33 Revolutions is a weekly column by Vinyl Tap staff writer David Lefkowitz. Each week explores a different album, too old to warrant a traditional review, but for one reason or another deserving of a closer look.
How do you write about the things you love?
It's easy to write about that which you like, don't get me wrong. Even easier to write about what you hate (I can opine for hours about Greta Van Fleet). But favorites are hard. There's a special nature to them, one that reaches in and takes hold of something deep. Some albums (or paintings, or movies) just take root deep in the back of your mind, each one its own little puzzle piece, fitting into a place you hadn't even known existed. It's the simplicity of this attachment, the inexplicable draw of certain art to certain people, that makes favorites so hard.
I can't explain any of my favorite albums, nor can I convince you. Nor, for that matter, do I want to convince you. I could tell you that Pink Moon was recorded in just two late-night sessions, unable to book the studio before 11 PM. I could tell you that it's Drake's first album without a full, orchestral backing band, featuring only vocals, acoustic guitar, and one, single piano riff. I could even point out that, across all 11 of its songs, the LP still only clocks in at a lean 28 minutes, speaking both to the brevity and the beautiful simplicity of its songwriting. But none of this would convince you.
I could try and describe the way the album sounds, the way Pink Moon captures this certain, incredibly specific sound that nobody since has been able to recreate. It's skeletal. Drake's whispered vocals are almost discomfortingly fragile, as if not even he is sure he should be sharing this. The lyrics are cryptic, impressionistic swirls of symbols and intensely personal admissions. The singer sounds skittish, spooked by something, like he could simply bolt off any minute. Staring at the album cover, my eyes are always drawn to the little blue and white figure emerging from the background. Is he a ghost? A clown? Or, perhaps, the ghost of a clown? No explanation is given. Still, I've never been able to shake the impression that his face - sad, intelligent, and somehow vaguely British - reflects the feeling of listening to Nick Drake sing more accurately than any words could ever come.
I could say all of these things, rattling on for minutes in front of a corkboard of photos and red yarn and probably coming off far more Mark David Chapman than Lester Bangs. And, I'm sure, many of you could do the same for your favorite albums, and probably come off just as nuts. And I, too, would sit, smiling and nodding politely, just waiting my turn until I can roll up my sleeves and start yammering away about Astral Weeks. This is the nature of favorites. Or, perhaps, the point of them. Still, I don't see myself shutting up about Nick Drake any time soon. This album is a masterpiece, a testament to the old adage that perfection is achieved when nothing remains to be taken away. Pink Moon is naked, totally absent of excess, and deserving every bit of reverent fan-boy attention I can provide. So take a seat, and make sure to get comfortable. I've got ten yards of yarn and enough talking points to span roughly 3 Pink Moons. This might take a while.