Tuesday tell-all

Plus: celebrating an instant, and to-become-timeless, classic

Hello, readers!

Here are a few things that have been going on with me since we last talked.

• I’ve been holding back about things on my mind. No more. Last week, I wrote a response to the Wall Street Journal’s article about women giving up on marriage, and I suggested a new headline and different graphics. And shared an actual text I got from a rando on a dating app.

• Bernie and Bootie (aka “Butti-gieg”) are driving me crazy. I still love them (I think), and I’m still glad that I adopted them (I think). But if I don’t get up and feed them the instant my alarm goes off before 6 a.m., they will bite me on the toes or the elbow or the shoulder (or all three). They’re whiny (unsatisfied by any toy or type of attention), and they won’t stay off the kitchen counter, or away from the table when I’m trying to eat. But I still love them. (I think.)

• I’ve driven through a slew of tiny towns in Iowa, traveling to two mini writing retreats, and stopped for Casey’s coffee at just about every other one.

What I have for you today is a celebration of a perfectly created piece of pop music.

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Stopping to note, and celebrate, an instant classic

So much is so wrong with the world right now, we have to take a moment to celebrate something good, no matter how small—even if it’s just a good song on the radio.

Most of my favorite musicians dwell in the space of respected and well-known enough to, say, fill the Ryman Auditorium, (or the Raccoon Motel!) but not “whatever” enough to get played on mainstream radio. Regular readers might remember that I’m obsessed with singer/songwriters, (like Lissie, Jenny Lewis, River Shook, Bully, Hurray for the Riff Raff, and Sierra Ferrell, to name a few), to the degree that I perhaps was one in a past life. Or have always harbored the secret wish that I could become one—maybe in the next life.

And while it’s true that in my adult life, I usually have NPR or a personally curated Spotify playlist on in the car, I grew up obsessed with top 40 radio, taping songs off of Casey Kasem’s countdown. So I will never not get joy from hearing a hit—a well-deserved hit, that is—that bursts through, standing out amidst a lot of… not-great.

Alas, we must stop and note the presence of a song that would be great if it just sounded as good as it does, and enhanced as it is with liberal sprinklings of F bombs and the very heavily British annunciation, such as in the word “arse.”

But beyond all that, it’s a perfectly written, perfectly delivered encapsulation of one woman’s exasperation with her partner (or “partner” in quotes).

I’m talking, of course, about the song “Messy” by Lola Young.

Just in case you’re unfamiliar, or if you’ve been half-noticing it in the background, the song has been out on the radio waves for awhile—it’s that one where the singer with a smoky and very-British-sounding voice admits to being “not skinny” and having

“Okay, so yeah, I smoke like a chimney
I'm not skinny, and I pull a Britney every other week
But cut me some slack, who do you want me to be?
'Cause I'm too messy, and then I'm too fucking clean
You told me, "Get a job, " then you ask where the hell I've been
And I'm too perfect, 'til I open my big mouth
I want to be me, is that not allowed?
And I'm too clever, and then I'm too fucking dumb
You hate it when I cry, unless it's that time of the month
And I'm too perfect, 'til I show you that I'm not
A thousand people I could be for you, and you hate the fucking lot

…It's taking you ages
You still don't get the hint, I'm not askin' for pages
But one text or two would be nice
And please, don't pull those faces
When I've been out working my arse off all day
It's just one bottle of wine or two

The song is somehow a mix of darkly funny, sad, quirky, relatable, catchy and singable.

I predict it will be as big a hit as “Rollin’ in the Deep.” But will it launch a career like Adele’s? Or get treated with one-hit-wonder status like Duffy (the singer of “Mercy”?) or like Lily Allen (after “Smile”)?

Either way, when an instant classic like this comes along, I must share my enthusiasm; I must ask you to agree that it’s amazing; (and if not, fight me in the comments).

I know nothing about Lola Young—important to note, that I’ve (uncharacteristically) gone this long without Googling her. (Normally when an artist catches my attention, I have to get their whole backstory). For now I want to relish the song itself, and ask you to do the same.

If you can find a way to listen first rather than watching a video, please do. (It’s just something I believe in.) I haven’t even played the video yet as I’m slapping it below.

But here it is. Enjoy every bit—especially the word arse!

Thank you for reading Out Here in the Fields, a free online column about the Midwest, midlife, and other m’s, including music.

Comments and reactions mean everything. As do coffees for next writing session at the neighborhood coffee shop!

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Thank you to the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, of which I’m a proud member, for the support!