15-year-old me was heavily into eyeliner, Howard Zinn, and magnetic sad boys who’d never treat me right but would never bore me. My little brother was almost named Gram, though, so this tendency isn’t completely my fault; hips aren’t the only thing I inherited from my mom, youfeelme.
I’ve since come to my senses and stopped being a jerk – fetishizing fucked-up brain chemistry/sorrow is just a gross thing to do – but my fondness for Gram remains and I’ll prove it by singing every goddamn word on all of his records and wearing his name on my chest. (Thank you, Worn Free!)
PS, fun fact: it turns out EVERY song called “A Song for You” makes me break down and cry.
I’ve been blessed with plenty of luck, I love blowing up cars, I’m full of anger and beauty and guilt and sorrow and DNA that predisposes me to alcoholism, plus my name is LOGAN, so I don’t need to do much to prove my Irishness to you people on 3/17 or any other day. But there’s never enough Lynott for me in life nor on the Internet so I’ll take any excuse to post him. And because lady record dorks (like the titular character in opening handclappy banger “Rosalie”) and supercool lanky half-Guyanese bass players both tend to get fetishized by people who love music, I swear it’s like Phil and I are forever buddies in the struggle. Happy St. Patrick’s Day, yall.
(Get this record. “Wild One” is the tragic, pretty soundtrack to me riding my horse through a cold Dublin field at night. And “Freedom Song,” about a man named Jack McDuff – but not THAT Jack McDuff, guys – has the loveliest, Thin-Lizziest chord progression you can possibly imagine. Get it.)