3. The Walkmen – You & Me (2008, Gigantic)
I’m not ashamed to admit that, like many people, I’m sure, I was introduced to The Walkmen by a Volkswagen commercial. I don’t remember what happens in the commercial—probably a lot of shots of a sleek Jetta cruising while hinting at some heartwarming tale of the humans inside of it—but I distinctly remember hearing the underwater piano of “We’ve Been Had” and thinking, “What is this music?” A quick internet search got me my answer, and pretty soon I owned a copy of their first album, Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me is Gone. That was a pretty good time for me to find this music; the album came out in 2002, when I was newly ejected from high school, strolling about a college campus with headphones like I owned the place, and I felt undeniably “cool” listening to the roomy, tense, edgy Walkmen; I especially connected with lead singer Hamilton Leithauser’s wiry, strained Dylan-esque yelps, and became enamored with the kind of imaginary New York City I heard in their songs. “Wake Up” made it onto nearly every mixtape I made in my first couple semesters of college. Years later, after spending some time with their more mature, razor-sharp Bows + Arrows, I’d tell someone that whenever I listened to The Walkmen I imagined Holden Caulfield wandering aimlessly, in existential crisis, around Central Park. I’d geek out about them with Nichole when I worked at the bookstore, fostering even more of a band crush when I heard they were working, collectively, on writing a novel while on tour. Nevermind the fact that I met them in a commercial; I was pretty enamored.
But nothing they did before could have hinted at what they’d make in You & Me.
“Well, it’s back to the battle today, but I wouldn’t have it any other way, ’cause tonight we’ll be crazy as kooks.” The declaration at the very top of the record, while it’s just a low rumble of toms and underwater bass guitar, before everything starts happening, is a microcosm of what’s happening with The Walkmen on this, their most recent (and most fully realized) album. They’re very serious, but there’s a playful romanticism in what they’re doing, and in everything Leithauser says. I won’t get into how Kerouackian he can be at times, but needless to say, I like what I hear. Leithauser and The Walkmen obviously revere another of my all-time favorite writers, Harry Nilsson—hell, they covered an entire album of his, song-for-song (“Pussy Cats” Starring The Walkmen, #48 on my list). Like him, they write bent, off-kilter love songs and unique little odes to NYC. But they’ve found a sound all their own, one that’s sort of otherworldly.
The band has always been fond of drenching everything in reverb, and that’s still the case on You & Me, but everything they’ve tried to do on past albums has finally come out, I imagine, just the way they wanted it to. More than probably any album I’ve ever heard, the drums sound like they’re in the same room, right next to you, warm and intimate even when they’re crashing down like they do in “On the Water.” And there’s one of the key words to describe this album: warm. I’m not sure exactly how to go about qualifying that; warm in sound, warm in emotion, warm in spirit. “In the New Year” is one of the best songs the band has ever written, an anthem for disaffected city kids or lonesome travelers to replace even “We’ve Been Had.” Its syncopated, waltzy, neon-lit chorus is the catchiest hook in my recent indie rock memory, and even after only a few listens it felt like a song I’d had with me for years and years.
I could go on and on about all the little nuances in the record, but what concerns me the most is the “you” in You & Me, the little hints at a great romantic relationship, like something from an old movie, but better, because it’s real. Or at least it’s real in the songs. I’m not saying that every “you” is a reference to the same person—on one of the songs, for example, I’m pretty sure the “you” is directed inward, at Leithauser himself—but there’s definitely something significant in the album’s title. Maybe if we go in order and pick out the little details, it’ll come together like some kind of outline for a short story about a personal relationship, a story called You & Me. As often as I’ve thought about this, I’ve never tried it, so let’s see what happens.
During the quiet lull toward the end of “Donde Esta La Playa,” Leithauser describes crashing a party and then drops the album’s first “you” in a line that’s almost embarrassingly personal: “I know that you’re married; the ring’s on your hand. So I didn’t stay ’til the end.” Unrequited love, anyone? This song is itself an entire short story in just under four minutes. But it gets better. “On the Water” hints further at a troubled romantic relationship. He tells her (“you”), “You know I’d never leave you, no matter how hard I try.” What a sentiment. “Everybody sees right through the static,” he goes on. “That is, dear, everyone but you.” Whether that’s a compliment or an insult remains to be seen. The references to “you” in “In the New Year” are a bit more optimistic. “I know you’re with me. It’s a point of pride.” To be with someone you’re proud of—that evokes a little swell of recognition in my chest. It goes on. “I’m just like you,” he shouts, “I never hear the bad news, and I never will.” I’ll spare you any references to my past personal relationships here, but I want to say I can relate. On “Postcards from Tiny Islands,” Leithauser makes a toast: “Here’s to you, and the stars above, the half-moon in your pretty eyes.” Then a (to me) very Salingerian moment: “This letter does it all. It’s too much to enclose. These postcards from tiny islands do more than you know.” It’s vague at this point, but there’s a definite story in all of this. “Red Moon” is the closest The Walkmen have ever come to writing a ballad, but theirs—like so much of this album—sounds timeless and warm, like old soul record. The simple declaration at the end (“I miss you. There’s no one else”) goes a long way.
The Walkmen's Hamilton Leithauser
This brings us to the album’s middle, and, literally, its core, its heart and soul: “Canadian Girl.” This, my friends, is a song I barely have the ability to describe. As much Otis Redding as it is hip, New York indie rock, “Canadian Girl” is probably the best love song I’ve ever heard. “You are the morning,” Leithauser croons, “you are the night.” I was obsessed with this song for a solid year after the record came out—okay, I still am—and when I worked at the coffee shop, I’d sing this song every time I wheeled the trash out through the parking garage. My voice would echo like the reverb on the album. “So take my hand! The players in the band, they can always find some number that we know.” Horns swell and it’s magical, beautiful, majestic. “You will miss me when I am gone, but the happy music will carry on.”
The story goes on. “Four Provinces” is another New York party song, but the parties are from another time, somewhere in the past, elegant-yet-boozy, poetic through all the smoke and laughter. I like to think the “Leah” referenced in the song is the album’s “you,” the Canadian girl, because here’s another charming declaration: “Every bone in my body: broken one time or two. Every hour of the long day: rather spend it with you. Every year that I’m living: try to stick by your side. Sun goes down, moon comes up, the sky is black and blue. Here I stand, honey, with you.”
“Long Time Ahead of Us” is a quiet, starry-eyed love song that swells into something entirely bigger with its crucial, optimistic line: “Long time ahead of us. Good luck ’round every turn, now that I’ve got you.”
“New Country” is a forlorn, everything-has-changed kind of song that I’m not going to dissect. I’m going to post it below and if you’re interested you can see how it ties everything together. This one just hits too close to home.
If “Canadian Girl” and “Four Provinces” paint a picture of an ideal, dream-like existence and romance, the album’s final two tracks, “I Lost You” and “If Only It Were True” serve as a wake-up call, a reminder that nothing is perfect. “I knew you when I was young, the loveliest girl in town. I wish you were still around,” he sings of an idyllic, fantastic relationship long gone. “I was sleeping in the backseat when I got home. I was finally reminded I lost you.” It goes on. “If Only It Were True” is a rejection of that fantasy. “My head is full of dreams. It’s nothing new. But, baby, dreaming is all a man can do.” It’s a lament. “And when I’ve had enough,” he sings in closing, “then I’ll die in dreams of you.”
And then it’s over, a sad ending to a timeless, road-worn, bleary-eyed, beautiful story. No wonder this album’s right up my alley.
Click below to listen to “New Country.” And believe me, it’s better this way. If I had tried to write about it, you’d finally see me for the sappy sucker I am.
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