By Alex Rendon
By Monica McGivern
By Michele Eve Sandberg
By Alex Rendon
By Monica McGivern
By Ian Witlen
By Christina Mendenhall
By Michele Eve Sandberg
Maybe all you want out of your pop music is a few minutes of escape, a radio-friendly respite from the heavy humdrum of your workaday existence. Maybe you likes to hang with 50 Cent, who survived a few gunshots (and doesn't let you forget it) to party another day; or maybe you go for a spin with Celine Dion, the all-you-can-eat Vegas buffet with the new-car smell; or dig 3 Doors Down or Linkin Park or Avril Lavigne or anyone else who sounds vaguely rock but isn't, can't and couldn't; or turn down Norah Jones or Coldplay, who're somewhere between left of the dial and middle of the road. If so, God bless and God knows there's plenty of that out there: All the artists mentioned above currently hang atop the Billboard charts, which means somebody'sbuying--if not you, your mom or boyfriend or the second cousin you never talk to. Oh, right, if you're reading this publication, maybe you're slitting your wrists to Cat Power and Nick Cave right about now. Then, our demographics skew older these days; I'm betting it's Celine and John Mayer and you're feeling pretty good about things.
Like an old friend once said, it's pop music and there's no right or wrong choice; you like what you like for no real reason, but because something hits you up there or down there or, better yet, somewhere in between (your heart, in case you took a wrong turn). Every now and then you need to satisfy your jones for something that makes you grin and gets you off, but ultimately it's the fix that doesn't last. What endures are those songs and artists that talk to you, speak for you, feelfor you--make you remember, most of all, you're alive and screwed-up and capable of doing better and feeling better no matter how awful it all seems. You need someone who sympathizes but never judges, who imparts wisdom but with the caveat they'll keep making the same mistakes, too--a friend, in other words, even if you'll never meet.
Which brings us, more or less, to Rosanne Cash, who, over the past 25 years, has become one of those headphone buddies you feel like you've known your entire life. She's the friend who will say what you won't, who will do what you can't, who will make public that which you keep private (like, say, her deep-felt anti-war views, which she has posted on her Web site). She's the one you turn to for advice, though she will be the first to admit she's as screwed-up as you; she's the one you turn on for solace, though she will be the first to admit she's in as much turmoil as you. "My husband will always kind of shake his head and go, 'Nobody would believe what goes on in your head, because it must be so difficult to be you,'" Cash says, referring to her producer and occasional songwriting partner, John Leventhal.
But before you knock her for writing lullabies for grown-ups--meaning, she isn't tough enough for you--consider: She's done her stint in rehab (very Rock and Roll), grew up in the shadow of a big Man in Black and, as Lester Bangs once said, "everybody needs a little vicarious pain." Cash long ago stopped being the daughter of a myth and became a mother to four children of her own and, in a small way, to an audience that looks to a few singer-songwriters for a little nurturing. Till the release of Rules for Traveltwo weeks ago, her first album in seven years, it used to be her songs were about herself, which built for Rosanne Cash a fanatical audience of people interested in her ongoing autobiography and how it could, on occasion, apply to them. (You know--the more personal, the more universal.)
Her 1990 album Interiorsrevealed the intimate details of her deteriorating marriage to Rodney Crowell, who produced the disc, as he had done several earlier ones. Though she would later frown upon it being described as her "divorce album," one couldn't listen to such lines as "both of us separate but neither one free" or a song like "Paralyzed," about a woman hearing her husband on the phone with another woman, without feeling a bit like a voyeur.
That she invited you into the house to witness the arguments--the name-calling, the plate-throwing--only endeared her to the audience, which had found in Cash one of those rare singer-songwriters whose confessions sounded like familiar echoes of our own buried conversations. Though her new album is less first-person--less "narcissistic," she says--it's no less intimate and vulnerable. It deals with familiar subjects--"I love the nooks and crannies of intimacy, I love the exploration of that territory," she says, "and I love the differences between men and women"--but feels less sad and more confident. It's as if the tourist found on 1987's King's Record Shop and 1993's The Wheel, among others, has become the tour guide.
"I've never really talked about this before because, in print, it could sound, uh, flaky or egocentric, but I always do remind myself that it's not about me," Cash says from her home in New York City. "If I get to channel some kind of energy in performance or on record and provide some kind of mirror for people, or some kind of outlet or some kind of understanding of themselves through the songs, then it's not me necessarily doing it. Yes, I had to refine my skills enough to be able to support it, but it still is the vast realm of creative energy I'm tapping into, you know, and I think that's God, that creative realm. And it's just being available to be connected to it. I really feel that it all has to be done with love. Even protest, even civil disobedience, even anger--it has to be done with love. We're all connected and we're responsible for each other, and if you lead with malice, it's just too destructive."