Five Misheard Lyrics from St. Vincent’s Self Titled Album
Annie Clark of St. Vincent tends to be very economical with her words, crafting tight tracks that revolve around repeated refrains and frequently brief verses. It is the power of those few words which helps make her music so engaging for me. However, finally picking up a hard copy of her latest eponymous effort led me to an even more startling discovery about her lyrics: I am absolutely awful at deciphering them.
The misheard lyric, or mondegreen (the semi-official term), is fairly widespread, but usually we make small mistakes over the course of unfamiliar tracks from many artists, or maintain mistakes across the years for a smaller handful of tracks. Here, I was impressed by the depth and breadth of things I simply didn’t hear correctly, not to mention things I heard right the first time and doubted. Allow me, then, to give a rundown of some highlights of my impressive fail rate.
Every Tear Disappears
I heard:
I live all lives. I’ve been born twice.
She sang:
I live on wires. I been born twice.
The verdict:
It seems obvious that I figured the two lines would relate, but it won’t be difficult to make the transition.
Digital Witness
I heard:
What’s the price for you next week?
She sang:
Won’t somebody sell me back to me?
The verdict:
I have no idea where I came up with the almost 100% altered version, and really, it was never a certainty, but reading the final word on this track about the digital age of oversharing made the song an even more perfect send-up. It tops the sarcastic snarl of the rest of the song like a cherry made of diamonds. Edible cherry diamonds.
Huey Newton
I heard:
You got the popular hits in the city of misfits
She sang:
You got the pop and the hiss in the city of misfits
The verdict:
This was probably the biggest egg-on-the-face moment, as I’d already claimed my version as part of my lexicon. The idea of this album as part of that zeitgeist of “popular with the misfits” seemed to fit well enough, and the idea of a society of outcasts joining together around some amalgam of random music tastes was appealing: it’s basically what we’re trying to do here, is it not? Alas, while the true lyrics give a certain atmosphere to this “city,” a certain grit and growl while also a warm, vintage implication (think of playing vinyl, or a classic tube amplifier), there’s a part of me that is going to have a damned hard time dispelling the notion that I’d heard right to begin with.
Severed Crossed Fingers
I heard:
Find myself with crossed fingers in the rubble there
She sang:
Find my severed crossed fingers in the rubble there
The verdict:
There’s probably nothing jerkier than suggesting you’d do art differently, so it is very cautiously that I suggest that one of my favorite tracks on the album actually makes me even happier when I delude myself that I was right. There’s really no reason to do so: the title is “Severed Crossed Fingers,” and the words “crossed fingers” are right there! Still, I think it’s the image for me: going with the actual lyrics provides a more difficult to reconcile picture of someone searching, fingerless, through rubble for their still-crossed, severed fingers. There’s a certain grotesquery that fits the rest of the chorus, to be sure, but the image I’d picked up was that of a person lying in the rubble, fingers still crossed as if it could stave off the inevitable. To me, it builds a certain crescendo from the fear and hopelessness and trying to hold up under those pressures which the rest of the song puts forth. It’s a certain poignant sadness, the resolve legitimately shattered along with the stoic body, that the actual lyric misses. If art can do the things it does even when we misinterpret it, it must say something about its strength, no?
Rattlesnake
I heard:
Is that a rattle sounding from the butt?
She sang:
Is that a rattle sounding from the brush?
The verdict:
I couldn’t be happier with these results. All is right with the world.
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