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Pop
Music Tracy Chapman
By ROBIN TAYLOR
Sometimes, one good dinner can make
everything better. Especially if its dinner with an old friend, one you
havent seen in awhile. I recently met with one of these friends at a pub
owned by business associates of hers, in a state far from where I live now. It
was a noisy, crowded, rollicking place. Why are we here? the
bartenders queried. Were here for the beer! the assembly
shouted. I confess I had a beer. And a sourdough bread bowl stuffed with
spinach dip. And half a barbeque chicken pizza.
That wasnt why I was there, though. I was there for my
friend. To hear about her sons, her business, her stories I had missed. To
share my soul, too, that I am lonely here in Utah, that though I love my
husband more than anything, that I miss my old friends, and that new ones have
been hard to find.
True friends are the ones who love you even though theyve
seen you at your worst. There is nothing you can say, nothing you can do, that
will scare them away. I am grateful for my old friends. They have heard a
million of my confessions. Their gift to me has been their presence,
acceptance, and a kind of absolution. So often lately, in my quest for
companions, I have felt as if I am auditioning for a part. If I could only find
the right words or smile in the right way, then maybe this woman or that one
would be my friend. The magic formula is elusive.
This is where the music of Tracy Chapman comes in. There is nobody
singing today who is more vulnerable, honest or compelling. Listening to her
songs about struggle, pain and a certain, fragile hope reminds me of how I miss
my friends, of how rare it is these days that I share my truth or receive
stories in return. Like my friends, Chapmans vulnerability just makes me
love her more. Her latest release, Telling Stories, is a remarkable
collection in which she never shies away from the hard questions.
Chapmans focus is the interior landscape, that place where we can be
ourselves, broken and beautiful at the same time.
Chapman wrote lyrics and music for all 11 songs here, co-produced
the album, and even had a hand in its mixing and art direction. You get the
feeling that it was a labor of love. This love shows up in each of the songs,
from musings after a breakup to thoughts on money, obsession and the raw grief
of losing a cherished relative.
She wrestles with her worthiness, questioning whether she deserves
love, happiness, salvation. I do this, too. I know intellectually that I am
saved through grace, that I am loved as I am. Sometimes, though, this is hard
to believe when I face my mighty collection of daily failures. In Wedding
Song, Chapmans lyrics are poetry and hope. With you I am
revealed/All my shame all my faults and virtues
There is salvation and
rapture for the lonely
Bless this day sacred and holy/Sacred and
holy.
Another powerful song on the album, Unsung Psalm dives
into that murky area where passion and purity collide. There would be
psalms sung by a choir/I would have a white robe a halo newly acquired/Id
be at peace and Id have no desire/If Id lived right, she
sings. I also long to live a holy life. At the same time, though, I remember
that hunger that lures you down a dangerous, humid path, one youre not
supposed to follow, but you dont turn back, not just yet, because
theres nowhere else youd rather be. Some would call me a
cheat, call me a liar/Say that Ive been defeated by the basest
desires/Yes I have strayed and succumbed to my vices/But I tried to live
right. She later adds, I have no regrets no guilt in my
heart.
This is where Chapman and I differ. After Ive come back from
that place where desire leads, Ive always felt guilt. Even though I know
the one who forgives, its hard for me to let go. Chapmans example
is a good one for me. All I can do is confess and move on.
Emmylou Harris joins Chapman for The Only One, a song
where grief is given a voice. She was the only one/Of my flesh and
blood/Now I have no calling/I can do no worldly good. Anyone who has lost
a friend or loved one can relate to this pain, the feeling of being alone,
bereft, without a clue on how to continue. I sit silent/I sit mourning/I
sit listless all the day/Ive mostly lost the voice to speak.
Chapman gives no easy answers. She does ask a question, one that almost sounds
like prayer. Please forgive me for wanting to know/Does heaven have
enough angels yet? Its a good question, the kind that Jesus likes,
one that allows him to come to us in our pain, to wait with us until the light
returns.
The albums final song, First Try, is one of my
favorites. It sums up how I see myself: Im just a
first try
Cant say what I mean/Cant love from the heart/Cant
trust in the mercy and the goodness in the world/Cant learn to accept
that its alright/To struggle with the limits of this ordinary
life.
I also long to love, speak the truth, and trust that all is well
in the world, that there is a plan even when we cant see it and that
goodness and mercy are stronger than all of our sin and shortcomings. Everyday,
I wake up and pray that I will live by these truths. Everyday, by the time
Ive finished breakfast, Ive already failed. Perhaps the reminder
here is that this failure surprises no one but me. God knows that daily all of
us struggle with the limits of this ordinary life. Its a
battle we cant win alone. But if somehow, in the process, we remember
Jesus and allow him to love us, then everything that is wrong in us suddenly
becomes OK again. Our weakness becomes strength.
My story is full of disappointment, failure, and repentance that
didnt seem to take. The blessings of my life -- my husband, my faraway
friends and family, my work, my dog -- amaze me. They remind me that each of us
floats in a sea of grace, grace that supports us, sustains us and ultimately
brings us home. When we get there, someday down the road, we wont be
alone. Well find our friends, the ones who loved us all along. Together,
well clap and sing the song of all our stories, the winding and twisted
paths that somehow ended up beautiful in the end. Jesus will lead the singing.
All the songs -- all the stories -- will become one.
Robin Taylor writes from Salt Lake City, where she can be
reached at Tumblestick@aol.com
National Catholic Reporter, August 11,
2000
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