Advice To Graduates
By Zayne Reeves

An Apology to Richard Thompson

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to one Richard Thompson. When I was an undergrad freshman, I started getting interested in singer-songwriters who fell into the "New Dylan" category. Although Thompson was fortunate enough to avoid that lazy and often damaging label, his name came up quite a bit as I started getting into guys like Loudon Wainwright III.  Also, I knew that Thompson was a founding member of Fairport Convention and I had recently fallen in love with their Unhalfbricking album. Having done a smidgen of research, I decided that the best place to start my post-Fairport Richard Thompson collection would be his "divorce" record, Shoot Out The Lights, which he made with Linda Thompson. I had read nothing but devastatingly great, awestruck reviews that hailed it as an absolute four on the floor masterpiece.

I walked into the record store that day with psyched, mile high expectations. This was going to be something that would blow my mind the same way that Blood On The Tracks had done one year earlier. It's funny how, before I had any idea how fucked up and miserable a failed relationship could make you feel, I deluded myself into thinking I understood what breakups at this level could do to you.  I was oddly self-congratulatory about it, actually. When I returned to my dorm room, I tore the wrapping and the adhesive thingy off with gusto and slid my spankin' new copy of Shoot Out The Lights into my tinny ass CD player.  Baited breath, the lead off track, “Don't Renege On Our Love” began. Disaster struck! All I can recall is this crushing wave of disappointment followed by an uncontrollable fit of giggling. What I heard sounded so pretentious, so studied and recalled the worst production impulses of its era. I hit the pause button and sat in stunned silence for several minutes before I decided to give it another chance.

Honestly, I cannot remember what songs I listened to after that or what I thought of them. My mind had already been made up; Richard Thompson's music was silly and criminally overrated and I was intractable on this for the next six years. Whenever I got to talking with a friend or acquaintance about music, I would invariably warn them not to waste their parents' money on Thompson no matter what critical hosannas were hurled his way. My low opinion was only reinforced by that beret or whatever it is he's always wearing. Even though the man has an apology coming from me, I will not back down when it comes to his taste in headwear. That things looks fucking goofy, Richard. Sorry.

I've always had this prejudice against the vast majority of what could be classified as British folk music. To my ears, it doesn't have the balls of something like “The Lonesome Death of Hattie Carroll” or the weird, tragic humor of “Sabu Visits The Twin Cities Alone.”  For all these reasons, I knocked Thompson every chance I got. If I read an article bemoaning his cult status as a result of being "too brilliant," I could get downright mean about it. I was once talking about this with a friend who happens to be the world's biggest Bruce Cockburn fan. I never really got hardcore into Cockburn either, although I think Stealing Fire is a wonderful album. Anyway, I said something to him like "And it's a shame that Cockburn is even further down the commercial food chain than Richard Thompson!" He nodded heartily and commented on how he had seen both of them in concert and that "Richard Thompson is no Bruce Cockburn." Privately, I've always believed my friend to be a little daft for preferring Cockburn to Dylan but I played along for this one. We started stringing together a long list of people who could blow Thompson off the stage and I can't remember all the names except that we started hitting below the belt when one of us said Ringo.

Skipping ahead here before I turn this into a novella, I recently purchased a copy of Action Packed: The Best of The Capitol Years.  I did it partly because I had gone into my local music store to buy Gretchen Wilson's Here For The Party (that woman is a legit talent on her way to being a powerhouse) and lucked into a used copy which meant that I had an extra ten bucks on my hands to buy another CD with. Thompson's compilation was in the "Nice Price" value range and there wasn't anything else that looked even remotely interesting so I grabbed it rather than save my money. But there was something else afoot. I felt guilty, man. Really guilty. Six years is a long time for someone my age and some serious cracks had started to show in my Fuck Richard Thompson armor. Maybe, just maybe, the fact that I was eighteen years old when I listened to Shoot Out The Lights had something to do with it. Was my "One strike and you're out!" policy ever a good idea? So, in truth, I bought Action Packed as a form of penance. Later that day, I sat down at The Crimson Cafe, a local coffee house, put my headphones on and gave the man another chance. The first three songs were “Turning of The Tide,” “Waltzing's For Dreamers” and “1952 Vincent Black Lightning.”  At some point during "Waltzing," I realized that I had been one very massive dick about this Sicilian thing I'd been carrying on against Richard Thompson. “Waltzing's For Dreamers” made me cry in a public place and I am not ashamed to admit it. I wasn't wailing or anything but there were choked sobs and grey tearstains on my latte's napkin. "One step for aching/Two steps for breaking/Waltzing's for dreamers and losers in love."  Goddamn, I was such an ass for putting this guy down! And the hits just kept coming; “I Misunderstood,” “Keep Your Distance,” “I Can't Wake Up To Save My Life,” “Fully Qualified To Be Your Man” and “Cold Kisses being among the very tip top highlights. The lyrics were sharp but, even more importantly; they took you into weird places. 

The unreliable narrator is a device that doesn't get used enough in popular music, at least not by people who are making the deliberate artistic choice of crafting a song that way. Most are just simply off the mark and don't know it - which can either be comical or frustrating to listen to depending on your level of patience. Songs like Randy Newman's “Sail Away” or Warren Zevon's “Poor, Poor Pitiful Me” are so few and far between when compared to ninety-eight percent of popular music that it makes me want to give Thompson's “Cold Kisses” the Medal of Honor.  Precious few singer-songwriters are able to free themselves from the prison of gazing at their own navels for the entire duration of their careers. It takes so much discipline to write a song in the voice of a character that is completely different from anything resembling the person writing it (and still make it identifiable and emotionally resonant) and I was kicking myself in the ass for letting one this good go unheard for so long.

I've never been a big subscriber of the whole guitar god thing. I mean, give it up for Chet Atkins and Hendrix but, for the most part, that shit bores me to absolute tears. Which is why I was speechless when I found myself paying attention to his guitar parts. The dude's fucking jaw-dropping on guitar. What I like about his sound is that you get the impression he was more into Mississippi John Hurt, Maybelle Carter and Pete Seeger as influences on his style rather than, say, Robert Johnson. Not that there is a damn thing wrong with the latter, it's just that we already have enough cracker-assed crackers weaned on “Terraplane Blues.” I've probably lost most of you with this incredibly meandering apology so I'm gonna wrap it up now. Richard Thompson, if this article should reach you somehow, I am really, really sorry for bad mouthing your music for six years. I was an idiot. If your record sales in Auburn, Alabama saw a sharp drop between 1998 and 2001 then that was probably my bad. You're a great artist and I'm just sorry that it took me so long to get that.

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