Jukebox Wars

Ace was a shitlord theorist even back in high school. In this story, “D.J.” is named after his former calling. Bobby struck gold and now lives idly for women and wine, both in moderation.

Ace: I drove to the Jersey shore with D.J. and Bobby this past weekend. Remember the dive last year that you called the “dinosaur bar,” which was full of old rednecks?

PA: Yeah. I drank Miller Lite from a plastic cup. But it was our oasis from the dindu noise they played at all the other bars.

Ace: Rock music on the jukebox was nice, but what sat wrong with me, when you and I were there, is that we had to settle for that dump to finally hear our sound. And then, remember how those two scrawny Cholos went up to the jukebox and put on Reggaeton? You and I wondered why the fuck we’re in a place that’s full of drunk tough guys and nobody does a damn thing about this blatantly disrespectful act.

PA: They were more drunk than tough. But yeah, you and I didn’t do anything either. “It’s not the time yet,” is what I said. Not my home turf, pick your battles, the bartender isn’t doing anything so why should I.

Ace: So on Saturday, D.J., Bobby, and I popped into that same “dinosaur bar” and the music was good, if a bit long in the tooth. Older acts like Guns N’ Roses and Foo Fighters. Then, a fat thirty-something woman waddles over to the jukebox.

PA: Oh shit. That’s trouble.

Ace: Oddly though, she put on some of those old-school crooner selections. Perry Como and the like. I don’t mind it, but it wasn’t the right vibe.

PA: Definitely could have been worse.

Ace: Superannuated is what it was. So Bobby says “I’ll put something on” and gets up from his chair. He puts on Lush.

PA: Heh, we all know your feelings about Alternative Rock.

Ace: Yeah, it’s the faggiest fucking crap. Well, the song starts, and my reaction was “this sucks, this sucks…” and then the intro halts and… “THIS ROCKS!” And I told Bobby that this is surprisingly good. He laughed and said “You know I wouldn’t do you wrong, brother.”

After that, things went downhill. Someone put on ten, or realistically, more like six songs of pure undiluted hardcore ghetto rap.

PA: Who did that!?

Ace: It was a normal looking, forty-something White gentleman. There were three blacks there, and they started monkeying it up. And then D.J. commences to bust my balls: “I told you people enjoy that music — see, even the bartendress is feelin’ the beat.”

PA: The bastard loves to kick you when you’re down.

Ace: But I said “This is war” and asked him to remind me what was that Death Metal band he once played to drive the schwoogs from his venue. He said it’s Meshuggah. I asked him to spell it for me, and I went over and put that on.

PA: Nice move. What did the blacks do?

Ace: It was funny, the life went out of them and they just kind of sat huddled together.

PA: I remember D.J.’s explanation about how those arrhythmic parts unsettle them, besides of course the insane growling vocals. Something about how every fifth beat is off, that fucks with their heads.

Ace: So then, one of them goes up to the jukebox.

PA: Bring it on, jukebox wars! Did they escalate?

Ace: Surprisingly, no. They put on black artists but nothing obnoxious. Michael Jackson, that kind of stuff.

PA: See, you show some firepower and the other side is willing to negotiate.


We’re a fractured nation. More accurately, a hodgepodge of nations elbowing at each other in contested public space. The stuff of wars. Back in America, kids rocked around the jukebox. Today, smart proprietors control all music, usually by streaming Pandora.


I had some thoughts about the cycles of popular music here.


It’s time for a coffee. I take mine with Meshuggah.

Idle Thoughts on Christian Music

It was a cool October afternoon thirty years ago and we were doing hill workouts. My high school varsity athletic team drove to a nearby neighborhood to sprint up its hilly terrain. It was a loop, where you pump your arms and legs up a steep incline, then walk back down where jogging would be too much like riding your brakes. Several teammates and I formed a small group and our competitiveness drove us to top performance up the hills. I was in a state of runner’s high — a hyper-oxygenated brain awash in natural endorphin — reveling in the functional perfection of my weightless body. I thought: This is an incredible workout for the mind, the body nourishing the brain

But thoughts raced on. Is the brain the end-beneficiary of physical health? No… something whispered. The brain merely regulates everything so that the reproductive organs can do their job. My first encounter with doubt: the body’s purpose is to replicate itself, and the illusion of having a mind or a soul is a byproduct of fluids.


The next hill workout was several weeks later. It was late Sunday afternoon and I was alone, catching my breath on the grassy hill overlooking an empty vista of my school’s athletic fields. A teenager’s emotional state is volatile and his mind solipsistic, taking certain things with grave seriousness. As euphoric I was during the previous workout, the rush of oxygen was now fueling thoughts of doom. The air was cold, the western sky was on fire.

Miserable thoughts piled on: Is this the best it’s going to be? The heart pushed jets of bile through my overheated body. Would it be best to die now? What is my purpose?

This is vivid recollection, not poetic license: I looked down from the hilltop and the panorama of athletic fields glowed golden, like the Elysian fields.


Ideas that ran in conflicting directions took me, at turns over the course of my twenties, to materialism and then back to knowing of another plane. I’m becoming convinced that keeping your eyes open and thinking without fear, over the course of a long life, will lead you to the foot of the Cross.

What Is Out There?

I can’t convince you of any metaphysical reality because I don’t understand it myself. Rather, it’s a certainty to me that God is more real than the two hands I’m looking at right now. So I’ll just leave you with someone’s comment from a recent thread at Chateau Heartiste:

I always keep coming back to the martyrs of Christianity. From St. Stephen, to St. Paul, to St. Peter, to St. Ignatius of Antioch, to St. Maximilian Kolbe, to the Copts massacred just this last Palm Sunday, and all the known and unknown martyrs in between…


1. There is absolutely nothing after death. Just the big “Nothing.” Lights out for good. Eternal Oblivion. They’ll never know they were totally wrong. All of them are all the biggest fucking idiots in history, throwing away their lives […] St. Paul himself says as much in 1 Corinthians 15:14.


2. There is something more to all this.

Good and evil. If they are real, than so is God. To get a sense of evil, imagine extremes of depravity, and not necessarily involving violence — just look around you. And to contemplate an expression of good, read John 15-13:

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.

Laying down your life for your friends. This next comment is not my original insight but I agree with it: A.B. Breivik volunteered to spend the rest of his life in 23-hour/day solitary confinement to deliver his countrymen from evil.

High Art

It’s not just martyrdom that the Cross inspires. There is also our sublime output. Finally acknowledging the title of this post and starting with high art, there is Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Jesu, Joy Of Man’s Desiring,” Franz Schubert’s “Ave Maria,” and Henryk Górecki’s “Symphony No. 3.” There is also this Eastern Orthodox hymn from Serbia. Speaking of Coptic martyrs, listen to this Assyrian Palm Sunday prayer in Aramaic.

Popular Songs

Stepping away from high art, there are songs that regular people can sing. A famous example is the immortal “Stille Nacht.” It was written in 1818 by a young Austrian priest, with music composed by a schoolmaster from a nearby village.

“Pescador de hombres” was written in 1979 by a Spanish priest. Pope John Paul II famously said that “Pescador” (Polish version: “Barka,” transl. below) is his favorite song:

Lord, you have come to the lake shore
Looking for people who are ready to follow
To capture hearts with the truth of God’s word

O Lord, your eyes have looked upon me
Kindly smiling, you have spoken my name
Now my boat’s left on the shoreline behind me
By your side I will cast a new net

I don’t have many possessions
My treasure is my two ready hands
To work with you and my pure heart

Today we set out together
To capture hearts on the seas of human souls
With Your truth and the word of life

The calling of a priest is to be a holy man. Since the one true religion, by definition, applies to all of humankind (unless you go with an assumption that not all subsets of mankind have a soul), then such a man’s thinking will be catholic, lower-case. I imagine that such a priest would wish for everyone to aspire to godliness according to their nature, on their own land and among their own people, encountering others solely in friendship.

With that thought, what do you make of the scene a little after 3:45 in the Barka video linked above, showing an African man and his son crying at the Pope’s funeral?


The great bass-baritone Bernard Ładysz leads a choir in this arrangement of the traditional evening-song “All Of Our Daily Matters” (“Wszystkie nasze dzienne sprawy”). I like the spontaneous feel of the performance. It sounds like a what you would hear in a church with the parishioners singing.

All of our daily matters
Accept mercifully, righteous God
And when we fall asleep
May our dreams praise You

Your eyes turned
Day and night in our direction
Where the frailty of man
Your rescue awaits

Turn away the nightly perils
Protect us from all harm
Have us always in Your care
Guardian and Judge of man

And when we ascend to Heaven
We will sing to You together
God in Trinity unfathomed
Holy, forever and ever Holy

From 966 A.D. onward, men have sang hymns in that language in preparation for putting foreign invaders to the sword.

Christian Rock?

In the live performance below, the eye is on the ghoulish guitarist until the vocalist lets out the pathos in a lung-defying howl.

He looks tormented, maybe possessed. This isn’t a comment about the band members. I don’t know Thom Yorke. Yet even if that dramatic performance is all-artifice, the fact that it expresses the inner state of listeners points to their hunger for something.

Did we just watch an artistic interpretation of a station toward the foot of the Cross?


Imagine there’s no mercy
It’s easy if you try
Traitors hang on lampposts
Above us righteous God

Imagine all the coloreds driven from our lands

Imagine there’s no leftism
It’s the easiest thing to do
A time to kill or die for
And separation too

Imagine our people free and true again

Hope burned in the hearts of dreamers
Who saw another way to live
So many have since joined us
The world is starting to believe

Imagine there’s a future
I wonder if you can
No need for nihilism
An awakening of man

Imagine Europeans’ glory yet untold

People said that I’m a dreamer
But I’m just a woken man
For a brotherhood of nations
And White children face the sun


UPDATE: The Mamas & The Pepes have set my take on Lennon’s “Imagine” to music. It’s fantastic:




A few words on why John Lennon’s original is the most anti-human song ever written.


The 16 Points that describe the Alt-Right’s core philosophy.


Something about this man’s words (read them closely) and his face struck me as proof that we won’t be homeless forever:

A homeless [Manchester] man, called Steve, described the moment he had to ‘pull nails out of children’s faces’ following the shocking attack.

He said: ‘Just because I’m homeless it does not mean that I haven’t got a heart and I’m not human still.

‘They needed the help and I would like to think someone would come and help me if I needed help.

‘It’s your instinct to go and help and it was children and it was a lot of children. We were pulling nails out of their arms and from a little girl’s face.

‘It had to be done, you had to help. If I didn’t I wouldn’t be able to live with myself for walking away and leaving kids like that.’


(Story above). Source of top image unknown. Alternate lyrics to “Imagine” written by me.

Teen Pop Melody: What Do You Have?

You probably wanna be a little buzzed when reading this post.

If you’re a teenager of the 1950s, you have:

  • … many songs. Houellebecq noted in Elementary Particles that the 1950s teen culture was the heyday of romantic love, something about the era’s harmony of innocence and freedom. Not my time, but I associate the vibe with Bobby Vinton’s “Roses Are Red.”

If you’re a teenager of the 1960s, you have:

  • Beach Boys “Wouldn’t It Be Nice”

If you’re a teenager of the 1970s, you have:

  • Peter Frampton “Baby, I Love Your Way”

If you’re a teenager of the 1980s, you have:

  • [I have ordered my men to tie me to the mast lest the sirens of teenage highs and lows compel me to overload WordPress servers with ballads from that decade.]

If you’re a teenager of the 1990s, you have:

  • Mazzy Star “Fade Into You”
  • Guns N’ Roses “Don’t Cry”

If you’re a teenager of the 2000s, you have:

  • Avril Lavigne “I’m With You”
  • Fuel “Hemorrhage (In My Hands)”

If you’re a teenager of the 2010s, you have:

  • … what do you have?


If you remember the 1980s, you will discharge one manly tear when watching this video:

What Are Liberals So Afraid Of?

The local public radio classical music station has excellent programming and good hosts, as they call their DJs. They had a fundraising drive recently. Yes, I kept the station on because the banter was engaging, and doing so learned that Erik Satie’s Trois Gymnopedies were revolutionary despite their simplicity because there is no progression in those pieces.

Then something made me raise an eyebrow — a caller pledges a generous sum and compliments the station’s hosts for keeping the listeners’ spirits high “through the frightening times we now live in.” The hostess concurred with the obvious reference to The God Emperor. She added that they strive to be an oasis of peace for their listeners, recalling how the station continued playing great classical music through the shock of 9/11. Yes, she compared that calamity to Trump’s presidency.

To flip perspectives yes, I would consider a Hillary Clinton presidency a bigger disaster than 9/11. But I can also explain why, in simple words: her administration would put the globalists in a position from which they are free to destroy us through mass immigration and free trade. They would level mankind down to its most stupid, blank-eyed third world common denominator and acid-bathe everything I value of all that’s good and beautiful.

So, can a liberal similarly explain why the presidency of Donald Trump is more frightening than a terrorist attack? Are liberals afraid of the same thing I am — globalism — except that they are working with different premises than I am, in ascribing its destructiveness to the spirit of nationalism? Or to ask this question differently, why would a patrician custodian of high culture be afraid of the regeneration of Western nations that the past four administrations had made a dire necessity of and that Trump’s presidency promises to deliver? This isn’t about one radio host at this point, but an entire class of liberal Whites.

Let’s look at twelve possible reasons for their fear of Donald Trump.

One: liberals, regardless of their class or intelligence, are herd animals. Imagine antelopes taunting a lion (to take a bit of liberty with this metaphor). They can’t help it, it’s what they do. In the wake of the Trumpenslide, it is dawning on them that the big, fleshy beast they’ve been biting and prodding all that time is now awake and is about shred them to pieces.

“The Dems have a look of rabbits that are discovering they aren’t free, independent agents…they are food.” — commenter at Vox Popoli

Two: worries about funding cuts. The liberal’s worldview is a mirror image of mine, in that we both divide the world into the light of civilization and the darkness of barbarism, but we point to different sources of barbarism. To contrast our perspectives: I believe that our civilization, my descendants’ secure place in it and their identity, as well as our nations’ cultural output, relies on the integrity of organic social pyramids with our own criminal, labor, middle, and upper classes. But while my view is expansive, accommodating of both chaos and order, populist above all (the rose needs a robust, healthy soil to bloom) the liberal’s vision is elitist and claustrophobic.

His world is a perpetual night, with light-bearing government standing as sentry between security and savagery — while to me, the savage sleeps in each of us. And more on-point in the present day, the savage arrives from the global south by land, air and sea. Look at Paris.

Drawn to their own conception of light, liberals seek out others like themselves who are elect, and recognize them by their specific markers of status, such as a proper type of education or cultural signalling. That is how liberals confirm that the person in question has a soul. They are repulsed by what they regard as their lesser compatriots, whom they consider subhuman and depressing. And for modern American liberals, the federal government and its power to hold its boot on the subhumans’ necks is the vehicle through which they — the elect — are safe. So what I am getting at, is that the liberal considers any talk of defunding federal programs an attack on the government itself and as such, an attack on the very light of civilization.

Three: all change is scary. Four: Jewish paranoia. I don’t think that the radio station’s hosts are Jews but liberals have appropriated their prejudices. (This post is about White liberals, exclusive of Jews). Five: they aren’t really afraid; they are playing to the anxieties of their donor base, which takes us back to the original question: what are their supporters so fearful of? Six: they believe all that bullshit about leftists being the nice underdogs.

Seven: like everyone in the West, they feel that something is very wrong. But unlike those of us who want to confront the problem, liberals are appeasement-oriented. Whomever they seek to appease at any given moment — placate any individuals or entities that comprise the patron-client matrix of neoliberalism — they look with horror upon Trump and the Alt-Right’s aggressive challenge to these seemingly omnipotent forces. Liberals would rather let the wolves pace about so long as we don’t give them a reason to bite, even as the animals grow bolder and meaner with each passing year.

Eight: fear of chaos, even as they play that game with us. This is another one that merits a fuller explanation. Do you believe that a race has its destiny? If so, then ours is to build and destroy, at turns. Trainspotter explains this in a long comment that I featured in my earlier post about our love of freedom:

The European soul craves more; it needs more. If necessary, it will upend and destroy the world to get that “more.” It will even destroy itself.

We’ve near-destroyed our whole world. And this brings us to an enigmatic vision of our great race. At some level liberals intuit the slow swing of the eros-thanatos pendulum because for the past seventy years, they’ve done the wrecking. The immediate reason for their fear is that for them, the big questions had been settled and the pendulum may now rest. Racism is bad, women are more equal, religion is best castrated unless it’s Islam, and White men are beasts of burden. I can appreciate the satisfaction that the liberal feels at this point, after almost a century of winning. He has imposed the victor’s non-negotiable terms, dictating a tyranny of his ideals. But there is stasis in tyranny, and that is what the liberal dreads. Which brings me to something MGE recently wrote:

trump is a chaos agent and I love it. […] white people need a bit of chaos to thrive. our allergy to stasis compels us to kick over the apple cart every now and then

Especially when we are harnessed to the apple cart from which everyone but us is grabbing the fruits.

To continue with this lengthy look at #8, allow me a tangent in which I will encapsulate the apex liberal ideal in one anecdote. A while back, a young self-described feminist is hanging out nearby. In earshot, a pleasant older woman is having a conversation with someone else about her work as an engineer. Overhearing them, the young feminist is beaming, vicariously absorbing the rays of her ideal incarnate. Me being me, I start thinking: What is so great about female engineers? I don’t mean this in a contrarian or spiteful sense; what I’m asking is, where does a world in which women are engineers lead and why would someone support that aspiration? The utilitarian calculation is clear enough to me: allowing due acceptance of peoples’ individual choices, women engineers are a negative at both micro- and macro-levels of society. They are not going to make any innovations in their fields because women don’t do that. Their intelligence could have been better passed on to their children and the bigger families that they could have had instead. A man supporting a family could have had her job and being an extra unit of labor supply, she’s depressing wages for all male engineers. But the young feminist likes a world in which women walk on air. The question remains: why?

Now, I certainly understand that we all like a lot of things for their intrinsic value, whether or not their first-causes are socially constructive. For example, some of us have slept with girls our age in our early twenties, making them worse for the men who ended up marrying them. Stealing is liberation, freedom’s depraved sister.

Not having been a saint, I am aware of my own corruption. But the liberal (a feminist in this case but this extends to all of them) does not understand net-loss. The liberal does not understand the violence against the West she supports by promoting female careerism, however passively, because she wants to bask in the gratification of a woman defying nature’s and history’s iron laws concerning the role of the female. Rebelling against laws feels like liberation, and feminism is one of the ways in which the liberal has been kicking over the apple cart.

Liberals want to keep the world in which female engineers exist as an end in itself. Even if the gorging on our social capital continues until the grain stores run empty. And this refusal to let go of liberalism is not limited to feminist advocacy. They want the world and they want it now. The liberated women, the intoxication of throwing everything away — our best of everything, our temperate lands, our beautiful genes — the orgy and the rape.

And late into the night on November 8th, chill wind hit their faces just as consummation was in reach: a recognition that we, the long-suffering and now wide-awake men of the West, have hated every single fucking moment of their joy, of having been their slaves. White man lives free or dies, and it’s dawned on us that we want to live. Liberals are terrified of our awakening because now it’s our turn.

Nine, and this is related to the previous: no more free stuff, which is strip-mined from the social capital of others. Liberalism is like nuclear fission in that its application releases and harnesses potential energy by breaking the structural integrity of an existing system, leaving behind radioactive waste. This works on global levels such as when George Soros destabilizes countries and profits on their downfall, as well as on street levels when protected-class aliens make themselves at home in our public space. The free stuff model has so many incarnations. Fat girls used to be few and they had to work on their personalities. Now they are everywhere and are bombarded with male attention, all of that to the detriment of healthy male-female dynamics. So in essence, what liberals across the spectrum might be afraid of, as the gods of copybook headings return, is the end of the feast.

Ten: they are afraid that their beliefs have been false all along. That they believed in the fantasy that man can transcend his material limits and not have to come back down.

Eleven: deportations, cleansing, bloodshed. A successful reconquista would objectively be good for Whites across the ideological spectrum for obvious reasons. (If those reasons are not obvious to some: the sole alternative to White supremacy in our own countries is White genocide, and with it, no more classical music). But the imagery of reclaiming our lands is scary because where wood is chopped, there fly splinters. And more than one liberal may be called to account for his role in race-replacement.

And twelve: the fight to the death. Members of the striver class pick up on the anxieties of the principal actors of globalism who know that if they regain power, they’ll have to break us. And they know that we know that they know. The globalist and the nationalist, two killers wrestling over one gun. Only one of us will see the next day. And having captured the presidency of the United States and the cultural momentum, we may yet win. Our ideas are the ones whose time has come, theirs are exhausted. Scores will be settled over all that they’ve ruined if we are clear-headed enough to reestablish a future for our posterity.

Idle Thoughts on Popular Songs: Synesthesia Outros

What’s the point of starting something if you don’t finish it strong? These songs don’t just tell a story, they bring it on home with senses-scrambling virtuosity:

Morrissey. The title track on his 2014 album “World Peace is None of Your Business” makes him the Edward Snowden of music. And although “I’m not a Man” curses meat and muscle, he is one of the good guys. The song builds up to a grisly outro shrieking in steely flashes of silver, then makes a bright red squirting mess. What kinds of pigs are being put to the knife?

Pink Floyd. I see the outro to “Comfortably Numb” in a rich geometry of green, to burgundy-black and back. It’s a great song, but as a commenter elsewhere put it, it’s a commercial extrapolation of their signature song “Echoes.” There’s a guitar break in “Echoes,” he continues, just before the final verse, that sounds like a sunrise or a sunburst or an explosion of light. I agree, one of David Gilmour’s best moments.

Prince.Purple Rain.” One time while listening half-asleep to its terminal falsetto cries, I saw a man’s spirit ascending over vistas of mountain ranges. The crazy diamond of Minneapolis made whatever he touched shine in violet and pink hues of the visible spectrum, not the least his cover of Radiohead’s “Creep” at Coachella.

The Beatles. Paul McCartney has been the steady Delta to John Lennon’s restless Gamma, and no story of their friendship bears it out better than “Hey Jude.” Lennon rejected his first son Julian in favor of his second son Sean because he fell for his Sean’s mother. McCartney, the stand-up guy, took Julian under his wing and wrote that song to cheer him up, changing “Julian” to “Jude” for reasons of meter. The long na, na, nana na na outro chorus is soft blue and breezy.

Pearl Jam. No, this time I will not be talking about this blog’s most favored hit “Black” and its anguished why why, whyyyy! howl of a dispossessed generation. Rather, I am looking at Vedder’s story of feral motherhood, the song “Alive.” A USO band once visited our outpost in the Far East. A young Lieutenant from our company jumped on stage and a band member handed him an electric guitar. We watched in awe as he and the band’s rhythm guitarist dueled-out a fifteen-minute freestyle version of that song’s outro.

Eric Clapton. It is also this blog’s position that the Baby Boomer sense of identity not be stroked with approving references to the icons of their youth. But the fact is that until we topped them in 1991, their musical achievements were unsurpassed and “Layla” stood among their best. There is a downshift around the 3:00 point, sepia colors of summer nostalgia, seagulls, sand, water and sky.

The Eagles. Don Henley liked to call out the American hubris, most pointedly in the epic ballad “The Last Resort.” And there was a time for that — but that time has passed. We purged the cuckservatives, our last necessary act of inward-aimed aggression. From here on, it’s as star commenter Greg Eliot puts it:

In short, time to close ranks and get on board… the days of “loyal opposition” are gone, and ANY opposition in the quest for a future for White children is not to be cavalierly or treasonously rationalized as independent thought.

There is no more new frontier, we have got to make it here. The steady rhythm of the song’s outro paints broad streaks of orange, the hazy sun sinking in the sea. We know what to do.


Father-Son Songs


There is no stronger — and more complicated — human bond than between a father and his son. Happy Father’s Day to those of you who brought your indubitably dashing likeness into the world at this exciting time. Here are some popular songs for the occasion:

Roger Waters (Pink Floyd), “When the Tigers Broke Free — Waters wrote that autobiographical song as homage to his father, Eric Fletcher Waters (1913 – 1944), who died in the battle of Anzio. The song was ultimately left off The Wall album, the bandmates’ consensus being that it was too intense:

It was dark all around
There was frost in the ground
When the Tigers broke free
And no one survived from the Royal Fusiliers Company C
They were all left behind
Most of them dead
The rest of them dying
And that’s how the high command
Took my daddy from me

Harry Chapin, “Cats and the Cradle — There is also a decent hard rock cover by early 1990s band Ugly Kid Joe.

“When you coming home, dad?” “I don’t know when
But we’ll get together then
You know we’ll have a good time then”

Cat Stevens, “Father and Son — Stevens wrote it as a father-son conversation, with the higher-note verses being the boy’s lines:

It’s not time to make a change,
Just sit down, take it slowly.
You’re still young, that’s your fault,
There’s so much you have to go through.
Find a girl, settle down,
If you want you can marry.
Look at me, I am old, but I’m happy.

Mike and the Mechanics, “The Living Years — I am not of the school of thought that talking solves things. Some things speak for themselves, you reap what you sow. Where we don’t see eye to eye, latter-life insight (I think) helps. Mike Rutherford disagrees:

Say it loud, say it clear
You can listen as well as you hear
It’s too late when we die
To admit we don’t see eye to eye

Marie Laforet, “Viens, Viens — A splash of estrogen in French, sang from the point of view of a young girl abandoned by her womanizing father. She mentions her younger brother (the linked video is subtitled):

Do you know that Jean is back to school
He already knows the alphabet, it is funny
When he pretends to smoke
He looks just like you

Dan Fogelberg, “Leader of the Band — The song reminds me of Dennis Leary once doing a comic monologue about people suing Heavy Metal bands in the ’80s over their allegedly suicide-promoting lyrics. Leary’s punchline was that he should sue Fogelberg for his wimpy songs, listening to which turned him into a pussy. But I don’t think he had this song in mind.

He earned his love through discipline, a thund’ring, velvet hand.
His gentle means of sculpting souls took me years to understand.

Johnny Cash, “A Boy Named Sue — One deadbeat dad did his job:

And he said, “Son, this world is rough
And if a man’s gonna make it, he’s gotta be tough
And I knew I wouldn’t be there to help ya along
So I give ya that name and I said goodbye
I knew you’d have to get tough or die
And it’s the name that helped to make you strong”

Faster Pussycat, “House of Pain” — The life a boy whose father disappeared in a divorce:

Image credit (top of post): unknown