It's been almost a decade since Loretta Lynn's last record, Van Lear Rose, hit the shelves. A lot has gone down in those nine years. We've seen some of the worst natural disasters in history (BP anyone?), and we've also seen a further-magnified shift from music being played on LP devices to almost exclusively digital formats. Yet that's one of the great things about a record—it has the power to take you back. Back to where? That depends on the person, but the whole premise of a good album rests on the fact it doesn't lose its touch as the casing weathers or when the charts don't signify its importance, as it once did.
So, why is Loretta Lynn's latest record so important? Take for instance the fact that she released the album when she was 72. And, instead of having country music aficionados take the reins in the production booth, she enlisted the help of contemporary garage-rocker Jack White (most famous then for his work in The White Stripes). Seeing these two walk down the red carpet at the Grammys together might seem odd out of context, but having listened to the album, it makes perfect sense. The bond created during the recording of these 13 tracks isn't something that disappears once the lights go out and the track is deemed fit for airplay. Because if you listen to this record, you can hear the molding of this friendship manifest in the way Lynn sings—with the same vibrant twang that made her a household country name—and the way White offers a rock and roll background, letting Loretta shine amidst electric guitars, booming drums and the quieter, softer moments; see “Miss Being Mrs.”
Van Lear Rose is one of those albums that are meant to be played all the way through—no skipping. It tells a story: from the time Lynn was a girl, sitting with her coal miner father, listening to him tell the story of how he met her mother (“Van Lear Rose”) to reflecting on what made her life so joyous, but at the same time wondering where it all leads (“Story of My Life”). Looking back, I'm not surprised it won the Grammy Award for Best Country Album or ended up in the top 10 of so many year-end “best of” lists. It's a gem. Simple as that.
Part of the reason the album hit so hard is that Loretta Lynn is still that hard-talking, freewheeling, lovable woman she started out as—with her classic hit “Coal Miner's Daughter” and other notable songs like “You Ain't Woman Enough” and “Rated 'X.'” Even in her golden years, she is the same person, and she covers the same emotional ground that made her famous in the first place, ie. cheating husbands, childbirth and motherhood and struggling to make ends meet. Just listen to tracks like “Mrs. Leroy Brown” or “Family Tree,” where she takes her kids to the home of the woman their dad is cheating with and asks the husband to come out and see what he's doing to their family. That's real talk.
But it’s an album that couldn't exist without the confluence of measure. What I mean by that is the importance of knowing your limits and knowing when to let someone help out. I’m not saying Lynn has limits; maybe she does, but they're not shown on this record, and she wrote all the songs. But she knows when to let White work in his expertise, particularly on lead single “Portland, Oregon.” A drunken love song in every sense of the word, the lead guitar moves through the track like a forceful river yet calms down enough for the duo to shine—while asking the bartender for one more sloe gin fizz and “a pitcher to go.”
But don't take my word for it. I'm not even that into country music, but I’ve had a soft spot for Loretta Lynn since I watched Coal Miner's Daughter as a toddler. She was just one of those singer/songwriters who always had a presence in my childhood. This is not only one of the best albums of 2004. This is one of the best albums ever recorded, and I’ll stand by that like a man whose britches are in sync with love for all kinds of music. It’s a masterpiece. Enough said.
I’m on Yale, creeping from Silver to Coal over the course of 15 minutes. My journey began at Cornell, about a block away from my destination. But construction has routed me in a giant U, and now my car is guzzling gas while all the students and University area customers simultaneously try to use the single-laned roads.
The Morningstars put a sign in front of their store, Free Radicals, on Yale and Lead that says something to the effect of: Road destruction will continue until you buy clothes from us.
It’s late, 11:30 p.m. I tried to take Garfield heading east. I turn left onto my street, then meet a barricade. The rules have changed again. Now, you can’t cross Coal. I sit, exhausted, wondering what to do next. In my weary state, I’m wondering if there’s even a path left to get to my house. Into my headlights walks a baseball cap-wearing neighbor. He moves the barrels for me, laughs, and says he hasn’t much cared for the construction himself.
I’m getting my mail. Down the street, I see a nearby business owner on his phone, angrily moving the barrels back into place. People have been cutting across his parking lot to get onto Lead. He sits on the curb, frustrated.
I’m riding my bike to work to avoid the morning traffic inching along the too small streets; Silver and Yale are just not ready for this many drivers. On Silver, careless and impatient road warriors, so many more than usual, try to cut around me. They pass way too close. I wait to cross Yale and continue down the designated Bicycle Boulevard. It’s taking some time, as the traffic is bad. The car behind me begins to honk. Finally, I can cross. A driver patiently stops to let me through. The truck behind him honks.
I can’t be the only one driving in circles, reminiscing about the good ol’ days (a week or two ago), when things were better, simple. Lead went west, two lanes. Coal went east, two lanes. Life was good.