Tom Ames' Prayer - Steve Earle
Steve Earle, a trader in great subjects (moonshiners, oxycontin, American Taliban fighter John Walker Lynn, among many others) asks a helluva question in "Tom Ames' Prayer": what does an atheist outlaw say when his luck runs out and he's forced to talk to God?
The answer is surprising. Tom Ames' monologue to God is not touching. It eschews sentiment in favor of nihilism and irony. There's no salvation here for our arrogant outlaw. The song requires no explication because the writing is so concise and clear. But just in case: Tom Ames, chicken stealer, horse thief, bank robber, general badass, finds himself cornered by Johnny Law in an alley in Abeline. With limited options he turns to the good Lord for some assistance. He recounts the Lord's previous intervention in his life: after Judge Parker throws the book at him, Tom Ames sits in jail talking to a preacher who is, presumably, giving some kind of end-of-life counseling. The preacher turns his back, Ames puts a shiv to his throat and demands the key from the deputy. As soon as he recounts his last escape, Tom Ames remembers that there is no God, cocks his pistols, spits in the dirt, and puts his faith in his last 4 shells. The ending is more complex than it initially suggests. Does Tom Ames only dismiss God because he recognizes his own prowess as a criminal? Or, does Tom Ames thank Him for sending the preacher who ultimately becomes the vehicle for his escape? The latter seems more interesting to me.
Las Cruces Jail - Two Gallants
Two Gallants, a pair of tremendous noisemakers from San Francisco, pose another great question: what do you say to your horse when you're facing the business end of a noose? Our nameless narrator seems like the first-person narrator from a lost Cormac McCarthy novel: a man for whom murder is as necessary as clothing. He's a poetic about his given trade: "quickest wrist of the chaparral and sage." Whereas Earle's sense of nihilism was touched with irony, 2G's nihilism is down right exhilarating: this is a character who has honestly made peace with his impending death. He wants to recount his own story because that's what criminals do; they're more invested in their crimes than the survivors of the victims. But the most humbling and surprising and moving parts of the song are addressed to his Andalusian horse. He bids the mare goodnight from his lonely jail cell in Las Cruces. He advises her not to believe in her captor's words. They are going to try to reclaim her, but she needs to remember the freedom that she enjoyed with the narrator. He can't respect what will happen to his horse, but he's not sorry that they had their time together. They were a pair, a couple, after all. The song, then, becomes this lovely (if simultaneously horrifying) ode to his freedom that came with his horse. And it's ultimately a tragic story: the narrator is going to die (he doesn't have Tom Ames' arrogance in this regard) and the horse now belongs to those who are putting its rightful owner to death.
I remember having Dave listen to "Las Cruces Jail" a few years back at my summer house-- remember that, D? That's an amazing song. "Carrion Crow" is my other favorite of theirs.
ReplyDeleteSteve Earle just looks like an anti-drug ad.
indeed i do. las cruces jail is by far my favorite of their efforts, though "long summer day" deserves note for its boldness or mere cringe factor. i rarely make it through one of their albums, as the songs tend to run long and mush together. in small doses though, the lads can pound some shit and tell some tales.
ReplyDeletesorry for my absence of late. just tryin to get this apartment in shape. it does look a bit more put together since your visit, jimmy jam. of course the bed you slept on is now in harlem...
I have never been able to get into Steve Earle. He writes the kind of songs that if someone covered them I would probably love him, but there's something about his voice and delivery that makes me not care. Sometimes he sounds like one of the Johns from They Might Be Giants.
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