No breeze today, so the flags hang limp. Flags that line the neighborhood.
On my playlist, songs of America:
Garland Jeffrey’s singing of a lost generation of the late-‘70s, my peers, “American Boys and Girls” lacking connection and inspiration.
Reckless Kelly denouncing the military misadventures of the War on Terror in the brutal “American Blood.”
Lupe Fiasco’s complicated dystopian assault on the monied class, “American Terrorist.”
Springsteen singing of “Spare Parts” and broken hearts.
Perhaps it’s my mood. It’s a celebration day, the news says. Barbecues and fireworks, and the DJs playing Alan Jackson over and over.
And I’ve got Lucinda Williams half rapping “American Dream” and Abraham Alexander singing in “America” of the “Land of the Free / You tell me to run / But there's shackles on me.”
Drive-By Truckers. Bruce Springsteen. Steve Earle. Public Enemy announces “Welcome to the Terrodome.” The Clash are “So Bored with the U.S.A.” and Durand Jones pauses for the quiet moments, “Morning in America,” but cannot see the dawn.
The limp flags pair with limp proclamations. ‘Impeach Biden.” “No Coercion.” “Let’s Go Brandon.” And in Congress, they unravel the plot to overthrow an election, implicate a president, his advisers, his party. Still, the damage is done, his court picks beginning the dismantlement of liberal, pluralistic America. Roe overturned. Gun rights trump all. What’s next?
And the band plays on. A rumble rising. Bob Mould’s guitar ripping in, “I never thought II’d see this bullshit again.”
So, to hell with Alan Jackson and Toby Keith. Let Waylon sing of “America,” his “home sweet home,” where “the red man is right, to expect a little from you / Promise and then follow through, America.”
Turn up the volume for Son House and Hayes Carll, Janelle Monae, Common and Aloe Blacc. Turn it up. I hear the Yawpers. Guitars and more guitars. An ironic habitation of MAGA, with its backward-looking preacher and a discontented speaker, images of violence. “If my father could see this, he’d burn it all down / It was sacred to him this American ground,” he snarls.
So raise the flag, cover you heart with your hand
Hear the call, and heed the command
Living my life with my head in the sand
Praise the lord I’m an American man
A slight breeze picks up. Perhaps it’s the speakers, the MC5. The flags flap easy, “hip to the American ruse.”