My wife recently found a mix tape she never completed. It included a song I had forgotten about that I like quite a bit - the song “You Are Invited” by the Dismemberment Plan.
I got it in the mail one morning. There was no return address. Just my name in gold leaf on the front. There was no time or location. There was really no info at all. No date no place no time no RSVP. But it said: “You are invited by anyone to do anything. You are invited for all time.” I didn’t think much about it. It seemed like a really dumb joke. But later that week it was Friday once again. So I took it down to a disco. That wouldn’t have me in am million years. I flashed it once and I was inside with a drink. I really didn’t stay too long there,
cuz no one was having much fun. I made my way to a party all the way across town. It was thrown by the friend of an ex-thing. I wasn’t sure if I should go. But when I got in the place there were smiles all up and down. I grabbed my ex in the kitchen. I told her I was sorry I came. But she looked at me with a glazed smile and said:
“You are invited by anyone to do anything. You are invited for all time. You are so needed by everyone to do everything. You are invited for all time.” I headed home kinda early. The party wasn’t all that great. I saw my neighbor out crying on his front porch. I stopped to see what his deal was. I couldn’t catch much through the sobs. Something about a party and he didn’t go. I thought about it for a second, the invite in my hand. I threw it down at his feet and I said: “You are invited by anyone to do anything. You are invited for all time. You are so needed if you really want to go. You are invited for all time.”
I like narrative songs. Like a lot.
I was thinking about it and here are the other examples of favorite songs of mine that came to mind right away that are narrative songs.
Jawbreaker, “Bad Scene, Everyone’s Fault”
I went to a party last night. What sick things I saw. Makeout sessions and bicycle messengers,
Punks and art school dropouts. I ran into this guy I knew but hadn’t seen in years. We went into the neon kitchen and stole a couple beers. He said his girl had dumped him but there was another guy. He said that he still liked her. All I could say was, “Why, why, oh why, oh why, Why is it always like this? Either you’re too mean, or you’re too nice.” He said, “I even cooked her breakfast.” We went into the living room. Someone was blasting Zeppelin. It sounded good. I felt ashamed. I knew every drum fill. Anyway, there she sat, totally kissing this guy. They looked good, I mean like in love. Then I remembered my friend. He said, “How could you do this? You said that you needed your space. He’s wearing the shirt that I gave you.” Then she said, “Why, why, oh why, oh why, Why are you always like this? If I’m having fun then it’s breaking your heart. Besides, you said I could have it.” Then the cops showed up.
The Weakerthans, “One Great City”
Late afternoon another day is nearly done. A darker grey is breaking through a lighter one. A thousand sharpened elbows in the underground. That hollow hurried sound of feet on polished floor and in the dollar store the clerk is closing up and counting loonies trying not to say “I hate Winnipeg.” The driver checks the mirror seven minutes late. Crowded riders’ restlessness enunciates the Guess Who sucked, the Jets were lousy anyway. The same mood every day and in the turning lane someone’s stalled again. He’s talking to himself
and hears the price of gas repeat his phrase, “I hate Winnipeg.” Up above us all, leaning into sky, our golden business boy will watch the north end die and sing “i love this town” then let his arching wrecking ball proclaim
“I hate Winnipeg.”
Propagandhi, “Iteration”
Donald wept through the proceedings. His tears soaked through the canvas that cloaked his twisted face and they stained his orange jumpsuit where with such rare distinction he once displayed the evidence of his outstanding contributions to the maintenance of a kingdom come. But those days are gone. He’s nothing more than a number on a docket thick with shareholders, engineers, PR firms, politicians: war-profiteers. How the fuck did I end up here? This just isn’t fair. Ain’t no place for a millionaire. He searches for the words to stop this table in mid-turn, like “we are but old men” and “we only did what we were told,” but the laughter from the gallery drowns out these vestiges of a profession’s oldest defense. The court will direct the record to reflect compliments from the bench; you sir, are central casting’s crowning achievement. And for your outstanding performance in a comedic role, I’d like to dedicate the findings of the jury to the dead. But how can one man ever repay a debt so appalling? Can’t gouge 10,000 eyes from a single head so I think we should observe a sentence that will serve to satisfy both a sense of function and poetry: so you will spend the rest of your days drenched in sweat, with your face drawn in a rictus of terror as you remove another buried land mine fuse. Meanwhile, 100 yards back behind the sandbags, a legless foreman pulls the trigger on a red megaphone. Squelching feedback. Drunken laughter. Broken English. His dead daughter’s picture. Time and tide, no one can anticipate the inevitable waves of change.