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"American Culture" as a concept is extremely broad and wide-ranging, but by no means impalpable. It is rock 'n' roll. It is Hollywood. It is the NFL. It is Walt Disney World. Tarantino. Hulk Hogan. Clinton playing Presley on Arsenio. Et cetera. As far as pop culture is concerned, the U. S. of A. is the great melting pot, the center of the universe, and as far as American pop culture is concerned, N.Y.C. and L.A. are the twin centers of the universe. The dual urban hubs of our society. East Coast and West Coast. They (and a handful of other, slightly less conspicuous cities) are where it all happens. Any catch-all idea of "American Culture" to immediately come to mind beyond that generally either resembles something pleasantly Rockwellian or laughably Eastwoodian.
All of this is to say that what is often forgotten about the approximately 2500 miles of contiguous U.S. between Los Angeles and New York City is that a great majority of it (in terms of area) consists of places where not much happens. America must have some great P.R. agents to have gotten the ball rolling on that whole "melting pot" thing because there is no shortage of places that force one to question the presence of any culture. There are several entire states which don't even have a fraction of the cultural cachet single city blocks in L.A. have. Not that rural America has no place in the popular consciousness; there are countless highly acclaimed and beloved pieces of film/television/music/literature/etc. that touch beautifully on the fascinating and often mundane experiences of living in the desert or Tornado Alley or the rural South or some such East-Jesus-Nowhere locale¹, but they rarely do much to really shape the more general impression of American culture, which only grows more and more detached from the surreal dullness that the U.S. has by the score. The closest thing to really be believably representative of the nation while hitting on the real small-town aspect of it is ultimately really the aforementioned N. Rockwell or country music on the whole, though Nashville is hardly the boonies.
The Johns of They Might Be Giants are from Lincoln, Mass. and have been professionally based in Brooklyn for the entirety of the band's 40+ year career, and yet their music (and John Linnell's solo effort State Songs in particular) often strikes me as quintessentially American in the more quaint small-town sense. Or at least, in this nearly inexplicable way that's reflective and somewhat celebratory of American culture without being flattering or idealistic. The American culture behind State Songs is resolutely uncool. However, it isn't uncool in that the album is nerdy (despite TMBG's frequent and unfortunate mischaracterization as a "geek rock" band) or that it's parodic or unflattering; many works about the U.S. heartland (Springsteen's Nebraska, for example²) explore themes of the darkness and/or loneliness of their setting, and Linnell doesn't really do that either. State Songs isn't really easily comparable to other albums in this aspect of its guiding aesthetic. State Songs signifies American culture in the same way as a state fair or a Fourth-of-July parade or a Civil War re-enactment site. It's the album equivalent of one of those maps of the U.S. hung up on someone's wall with fifty holes in it in which you can mount each state quarter, proud and particular and not especially sophisticated or chic.
To be more specific, They Might Be Giants are technically a rock band, and they usually make rock music, but they often take inspiration from sources that are neither fashionable in the sense that rock music is/was, nor are they alluringly exotic, because they're dull white-guys-of-American-history-type sources. This influence covers both the band's music (TMBG once covered former U.S. president William Henry Harrison's campaign song, and perhaps more memorably, included an original tune about former U.S. president James K. Polk on their 1996 album Factory Showroom) and their visuals (too many examples to name; I have a TMBG T-shirt depicting the disembodied heads of Lincoln, T. Roosevelt, Nixon and Taft on the front and Jimmy Carter on the back), rarely with any apparent context. I must stress, though, that TMBG are absurdists, not ironists. They have a lot of politically charged material, but it's always approached with the intention of fulfilling a song's particular narrative rather than a larger agenda; it's not hard to see the connections between songs of corruption and clandestine operations like "The Shadow Government", "Black Ops", "Working Undercover for the Man" or "Kiss Me, Son of God" and real life, but that always remains essentially subtext.³ A decent example of this is the Linnell-penned "James K. Polk", a song whose lyrics use an almost jarring level of journalistic-neutrality, which, coupled with the triumphant melody, ends up coming off rather celebratory of a man who is forgotten by most and disliked by TMBG themselves.⁴ Flansburgh's side project Mono Puff similarly has a tune called "Nixon's the One" which is a bit more cheekily hagiographic, but with a disarming sincerity to it as well. Other cases are typically more opaque and divorced from their inherent political implications (e.g. co-opting the likeness of twentieth-century Progressive journalist William Allen White as the band's mascot of sorts). It's this somewhat bizarre aesthetic that is completely unique to the Johns, and almost (if not totally) confined to American politics and history.
That aesthetic notably permeated the entirety of J. Linnell's inaugural solo release, 1994's State Songs extended-play (a precursor to the album of the same name). Its followup, 1996's House of Mayors E.P., was a collection of songs inspired by former mayors of New York City, and even featured a song ("Will You Love Me in December as You Do in May?") co-written by former N.Y.C. mayor James J. Walker in the early 1900's. That particular cover song sticks with me because it's truly the kind of thing only Linnell could or would really pull off; it's a strikingly sincere cover of an incontrovertibly old-fashioned song, but also seems to be cognizant of the ever-so-slight absurdity of recording a song because it was written by a guy who used to be mayor. It's a lovely song, in any case.⁵ Both of these releases really help illustrate this mix of earnestness and absurdity with which Linnell musically interprets the U.S., and adequately set the stage for the State Songs album, released in 1999.
From a purely musical (i.e. non-lyrical) perspective, State Songs introduces some interesting points of reference that somewhat differ from those normally found on TMBG albums. And this is what I've been attempting to point towards: this is a uniquely American album in a way no other in the pantheon of pop music has really ever recreated. Linnell displays some hipper rock-band influences at times (including the very Doors-esque "West Virginia", and the seemingly Big Star-influenced "Montana"), but far more frequent and ear-catching are the times when Linnell evokes J.P. Sousa or Stephen Foster. A bespoke carousel organ makes an appearance on several tracks, as well as Linnell's accordion⁶ and, on the closing track, a marching band, echoing the influence of old-fashioned, stagnant, and/or bygone American culture. There's also the vaguely Gershwinish "Oregon", and "Michigan", which sounds like a high school football fight song. Many of the songs on this album feel like relics from another age, but not one that's exactly been romanticized with time, nor one for which Linnell or the listener would have any nostalgia. It's peculiar. They sound like portraits on the wall of a Midwestern post office. While there are plenty of tunes that show off the straightforward pop earwormery JL is best known for, it's the songs like "Utah" and "New Hampshire" and "Illinois" that really define the album (much in the same way Lindsey Buckingham's shambolic home-recorded numbers sort of define Fleetwood Mac's Tusk). To put it another way, when the honking band-organ enters the fold, that's when the essence of State Songs is at its most potent.
Of course, even at its most straightforward, it's never really that straightforward. In an interview with NPR, Linnell claimed that the decision to write a series of songs titled after U.S. states was "a way of avoiding having to come up with song titles[…] a way to create more music without having to get bogged down in verbal ideas". And yet, none of these songs really go any remotely obvious route lyrically. State Songs cements Linnell's status as the great unreliable narrator of pop music, with lyrics that are at turns surreal, paranoid, delusional, mysterious, and absurd.⁷ One need not listen any further than the second track (and first with vocals), "The Songs of the 50 States", before being greeted with several dodgy bits of information, including the insistence that the U.S. is controlled by a subterranean cryptocracy, and an offhanded remark that the states are bound to each other by a "golden thread". Not to mention the misleading suggestion that there are 50 State Songs on the album. "Michigan" imagines the titular state as an amorphous growth ever-expanding (and regenerating) across the country. "Idaho" is inspired by a story in which John Lennon, in a state of lysergic acid-induced delirium⁸, was convinced he had to "drive" George Harrison's house. "West Virginia" describes the state as infinitely recurring within itself in an abstract sort of Droste effect. The singer of "Montana" is epiphanically resolute in his belief that Montana is a leg; the singer of "Iowa" is convinced Iowa is a witch, with a cat and hat and everything. "Arkansas" is perhaps the most fanciful song of all, lyrically depicting a ship with the precise dimensions and shape of the state itself, as well as making mention of the nonexistent "coast of Arkansas". What I especially appreciate about the lyrics to this album is that they don't merely stand in defiance to reality but do so in such a matter-of-fact, apodictic manner that these songs succeed as vignettes of absurdist fiction rather than coming off like weird jokes. (The misinformation affects the album's liner notes, too- the inner sleeve lists John Hodgman-esque bits of trivia for each state, and most of them are true, but some are very silly and whimsical.⁹)
Curiouser still, and this ties in somewhat with my impression of Linnell's songwriting as rooted in a surreal heartlandish barrenness, is that these State Songs have next to nothing to do with their respective states. With the exception of "West Virginia"'s references to the rhododendron and sugar maple (WV's state flower and tree), these songs do not mention any distinct landmarks¹⁰, cities, bodies of water, climatic characteristics, native flora/fauna, famous residents, historical events, or any other defining attributes of the states in question (or any others). The songs aren't evocative of their titular states sonically, either, though not for a lack of easy opportunities; "Michigan" doesn't sound anything like Motown or Detroit techno, "Mississippi" and "Illinois" aren't bluesy, and "Pennsylvania" shows no trace of Philly-soul residue. The album was recorded in New York and Maryland, neither of which are commemorated by JL in song. The really bizarre thing about State Songs is that although the album is a successful expression of the Union as a whole, the individual States blur together and are exaggerated, depersonalized, even superseded by impertinent and fictive detail.
Case in point, the several songs which quite nearly do away with the album's concept altogether. "South Carolina" is sung from the perspective of a guy who sustains an injury in a bicycle crash and, following the receipt of damages from the ensuing¹¹ lawsuit, has begun living luxuriously and hopes to go through the whole ordeal over again for more money. The accident reportedly took place in South Carolina, but otherwise the lyrics have bugger-all to do with the state. "New Hampshire"'s lyrics shift from first- to third-person and concern not the state but a specific and apparently unpleasant "New Hampshire man", who repulses and/or terrifies those he comes in contact with. Like many songs Linnell has written, "New Hampshire" raises several questions and answers very few, coming off as a vivid yet incomplete character study, a brief and tantalizing unresolved episode. "Utah" is similarly, deliciously vague and has the album's most tenuous lyrical connection to its assigned state, transforming the line "I forget you" into the somewhat confounding closing lyric "I forget Utah", which ends up calling into question the significance of the brief scene that preceded it. The storytelling and lyricism throughout the album is highly unconventional and riddled with red herrings and surreal misinformation, and yet I find it never crosses the threshold into purely nonsensical or meaningless word-spew. It's genius writing as far as I'm concerned.
All of this results in the songs appearing to reject any obvious symbols of U.S.A.-as-cultural-juggernaut or even typical/recognizable representations of Genericana¹², and so reinforces the album's implicit mundanity and detached nature. I don't think it's an accident that none of the four most populous states in the Union (CA, TX, NY & FL respectively in 1999) have songs written about them for this album; for that matter, all but three of the State Songs are about states that would have been ranked in the bottom 25 in terms of population in 1999. There also are not songs for either of the non-contiguous states, which feels right for this album; State Songs is thematically something of a muddled amalgam of the mainland U.S., illustrated perfectly by the cover design. The U.S. portrayed in State Songs is an unrecognizable yet familiar assortment of half-remembered details. It might as well be something you made up.
I grew up listening to They Might Be Giants and State Songs in a small town surrounded by even smaller towns in a very rural state. For the first few years of grade school I had to cross a red covered bridge to get to and from school every day. My hometown's greatest attraction up until a few years ago was a literal cow parade¹³. This is not to say that mine was not a culturally enriching childhood, but it was to some degree a simple and uneventful one, at times almost like something out of a Robert Newton Peck book, and my memories of that time are somewhat colored by the small joys of living in what felt a little bit like the middle of nowhere. It's only in the past couple of years that I've come to really consciously appreciate that same thing about State Songs; the way that Linnell is able to find whimsy in the cultural inertia of traditional patriotism feels queerly reminiscent of my own surreal, bucolic, all-American¹⁴ developing years. I have complicated feelings about the U.S. (as do, I imagine, most of its residents) and there's something both compelling and comforting about the distinctive way this album simultaneously celebrates the States and holds them at arm's length. It is an album of state anthems that, no matter how clever and ingenious, retain the character of actual state anthems (and the states themselves), "archaic and kind of square"¹⁵. It sounds like here.
⁰ This review does bring up TMBG quite a bit, and though this is not technically one of their albums, I think it's important to mention them as much as I do because almost all of Linnell's released material has been with TMBG and therefore they are the best point of reference/comparison. Not to mention that State Songs features every then-member of TMBG except for Flansburgh.
¹ See: the first couple of Modest Mouse albums, Parks and Recreation, Twin Peaks, Schitt's Creek, Reservation Dogs, Paterson, Sufjan Stevens' Michigan & Illinois albums, the Coen brothers' Fargo & A Serious Man, etc. etc.
² JL did, in fact, perform Nebraska's title track in concert along with State Songs material, but the two don't really share many similarities beyond the state thing.
³ The possible exception-that-proves-the-rule here being TMBG's song/ringtone "Call Connected Thru the NSA", which is both overtly politically timely and bitterly ironic.
⁴ TMBG would return to this method of deliberately-neutral lyricism in their 2020 non-album single "Who are the Electors?", which I nonetheless can't help but feel takes on a more resigned tone, due to its explicit relevance at the time of release. Hell, the song was written for a CNN report.
⁵ The same goes for TMBG's cover of "We've Got a World That Swings", which is a very nice song but which is rendered slightly humorous by the fact that it was originally performed by Jerry Lewis in The Nutty Professor.
⁶ Arguably one of the reasons behind Linnell's clinical, rock-with-your-brain-not-your-crotch approach to songwriting is that he's an accordion player (actually, during the one instance in which I got to speak to JL, he told me the first instrument he studied was bass clarinet) and not a guitarist; nearly all of TMBG's heavier or more punk-rock type songs are Flansburgh contributions. JL has always seemed the reserved intellectual of the group, despite Flans's songwriting still being far more erudite than that of most of his alt- and indie-rock peers.
⁷ Or in the case of "Pennsylvania", entirely nominal.
⁸ Pun intended.
⁹ Here are a couple favorites: "Owing to her vastness Montana requires two separate heads of state: the Governor, and his nemesis the anti-Governor." / "The Granite State is the only state with an Official State State. The State State of New Hampshire is New Hampshire. If you want to take that away from them, you'll have to pry it from their cold, dead fingers."
¹⁰ Unless you decide to count "Montana"'s reference to "the round part", but I wouldn't.
¹¹ Pun(?) intended.
¹² Apparently this portmanteau (first documented usage I could find comes from one Jason Isbell) hasn't really yet entered the cultural lexicon, which is a shame, because I think it's very useful.
¹³ And no, it wasn't surpassed by a greater attraction; as far as I can tell, the committee in charge of organizing the parade just kind of dissolved.
¹⁴ (for better or for worse)
¹⁵ Linnell's words.
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