Is this thing on? Ahem. Alright then. Today we begin a new series of Scrutons entitled: “Wake up, It’s time to get Love Sick: Backbones of American Popular Culture.”

Someone recently brought to my attention something I’ll admit, I had spent some thought time on before – American popular culture is really just a one trick pony. For the most part. Some might say it was handed down from European medieval forms of entertainment, comedy and tragedy, which I suppose is even more ancient (Greek?). The stories that affect us are always coupled with a search for love, budding love, threat of love leaving – and the determining factor between comedy or tragedy – whether the love remains in the end. As a people we are obsessed with many things, but at the core (and even the supposed cause [sex/drugs/rock]) of our being there exists a poignant black hole. Sucking in, filtering, looking for a perfect love. The entire folk tradition of our nation is deeply entrenched in this basic human desire. The pain is almost unbearable. The crushing pressure to find some sort of love and companionship drives us completely insane.

It seems that as long as our ideals of earthly bliss continue to rest in the hands of others, we will continue perpetuating an already monstrously depricating system, willingly – even subconsciously at that. What is the motivation? Distraction? Where does this hole, this disconnectedness stem from? Ourselves and the culture we’ve created? How can one break free from the myriad of forces telling us we’re lonely, and that’s wrong, you have to find someone else to waste your life with, otherwise you’ll die, you just will, here’s how, if that doesn’t work try this, and this, start drinking (you’ll meet her at the bar), start smoking (people are attracted to smoke), go here go there, get rid of your face, get a new one, get new skin, get new clothes, get new smells.

This is an ancient issue with far reaching ties to all of us. It tugs our heart-strings and plays us like mournful banjos. But it inspires so much within us. It gives us a reason to live and die. It encourages creation and destruction. It decreases mundanity and colors our existence with flowers of mystery, exultation, misery, pain, and flowing peace. We welcome it like water from heaven. We stand still with eyes closed and a smile on our faces, hands outstretched, gallons of romantic goo sliming us from head to toe.

But with all of our feelers shifting and squirming in darkness, what do you we really connect with. We barely touch infinite, just for a second. Sparks fly. The moment is gone. Cold and dark inside, isn’t it?

Woosh. You’re on a park bench. The wind blows softly. Your hand tingles your face and neck a little. It’s not too hot outside. Sweat is very slowly congregating behind your knees. Sky swirls overhead. It’s fighting with itself. Rain or shine? Electrical epical battical. Go on. Stretch out, make yourself comfortable. Insect noise surrounds you. Like Dolby 1 million.1. Trees flutter and twist, long willows brush the ground. They are caressing the ground, you’re thinking, I want to be caressed. Music blossoms over the hillside. Tinkly blues from a long time ago, you think. It compels you. Get up, don’t be afraid. Give in to your curiosity for once, man. You come upon an old woman with a guitar. She sways hypnotically in the breeze. She causes the breeze? you think. She doesn’t. Be rational, man. I can’t! I’m in love. With some…thing. Some faceless beauty I have yet to meet; she could be anywhere, man, under this rock, behind this tree, in the parked car, seated in the cubicle next to mine twirling hair… Feel it now? He’s out there some where. That perfect man. The one who knows what you think you know. You’ve got a secret buried inside. It’s like a worm, it oozes about your heart. Heartworms. We’ve all got the heartworms, pa. We’re all going to die screaming. We’re all going to die alone.

Feel it now? Stop trying to put a pillow over its head for once.

Nice introduction. Thanks, dude.
The American heart, the American love song. Our study begins with Karen Dalton. She’s the lady over the hill (no age quip here). A member of what could be called the 1960’s folk revival, essentially she was an interpreter of song, only playing covers and standards, but filtering them through a unique and whimsical, meandering sense of time. And her voice. Her voice like yellowed pages of the old country newspaper. Like ancient daguerreotypes of dead family members. The rich aroma of the country girl with broken eyes, busted knuckles. She laments tenderly, but she is somewhere else. A disembodied voice. She’s possessed of love-sickness. Karen Dalton’s musical exploits are, in my opinion, one of the supreme apexes of American folk-romance ejaculations. Think of it like, the magma of emotion and heartache and the bleak dread of detachment all smelter away in the undercurrents of our hearts, finally erupting every so often through a self-sacrificing creative vessel. Her heart pulses and explodes into our ears. Sure, sex exists, but this isn’t about sex. Dalton has never heard of bullshit.