The instrument signifies moist feelings, inchoate hopes.
broke the top five with a mandolin, they had no idea to what ends their peers would employ it. Nothing on “Sunny Came Home” will disturb, to mangle a line that Greil Marcus once used about Elvis Costello’s Goodbye Cruel World, the dust settling on the furniture. enough to leaven her essential boringness with bad taste. Singing like Sheryl Crow but writing like a book club member is not my idea of trenchant commentary - at least Sheryl Crow was L.A. The vehement blandness of the material coaxes the singer into uninspired performances every song she gives its due weight, like a mother patting her children on the head nothing is at stake, therefore nothing is delivered. Selling 1996’s A Few Small Repairs as a concept album about divorce, Colvin convinced herself that every other musical act before her had filled two sides of vinyl or seventy CD minutes with gibbon cries and songs about baking soda. I applauded, actually: a human statement, not the pre-fab sensitivity offered by “Sunny Came Home.” “I’m confused now!” was her response, and no one blamed her. I want you all to know that this is ODB, and I love you all, peace.” The winners, Shawn Colvin and John Leventhal, projected the bland hopelessness that everyone but Bob Dylan watching this remarkable evening felt. “I don’t know how you all see it, but when it comes to the children, Wu-Tang is for the children,” O.D.B.
The 1997 Grammy Awards ceremony was so packed with batshitness that I should poll the highlights: Aretha Franklin subbing for Pavarotti and blasting “Nessun Dorma” to smithereens performance artist Michael Portnoy joining Bob Dylan to treat the world to his nude chest smeared with the phrase SOY BOMB Dylan looking as nonplussed as a dude watching a neighbor’s cat piss on his hedges.īut the bouquets belonged to another ham: Ol’Dirty Bastard, who upstaged the Song of the Year winners as Erykah Badu was about to pass them the trophy.
#SUNNY CAME HOME BY SHAWN COLVIN FULL#
Songs beloved by colleagues and songs to which I’m supposed to genuflect will get my full hurricane-force winds, but it doesn’t mean that I won’t take shots at a jukebox hero overplayed when I was at a college bar drinking a cranberry vodka in a plastic thimble-sized cup. I promise my readers that my list will when possible eschew obvious selections. I don’t want to hate songs to do so would shake ever-sensitive follicles, and styling gel is expensive. Like a good single, a terrible one reveals itself with airplay and forbearance.
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