Song Stories: That Was Another Country

When Wil and I started the This Wreckage ‘zine over 30 years ago now, the idea is that we would have people submit material that we would throw in each issue as is and put it out to the world.  What we didn’t realize going in is that most people do not want to actually share things like that.  We struggled in finding material to achieve our albeit ambitious goal of a monthly issue. 

However, in a small way, I’d like to float out a similar request we used to do every issue, but with more of a singular focus.  I am hoping that anyone who reads this would be willing to send some kind of story of a certain song that means something to them.  This could mean a short story, an essay, a drawing, a photograph, a poem, a few words, I don’t know.  One of my favorite things is to tie music to pretty much every waking minute of my life.  It’s a problem really.  There are hundreds of songs that evoke a lot of emotions for me for a variety of reasons based on their being nearby at the time.  I absolutely love hearing and reading other people’s stories along these lines.  I don’t care the genre, or the artist, or my personal history, if any, with the song, I find these stories endlessly fascinating.

I’m hoping to encourage any and every one who might be willing to send some of their stories to me via messenger, or via email: tangledrec@hotmail.com.  I would like to share them here, on this site, if given the permission.

-Chris G.

Please ask any questions you may have.

The very early 90s marked an intense period of loss for me.  I languished in grief for a few years over the loss of friends, loss of love, health, and potential.  It took me a long time to begin to pull out of the darkness.  In great part due to the constant flow of incredible music that I was discovering during those years, I began to feel inspired and alive again.  I think a lot of us form our tastes for things during those formative early 20s years, at least it was that way for me, especially with music.  By that point, I began to realize that I had a preference for female vocals with my “post modern” rock music, but with a few exceptions, I was not a fan of the high pitched baby voiced singers.  Sure, I could make excuses for the ones that were okay with me, but I could not truly determine why some worked and some didn’t.  I’m sure most of it came down to the music behind the voice and THE SONGS!  So, I loved and continue to love The Sundays, but most of what would often get compared to them, I never got into.  For example, when US combo, the innocence mission, were signed to major A&M Records, they were promoted as a US version of The Sundays, or the next 10,000 Maniacs.  In 1991, I received an A&M Records promo CD, which included a few innocence mission songs from their second LP, Umbrella.  No matter how many times I listened to those songs, I could not get into them.  It’s not that they were bad, it’s just that they had no hooks, or grit (even 10,000 Maniacs had some edge when they began], and Karen Peris’ baby-voiced vocals became off-putting.  However, in 1995, I began hearing the intriguing dreamy/warbly guitar sounds and high pitched vocals of “Bright As Yellow,” on our local commercial “alternative” radio station.  I could not get enough of that song.  It possessed a similar dusty, airy and exotic feel as Mazzy Star’s first single “Halah,” which, of course, drew from the timeless voice of Patsy Cline.  It was a pleasure to hear repeatedly and an increasing addiction.

As I have mentioned prior, the innocence mission’s third album, Glow, is an amazing, inspired, and powerful triumph (previous article: Bright As Yellow).  It is pretty, it contains catchy memorable songs, has great performances, is immaculately produced and contains the song “That Was Another Country,” one of the best distillations of feeling loss.  The words, seem to be looking back at joyous experiences from the past with the narrator’s full gang of family of and friends, yet as early as the first verse we are given a hint that everything may not be alright: “taking blankets to the bay / It’s the same / And he was fine / and in the first place was around.” Then we are taken down a road of the loss of innocence as in regards to life and death and that perhaps this person was in crisis.  The chorus repeats: “are you alright” in a way that does not define if the narrator was helpless in trying to save them, or if they’re regretful for not asking that question when it was still possible.  The music is wistful, full of life, and in combination with the vocals devastating in its heartbreak, yet somehow overwhelmingly life-affirming.  Its ultimate conclusion: “you are still my friend / you didn’t go out of my life” is one of comfort.  As someone who aspires to write, and I mean with talent, not in bulk like I do, I admire the ability of conveying so much emotion and tangible visuals with such a minimum of words.  “That Was Another Country” never ceases to break my heart and fill me with a spine tingling desire to truly appreciate this life we have.

I did not continue to follow the innocence mission’s later work, because it never struck me in the same way.  Glow will live on in my small pantheon of prolific artists where I especially love only one of their albums like The Darling Buds’ Erotica and The Cardigans’ Gran Turismo.

the innocence mission "that was another country"

Bright As Yellow

Anyone who has met me during the last 12 years or so may not believe this, but I used to play hoops nearly every day.  I played in the old neighborhood as a little kid, played little league, and all through junior high and high school.  As I went through school it started to mean less and less to me.  My competitive edge was probably not very favorable to the coaches, as I often lacked urgency, cracked jokes on the court, and hated practice.  However, in my early to mid-twenties, I began to play every day during lunch breaks at work and at various open gyms around the city a few nights a week.  It became not only a great source for cheap entertainment, exercise, and a social activity, but I gained that intensity that I lacked during the teenage years.  I’m not sure why, but I could be found diving for a loose ball on blacktop while playing 3 on 3 after work with the guys, yet in high school, there’s a good chance I would’ve avoided any such effort.  The problem with playing so much basketball and playing it so hard at that time is that my shoes were not in good shape.  There was not much I could do, because I was too poor to afford the unbelievably expensive new shoes on the market (and still keep my music inventory growing), so I clomped around in those things for years.  I specifically use the descriptive “clomp” because when I found myself in one of my (slow) sprints down the court, I sounded like a horse trotting on pavement.  I once scared a guy out of making a break away lay-up during a game, as I tried to run him down, because he was certain a horse was on his tail.  The more I wore those shoes down, the louder they became, and the more my feet would ache after each marathon session.  Finally, after a solid four years or so of constant use, I broke down and bought a new pair of high tops in 1995.  Why do I remember what year this was?  It’s because those shoes will forever be linked in my mind with the third album by the innocence mission: 1995’s Glow.

When I first heard “Bright As Yellow,” the stellar pre-LP single early in 1995 on the fledgling 94.7 KNRK Portland’s “alternative” FM radio station (arriving shortly after the odd DJ-less AM station “The Beat” was abandoned – “the beat the beat the beat!”), I fell in love.  The song evoked the lazy hazy twang of the best Mazzy Star crossed with the rainy day atmospherics and nervous chiming of The Sundays (both favorites).  It was a must have.  I tracked down the four song EP as soon as I could and played it constantly.  I could not get enough of the beautiful warbled guitar sound and how the bass drops in as a low rumble about 15 seconds in.  It took me a bit to adjust to Karen Peris’ unique voice, but once I did, I fell for her warm and friendly vocals.  The EP also included another track that would be on the forthcoming album titled “That Was Another Country,” which soon surpassed the big single in my world with its dramatics.  The tapping ride cymbal and lightly pounding drum gives way to a spine tingling opening guitar line before breaking into a sweeping dreamscape reminiscent of The Sundays’ wonderful first LP closer “Joy.”  The heartfelt lyrics really got to me too.  While “Bright As Yellow” is a simple desire to live life openly, honestly, lovingly and brightly, “Country” finds Karen painting a picture of memories of picnics by the bay and parties with paper lanterns with someone who is no longer around.  It is a sad and touching lament that tugs not only at the loss of loved ones, but also of the passing of innocence that comes with it.  The two non-LP songs are also both good songs more akin to what I had heard from the band previously.  I had a few of their songs from their 1991 second album on a label sampler that I liked, but never found myself returning to.  This new material though was really exciting.

I kept that EP close by at all times for several months, so I finally decided to break down and buy their album once it came out.  While visiting my brother in Seattle during the summer of ’95, I remember doing my best attempt to impersonate Karen’s voice on a sunny stroll down

Mercer Avenue

on my way to Tower Records to buy the album because I could not shake the few songs of their newest material I was now addicted to.  The purchase was worth it, as immediately two new songs entered the contest for title of my favorite by the band: the skittering “Speak Our Minds” and the quietly anthemic “Everything’s Different Now,” which gave me similar chills to the way Mazzy Star’s “Halah” first did during the spring of 1990.  This song should’ve been a second single.  Amazing!  Lyrically, all over the album, there are many images of universal childhood moments with family and friends and a continuous theme of the Mary’s and Harry’s and Juni’s and Georgia’s that dot our lives and are no longer with us any more for whatever reason.  The opening track “Keeping Awake” captures what could be the memory of an exciting evening at home where the family camps out in the backyard during a hot summer night, setting the stage for the evocative real life moments of joy and sorrow that lie ahead.  This is timeless music made by relatable people.

Then it was time to see them perform these songs in person.  They came to Portland and played an incredibly relaxed show at the now closed Berbati’s Pan in Old Town.  The sizable crowd gathered around the low stage all seated casually on the floor and took in the band’s understated grace.  Their gentle and likable stage demeanor was refreshing and comfortable.  The detail at which they performed their music was immaculate.  Everything was in place, but did not feel overrehearsed.  They were honestly glad to be playing for the eager crowd.  Meanwhile, my group had found our usual spot in the front on the right hand side facing the band.  At a minor break in the music, I jumped up to use the restroom over beside (and a little behind) the stage to the left.  When I came out, the band was just getting into the meat of slow-building “Brave,” so I stayed back and watched from the side of the stage so as not to become a distraction by stumbling my way back to my place in front.  Turns out Ox spotted me over there, thinking that I had jumped onstage.  I have no idea what he saw but he still brings up how seeing me grinning next to the bassist at that show haunts him. 

So, what does any of this have to do with basketball and new shoes?  Well, nothing obviously.  But by the time autumn turned into winter, I found myself travelling from Portland to Salem with my father to spend a weekend at his new home.  I had finally purchased some fancy basketball shoes and had them with me on the trip.  The weather was cold and damp and grey and we listened to Glow on the drive down.  He never told me what he thought of it, but I sure enjoyed how the music on the album seemed to change and adapt with each season, bringing about a new way of hearing the words and music of each song.  So, we hung out for a few days.  Ate some food, watched some movies and football games and I fended off the constant advances of his overly affectionate and strange cat Demando.  All in all, it was a nice visit, yet with an underlying sense of melancholy, as we had not yet found a common ground of communication since my mom had passed away.  We were making slow progress.  By the next weekend, Portland had an early snow storm, which I was worried would cancel the acoustic in-store performance the innocence mission was due to perform at the also now defunct downtown Border’s Bookstore.  Since there was no word, I threw on two layers of clothes, and my new basketball shoes – the only shoes I owned not full of holes, tears and major gaps – and headed out into the slowly melting snow.  I met up with Wil and we found a place again on the floor and listened to the band strum their way through about eight highlights from the album.  While sitting there, I noticed a strong horrific odor emanating from nearby.  It smelled like pee, but not like the piss stained sidewalk pee from the downtown sidewalks during the roasting summer months.  This was a different kind of pee.  I looked at Wil and he smelled it too, but we couldn’t figure out where it was coming from.  I smelled it again on the bus on my way home later that afternoon, but smelling pee on the bus isn’t all that unusual.  When I got home and took off my brand new shoes, I realized with a sudden blast of pungent odor, that my feet were the source of the smell.  It was cat pee.  Demando had marked my shoes the weekend before and the dampness from the slush and the sweat from my feet trapped in the leather shoes created a stew of foulness that makes me gag just thinking about it.  The piss shoes were born and now I had to decide between wearing those or the threadbare horse shoes when I played hoops.  

*the timeline for this story may be wildly inaccurate...