266. Song No. 4,012: “Goodbye, Killer,” Pernice Brothers
Goodbye, Killer, 2010

From outta nowhere, this song from a musical fraternity I always wish I knew better made sitting at a forever-taking red light that I usually avoid at all costs an absolute joy.

I have so freaking many Pernice Brothers albums, owing to an early algorithmic hit when Amazon took notice of how many Neil Finn projects, live recordings and imports I purchased as soon as my pre-college-freshman debit card landed in my greedy hands and opened my eyes to the pre-iTunes joys of a “You may also like” spiraling money pit by persistently nudging me toward The World Won’t End until I finally checked it out in track-by-track 30-second previews and fell tentatively in love.

A fairly comprehensive discography and two decades later, though, there are a few standout Pernice Brothers tracks I can call my favorites, but their catalog remains mostly pleasant background noise and lyrical snippets to me. And that’s not the worst fate a collection of music can face—plenty of other bands I started listening to in high school have fallen by the wayside over the years for no other reason than life taking my tastes in a different direction—and the understated staying power of a band that exists at some genre-defying juncture of country-folk and revival of classic rock’s more mellow offerings nicely emphasizes just how much I’ve been enjoying this musical outfit every time their tracks pop up, whether I’m checking in to see how any one of their six albums in my possession has aged or the circumstance of reshuffled playlists, both curated and randomized (“The Great Depression” and its unexpected handclaps a few songs later in this project additionally helped hammer that point endearingly home for me).

The titular track from the Pernice Brothers’ sixth studio album is fairly standard fare: a lilting, easy tune; thoughtfully gossamer lyrics; some gentle self-deprecation; an overall musical quality that doesn’t always match the heavier subject matter in a subdued flourish of masterful juxtaposition. But what dragged me out of angrily muttering at a traffic signal doing its job a little too well when it was time for a proper reintroduction to this song was catching the surprisingly uptempo delivery of the line “I hope you know I always loved you but I had to let you go” and immediately needing both the full context and to play this song on repeat for the remaining 20 minutes of my evening commute.

For being this album’s title song, I haven’t found much written about it. Which actually kind of pisses me off because I would love to read someone smarter than me waxing philosophical about the kind of imagined introspection and brutally honesty birthing a piece of art that sounds an awful lot like ending a toxic relationship until even just half-assedly scratching the surface reveals the entirely internal nature of some pretty leveling accusations and assessments, which makes that “I was you, you were me” opening declaration come into screaming clarity as a literal realization and not the metaphor it first clocks as.

Hating who you’ve become, recognizing that the consequence of such a cursed existence is a trail of damage done to other people and finally putting in the work to be someone better are all as hard to confront as they are necessary to embrace, but the toughest part is summoning the bravery to dive headfirst into the ego death kicking off that journey. And it gets harder to kick-start the process of unlearning your worst qualities to rebuild a better version of yourself the longer you let those lesser demons steer the ship into a future of eternally rebuffed accountability, a harsh truth taking refuge in lines like “Maybe if I hadn’t let it get so far / Then it might not be so difficult to be where other people are” illustrating just how scary the world is when you can’t even find the courage to be honest enough with yourself to know—and finally face—the contents of your heart with a willingness to finally fix the broken parts.