Sunday, 17 November 2013

Sunday, Sunday

All the leaves are brown
And the sky is grey

John Phillips is a man who has become disentangled from the world. With this, of course, he has freed himself from society's shackles, how else could you write an ode to Monday? However, with this freedom he has become a prisoner. He has disentangled himself from the worldby tangling himself to himself, the only member of the world's largest cult, the paradoxical cult of the self. For all his alienation he may as well be on the moon. That was the name of the musical that he wrote in 1975, Man on the moon.

I'd be safe and warm
If I was in L.A.


He is dreaming all the wrong dreams. Any transcendence he has achieved is merely escapism, a quick fix. You have to dream your way in, not out.

Stopped in to a Church
I passed along the way
You know I got down on my knees
And began to pray

The knees he kneels on are the same knees as the moustached man's knees in Visions Of Johanna who exclaims Jeeze, I can't find my knees. They almost may as well not be there. It is just profanity. One thinks of Slash exiting a church in the middle of the desert and banging out a comically grand meaningless solo. He is taking the easy way out. You don't make up for your sins in church, you make up for them on the streets. The rest is bullshit and you know it. As Jason Molina puts it Real truth about it is no one gets it right. Real truth about it is we're all supposed to try. 




1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Seamless referencing, succinct.