"Where The Road Goes"

Brokenness, bullshit and beautiful things

Howdy y’all. You’ve reached Time & Temperature.

“WHERE THE ROAD GOES” is the first song to drop from the Old 97’s new album American Primitive. I wrote it in Montana at a bend in the Blackfoot River. I found myself playing a simple chord pattern on a loop and meditating on the gratitude I felt for having survived so long.

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"Where The Road Goes" official video

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From downtown Dallas to a cabin on the coast

From the shadow of the towers to the sun in Ohio

From the bottom of a bottle to the palazzo

Who knows where the road goes

From the Blackfoot River to White Sands, New Mexico

From Salt Lake City to my honey in Tupelo

From the barroom floor to the bardo

Who knows where the road goes

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It’s a tricky thing, expressing gratitude in a song. When I was younger, I felt way more comfortable expressing ennui, dissatisfaction or even contempt. But here I am, a man in his early fifties who has been able to play for a living, to convert my musings into mortgages, my caterwauling into car payments.

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Oh you could have died that day

Back when you thought none of this was worth it

When you thought everything was broken

Oh you didn't know yet

Someday you'd watch this big green river flow

Who knows where the road goes

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The original lyric in the chorus was “when you thought everything was bullshit,” but my sister Christi complained that it was “too harsh.” After my initial pushback, I began to wonder if she might be right. Bullshit’s a tough word to sing. I walked for miles around Portland during breaks in the session, singing the song to myself, trying out different replacements, before landing on a word that’s what I suppose you’d call a leitmotif in my body of work, “broken.”

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The idea of brokenness is one I’ve wrestled with since my first experiences of large-scale social rejection in grade school. I was different in many ways deemed important by the prepubescent ruling classes at Armstrong Elementary. I was called “Opera Singer” and “Professor Encyclopedia,” both of which sounded strangely complimentary, but context clues indicated that they were, in no uncertain terms, very much not complimentary. I wondered if, even assumed that, I was broken. The machine that whirred away inside all the other kids worked just fine, but mine was damaged, probably beyond repair.

Years later I discovered that most people are experiencing some version of this trauma. Those among us who seem the most put-together are often the ones who are the most shambolic in their inner experience. But nobody talks about it. It isn’t cool. That’s why art is so important. It’s the one place where we are encouraged to talk about our inner lives, our hidden truths. For me, music was a lifesaver. I imagine it was for y’all as well.

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I'm so glad you decided to stick around

Look what you found

Look at all the beautiful things you found

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When I first listened to the playback of the rough mix of this song, I was sitting at the dining room table of a rental house the 97’s were sharing in Portland, Oregon. No one else was around and I had the music cranked pretty loud. I was loving the way the song sounded—each band member at the top of their game, and Peter Buck’s arpeggiated 12-string guitar chiming away. I was feeling so happy. When the bridge hit, and I heard the words “look at all the beautiful things you found,” I began to cry. Heavy tears running down my cheeks and my face all screwed up with unexpected sobs. It came without any warning and the sheer release of it was something I’ll never forget, something that was a long time coming.

As fortunate as I’ve been all these decades, doing a job I love with my brothers in Old 97’s, and blessed with a brilliant family and supportive friends, I still wrestle with the old feelings of brokenness. Sometimes I still feel like everything is bullshit. But now I know otherwise. I’m so glad I decided to stick around. And I’m so happy to have spent my life sharing these beautiful things with you.

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