By Sadie Tresnit
The first time I heard Purple Mountains, David Berman’s last release before his death, I was in the perfect mindset to take it all in. Over four years after the album hit the market, I was somehow both late to the party and right on time. It was just weeks after my grandfather had passed away, and I was stuck trying to drown myself in his favorite country western tunes and hating the world. The second “All My Happiness Is Gone” blasted through my earbuds straight into my brain — I knew I was in the right place.
Since that first magical meeting, the album has come to define my whole winter term. Songs like “Darkness and Cold” and “Snow Is Falling in Manhattan” lend themselves well to winter weather, but the whole album fits the season in my mind. “Nights That Won’t Happen” has propelled me through many sleepless nights in the last several weeks, and I love listening to “Margaritas at the Mall” and “She’s Making Friends, I’m Turning Stranger” on my way to class in the rain. I think my favorites are the start and end of the album: “That’s Just the Way That I Feel” and “Maybe I’m the Only One for Me.” They both showcase Berman’s incredibly witty, tragic lyrics over more upbeat melodies, and I’m a sucker for that kind of thing. But really, it’s impossible for me to choose. At my most depressed point in college so far, the album has felt like a friend who’s been through the same thing.
In all honesty, the only song on the album I haven’t had on repeat is “I Loved Being My Mother’s Son.” This isn’t because it’s bad — on the contrary, it might be one of the best songs I’ve ever heard, at least for its ability to pack an emotional punch. Maybe it’s because I’ve lost too many family members in the past few months, but it makes me cry every time I hear it, and I’m just not ready to do that. Still, it’s proof that Berman can go from clever wordplay to pure emotional vulnerability in the blink of an eye.
With its heavy themes of loneliness and isolation, the album today reads as a precursor to Berman’s suicide, which took place just a month after the album’s release right before he was slated to go on tour. In the wake of his divorce, in addition to a strained relationship with his father, his emotions come through crystal clear. For me, that’s part of what makes Purple Mountains so special: it’s completely honest even when it gets snarky. Berman’s voice, which the New York Times described as a “crooked croak” in his obituary, is the perfect complement. I only wish I had found his work sooner.
On the idea of being late to the party, I’ve found there are so many incredible musicians I only learn about after they pass, with David Bowie (bet you didn’t think there would be two David B’s in this article, did you?) as my biggest example. I still remember the day he died when I was in eighth grade: the cool kids wore their Bowie shirts to class, and my band teacher played Labyrinth for the whole class period. I was hit with an intense feeling of missing out — I could’ve been listening to this guy for years? When I got home that night and told my parents about my day, I was shocked to learn my dad had seen him on tour twice.
I had the same shock talking with him about David Berman and Purple Mountains. While I was writing this article, I found out my dad got an advance copy of the album a couple of months before it was officially released. He and Berman had a mutual friend who passed it on to him. My dad shared with me that his copy was one long MP3 file, and as soon as he heard it, he was struck by the genius of it all. I had no idea at the time, but it sure makes me wish I had been cool enough in high school to appreciate it.
When beloved musicians take their own lives, especially at a young age, they tend to rise to a level akin to sainthood in the public eye. Kurt Cobain is a prime example of this, as is Elliott Smith (two artists I also love, so maybe there’s a pattern in my taste). It’s interesting to consider the profound impact of their music in the context of their eventual suicide. Does an artist have to die for their work to take on deeper meaning? Personally, I think that’s a weird stance to take. On the other hand, it would be hard to argue that Berman’s passing didn’t heighten the emotional impact of the album. Do I really get to feel like I’m “not alone” when Berman isn’t here anymore? I don’t have an easy answer, but I like an album that makes me think.
It’s rare for me to love an album released in a year that doesn’t start with a 19, and even rarer for it to be released in the past five years. Not to be a cynic (even though that’s kind of my whole thing), but I tend to have a higher opinion of older music than anything coming out today. That said, “Purple Mountains” blew me out of the water. I wish Berman had lived longer, whether to make more music or just to experience more of life, but part of what makes the album stand out so much is the fact that it stands alone. For me, it serves not only as a reminder that other people have gone through the same struggles, but that incredible music is always hovering right under my nose, and it’s my job to seize the day and find it.