Not too many years ago, there was this decently popular singer. His name, you ask? James Blunt.
Maybe you remember that song, "You're Beautiful," where the guy with the falsetto voice whined in a creepy, stalker-ish sort of way about some girl he saw on the subway. If you do, that's good ole James.
I remember my mom obsessing over that song to the point where she went out and bought his album. Boy, was she surprised. Those sneaky radio edits had kept her from knowing the true content of Blunt's music. So, at a semi-young age, I was accidentally exposed to the drug/sex culture within the confines of my mother's car. Awkward, right? Not really. I would snicker to myself when she'd forget to turn the volume down to mute the f-bomb. Deviously asking to hear the songs about getting high and lovers and bastard children, I felt smug making her squirm as we drove along. I hope I don't have kids like me.
The point is, I didn't get the reality of his music. That world of "bad" people who did "bad" things to help them forget the pain of break-ups and disappointments was as make-believe as a fairy tale. In my little bubble world, there was no need for such absurd outlets.
As I've grown older, his lyrics have taken on a new meaning. He's not just a melodramatic guy who exaggerates all of the crap going on in his life. He's the voice of millions of unhappy, disenchanted people like himself. His songs envelop the contrasting highs and lows of living. Life can be beautiful, and life can be hell. And, somewhere in the midst of all of the muck, people find purpose and meaning.
I don't know if I'd call myself a fan, but Back to Bedlam does give me a lot to think about. Maybe that's why I had the urge to go and dig it up out of the stack of long-forgotten CDs last week.
