain tops to pray upon; thou shalt fear the reaper; thou shalt utter no curse words despite typically being a cuss-heavy group; thou shalt unleash huge church harmonies at every opportunity; and thou shalt continuously seek answers for death and a reason for our existence. Of course, when this song hit RAGE and radio back in 1996, it was enough just to keep up with a tenth of what they were on about, such was the rapid-fire speed of the rapping.

It’s a uniquely human trait to search for meaning in death. This song was written in the wake of Eazy-E’s death, the mentor who signed and shepherded the group through the early days of their career. Eazy died of complications from AIDS, and in his eleventh hour wrote an open letter which was intended to infuse his passing with purpose. “I may not seem like a guy you would pick to preach a sermon”, the letter begins. “But I feel it is now time to testify because I do have folks who care about me hearing all kinds of stuff about what’s up.”

After stating explicitly that he isn’t religious, he nevertheless continues: “I’m not saying this because I’m looking for a soft cushion wherever I’m heading, I just feel that I’ve got thousands and thousands of young fans that have to learn about what’s real when it comes to AIDS. Like the others before me, I would like to turn my own problem into something good that will reach out to all my homeboys and their kin. Because I want to save their asses before it’s too late.”

Eazy says “I’m not looking to blame anyone except myself”, yet this ode to passing is filled with blame and questioning – or rather, one central question: “Why?” Other than being about the death of Eazy (despite his promiscuous ways, the group blame the [possible] girl who [possibly] passed on the virus with the line: “Ms. Sleazy set up Eazy to fall”), the song also deals with the passing of several key figures in the group’s life: Little Boo – a sixteen-year-old friend who was killed in a drive-by in front of his home, Wish Bone’s Uncle Charles, and another murdered friend named Wally. There’s also a newborn baby featured in the clip, presumably having died in infancy. They question all these deaths, while eventually receiving the answer from God himself – the unsatisfying: “I ask the good Lord why. He sigh, he told me, ‘We live to die.'”

The idea that even (their) God sighs at the futile nature of life and randomness of death is kinda a bleak lesson to take from this all, but it could also act as a motivating factor to ask yourself- as Mary Oliver once put it – “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

After all, there are always going to be way more questions than answers. It doesn’t mean you should stop asking though.

@200sadsongs | @keirenjolly | @nathanjolly

#22: Stockard Channing – ‘There Are Worse Things I Could Do’ (1978)

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Rizzo on ‘Grease’ is – for the uninitiated – Rydell High’s premier stop-out chick, the character who suggests a three-way with Kenicke and Danny, who introduces Sandy (O.N.J) to smoking, who uses the term “flog your log”, who spontaneously writes a song mocking Sandy’s virginity, who has a pregnancy scare (’50s gasp!). She knows it could only be Kenicke’s, but pretends there were plenty of partners, and that it’s not his problem. Being a malleable, bulletproof, wise-cracking  tough chick is her ‘thing’, you see. She’s a teenager. It’s the ’50s. It’s a sad tale.

‘There Are Worse Things I Could Do’ basically does what it says on the tin, presenting a laundry list of actions Rizzo perceives as being more horrible than hooking up with a few dudes: leading someone on to no end, wasting her teen years suppressing her desires, settling early with the ‘right’ kind of guy, hurting someone just because you can hurt someone. There’s also a fair bit of sax.

There is a late outpouring of anger: “I don’t steal, and I don’t lie, but I can feel, and I can cry” – but it’s directed inward – the public misconceptions are her fault and she knows it. She is pretending to be tough ‘cos she has to. She ranks crying in front of her lover as the worst thing she could do, which is sad in every way.

Vulnerability is pounced upon in high school, and Rizzo learned early she would be the predator, not the prey. Luckily this stage doesn’t last too long and you learn to mix being vulnerable with not giving a fuck. Eventually. As the old adage goes: T-bird racing for pink slips is wasted on the young.

@200sadsongs | @keirenjolly | @nathanjolly