Far From Me and the Psychology of Denial
A question ain’t really a question / If you know the answer, too
The best song request of my touring career happened at Bayview Corner on Whidbey Island. The entire band LAKE was in attendance that night, which remains a deep honor. Andrew, their drummer, approached the stage late in the night and asked if I knew “Far From Me.”
LAKE is one of my favorite bands, and people I look up to. Bit of a sidenote here, but it’s worth mentioning that their 2020 Roundelay is a bit of a masterpiece, actually. If you haven’t heard, take a break and go listen. Listen for: the musical break on “Bubble”; “you can’t wear a crown / hanging upside down” at the close of Hanging Man; the claustrophobic texture—and drumming!—on “Cup Sludge.” It was the first masterpiece of an album made by people I know, and it came out during COVID when the heavy themes of the album seemed to presage the upheaval of the time.
And in this small bar, Andrew was requesting a very deep cut, a profound and hidden gem from John Prine’s towering first album—not “Angel from Montgomery” (please note, musicians, we don’t need any more versions), not “Paradise”—but “Far From Me.” You can count on the musicians.
Years later, I understand why Andrew wanted to hear this song. It remains one of the more psychologically complex of the folk canon, couched in Prine’s signature wry humor. In this case, it’s not particularly funny, and takes a decidedly dark turn. You can picture the scene: the tinny music of an old cafe, the island of light under a buzzing bulb on a warm night, the narrator’s shitty car.
It’s the emotional landscape that gives me chills. Is this a picture of addiction? Cathy is cleaning the spoons, after all. There is at least some form of addiction here, considering the narrator’s clarity of insight and his apparent total lack of ability to act. He can see that her comments about the radio are not about the radio:
She asked me to change the station / said the song just drove her insane
But it weren’t just the music playing / It was me she was trying to blame.
That they have drifted apart:
We used to laugh together / and we’d dance to any old song
You know, she still laughs with me / but she waits just a second too long.
He even sees that, no—they will not be seeing each other tomorrow. But he still asks.
The tragedy of the song is the all-too-relatable predicament when we know, but are not prepared to face it. Denial, in short. And all of that in three verses! That’s not even mentioning the chorus, in which Mr. Prine allows himself some uncharacteristically impressionistic verse—perhaps mirroring the psychology of the narrator himself.
This performance of the song on stream was actually my first time using the looper during a live stream. I’d covered the basics and made sure the equipment worked, but I was essentially learning in real-time. This made me nailing that specific looping section at 2:25 magical. I planned ahead, executed, and integrated the looper into the song so seamlessly that you wouldn’t even notice it unless I pointed it out, which is often the case with things that are working. You can hear the backing track of the chorus section kick in, allowing me to improvise over it, and the fact that it’s nearly impossible to detect when it happens means it’s actually working—good looping, like many technical elements in music, goes unnoticed when done right.