But now, O Lucinda, I see the error of my ways. Or, perhaps more accurately, I see how beautifully your Wheels goes round and round. Like all great records that take warming up to (in my case, actually hearing it once or twice instead of dismissing writers three times my age as half-deaf sycophants, or at least [at best?] out-of-touch grandfathers), Williams' fifth album has ostensibly become a fetish object, as indelibly linked to a specific time and place (uh, 1998, my room) as a girlfriend's scent or that episode of The Cosby Show where Denise makes Theo a shirt with fucked-up sleeves. That I didn't even know who Williams was when she made records like 1992's not-as-great- but-still-worth- Napstering-or-hey- why-don't-you-buy- it-I-mean-she-deserves- your-cash-if-Vonda- Shepard-does Sweet Old World (then again, as I've intimated, at the time I was a sophomore myself in some underpaid, over-dedicated creative-writing teacher's class [ha ha] at some high school somewhere, so cut me some slack; Alice in Chains' "Them Bones" was my idea of roots-rock) just makes me shiver twice.
That's not a subtle way of saying Williams turns me on--though she kind of does in a Bill and Ted's/hot-mom sort of way--but that her songs--the type that start out deeply personal and end up breathtakingly communal, and that's about as good as I can do at describing them (sorry, teach)--strike a hidden nerve most don't approach.
Begrudgingly belated note to self: Old people aren't always wrong. Or right.