Postcard Losering

When I first discovered the nearly endless list of fantastic bands that made up the 1990's alt.country, Americana, etc. movement, I found myself in search of a way to read and find out about more of these acts. I was so floored by the songs, words and records that I couldn't satisfy the need. I'd hear 6 String Drag and need more. I'd see Hazeldine or 16 Horsepower live and need another band the next night. See, they weren't getting mainstream notice really anywhere, but I needed an avenue to find out about every single band that was even somewhat tied to this "movement." And I found that resource. While sitting in a computer room in college, I discovered an online list server called Postcard From Hell. The list, named after the Uncle Tupelo song "Postcard," was full of music fanatics. They wrote top ten lists at a pace that I wholeheartedly identified with. Music was more than just the words and songs; it was almost a way of being.

Despite taking a few short breathers, I remained on the list until 2008 or so. I made countless friends either directly or indirectly via the list, many of whom, even to this day, are my closest friends. We met in New York City bars, at South By Southwest, at Maxwell's in Hoboken, or even, as is the case with one of my good friends, at the Guiness Fleadh Festival on Randall's Island. We'd hang out and talk music until the sun came up. And a few hours after that. We'd hear of an advance release by The Bottle Rockets, Old 97's, Son Volt or The Backsliders, and we'd drop everything, pick up about 22 cases of beer, and listen. And then talk about it. And then listen again. And again.

Through it all, there was one story, tied to one single song, that seems to represent everything that was (and I imagine, is) Postcard. And every single time that song comes on, I'm brought right back to that period. One member of the list was writing about someone in his life who had been in a coma for some time. I can't recall the details of the story, but from what I do I remember, he would go and visit this person every few days, for months, if not years. Given the person's state, they didn't communicate or have any noticeable interaction. But he kept going. And over time, the emotions of it all remained bottled. That is, until the music allowed him to acknowledge all that he'd been feeling. From what I recall, on one afternoon he was leaving the hospital and the car stereo cued up the song "Losering" by Ryan Adams' fantastic band, Whiskeytown. Starting slow and building, right as the song explodes with drums, harmonica, guitars and Adams' vocals, he was so overcome by the sounds and thoughts that he quickly pulled over to the side of the road and, in a moment, started sobbing. And he couldn't stop. The days in that hospital with his friend were the reason, and this song allowed him to acknowledge it all.

When I think of the power of music and how closely it can align with our emotions and lives, it's this song and the story tied to it, that epitomizes the power of not just song, but in many ways, community.