The Decemberists

I got the most recent Decemberists album, Picaresque, about a year ago and, well, barely listened to it at all. So much time went by that I totally forgot about it. But then Tam bought us tickets to see them last month, and I pulled it out again. I thought I might have another listen before the concert. What the hell was I thinking, letting that CD sit around getting dusty?!?! Flippin’ idiot!

The concert was awesome; I loved the Decemberists even more. Within minutes of getting home that night, I downloaded their other two albums from emusic, but only had the chance to listen to them over the last week. Now I can’t stop. There hasn’t been a day in over a week that I haven’t listened to at least one, if not all, of the Decemberists’ albums.

So I bring you “Eli, The Barrow Boy” as the song that soundtracked my week. As much as I love each and every song, that one is still by far my favorite. It’s a deeply sad and haunting song. Sometimes we love music because it lets us feel achingly sad, it gives us an excuse. If that wasn’t true, why would Coldplay be so popular? We all like to feel sad sometimes, it feels good. But that’s not why I love “Eli, The Barrow Boy”. The Decemberists are fantastic story-tellers. I love to listen to their songs - not just in the background but really listen - because they’re so full of wonderful detail that I can picture the characters. I can see Eli, selling his coal and marigolds. I can picture the church yard where he was buried. It’s not just a song. It’s a tragic tale of love and loss and death, written and sung with so much care that poor Eli might as well have been a real man that the world forgot.

   The Decemberists - Eli, The Barrow Boy