The Steve Reynolds Program - Bury Me Happy
Hi!
As Yoda would admonish, "truckin', keep on." Now I want a shirt with a Yoda with big R. Crumb feet and that slogan in bubbly quasi-Cooper font. If I could draw, it'd be a done deal.
Speaking of drawing, my pal Jason Stout is on his annual celebration of Inktober! Give him a follow and enjoy his renderings of great musicians, some who appear on my list. I put in a request for a drawing. Can't wait to see how he does it.
Song #9
Bury Me Happy
by The Moles
The most uncomfortable show I’ve ever seen was Richard Davies at Brownies in the East Village in July 2000. The nineties had seen the slightest rise and then precipitous fall of the brilliant pop songwriter. His band The Moles, played jangly pop, baroque pieces, experimental garage. They moved to New York and London but broke up, unappreciated and obscure. Davies then collaborated with Eric Matthews as Cardinal, a better-produced version of his vision—some called it “orchestra pop.” He then had a couple of solo albums (excellently produced by ex-Flaming Lip Ronald Jones) on an indie label with good labelmates. These albums were great but, at the time of this show, no one had noticed.
At this show in the tiniest club in NYC, Davies was clearly unhappy, punchy. Between songs, he confronted people in the sparse crowd, “why are you here?” He aimlessly told stories about working as a paralegal in Boston. He’d play a song with his ad hoc band that would be great. He’d then stare at us like he was saying “See? This should pay the bills.” It hurt to see this artist, a guy who took the huge chance of moving from one continent to another, treading water and going nowhere.
I wish his trajectory went up, but no. He periodically has released old recordings or collaborated anew in Cardinal. In 2009, he did a postal rock album with Bob Pollard under the name of Cosmos. It’s been intimated that Davies ignored the idea that he was supposed to send music to Bob to sing over and sent some tracks with Davies’s vocals already on it. The result is an odd give-and-take of acoustic songs and full workouts. “Nude Metropolis” is the clear hit, but most of it resembles way too much the Alex Chilton in shambles of Big Star’s 3rd.
So let’s go as far back as possible to the first song of the first album of the first band, before all the drama. A guitar line that feels like The La’s opens up the song and then muttered vocals like REM (“he creates his own smoky corner” may be sung) come in. The drums are rudimentary. The bass speeds up and down on its own time. The chorus is the title. “Bury me happy” sung with what will be a Davies trademark – holding out a nasal note. The big surprise of the final note played out on a cello that you didn’t even know was in the mix is a flourish for the ages.
It has that alchemy of the unpolished discovery. The relic of a time that you try to imagine why people then didn’t feel what you feel now. It’s a pointless endeavor, but still. Why?
On YouTube, Davies comments on this song every few years.
“oz pub rock”
“still a great keyboard solo and part written by me”
“share your thoughts”
“outrageous fortune”
“probably one of the Most Useless Songs”
“Response To Alimony”
“search more replies”
“hopeless, helpless, and practical”
This image of this man sitting at his computer. listening to the kickoff of his musical career, as he tries to make sense of it in fragmented comments from time to time. The old memory of the hope for taking over the world with what he listens to now is wistful. It buries him happy.
Afterthoughts
This issue’s Song I’m Mad I Forgot To Put On The List goes to "One's On The Way" by the great Loretta Lynn. Shel Silverstein's lyrics and her interpretation are perfect. RIP, Loretta. Your talent was immense and you bared your soul like nobody else.