A while ago, I exploited certain illicit file-sharing techniques to obtain copies of songs I remembered fondly from my childhood. One of them was a particularly pretty song, as I recalled. It was a guy singing about the end of the day, and how unhappy he was that it was ending. I played it over and over on our 8-track when I was about 7 or 8, and eventually wore out the tape. But I only could remember the title, artist, and a couple key lyrics. That was enough, though, and I soon had a copy of the song.
I immediately started playing it, and all the lyrics flowed back into me, pouring out along with my speakers. I was lost in the moment, flashing back to those carefree, innocent, delightful days of tender youth.
Then I actually listened the lyrics.
I was cheerfully singing an obsessive, threatening song to a prostitute. (I’m sorry. We must be politically correct here. “Person of negotiable virtue.”)
Now I finally understood why my mother didn’t like Gordon Lightfoot’s “Sundown” anywhere near as much as I did.
(Full lyrics in the extended section)
I can see her lyin