Favorite Song Friday: Here's Where the Story Ends

Somehow I missed it. I wasn't listening to a lot of new music in 1990, which is odd and disappointing, given that I was still a college student, the last time a lot of people are exposed to a lot of new music. But I was too busy with my first senior year and a new girlfriend and living in a house with four other guys and trying to score Bruce Springsteen bootlegs on CD and, what's more, I didn't have a TV, so no MTV for me.

All of which is to say that somehow this pop gem passed me right by. So when I heard it for the first time, just a few years ago, I was blown away and felt like I'd discovered a rare treasure. The song feels light as a feather, but without any of the negative connotations such a description would normally carry. Rather, the combination of David Gavurin's multi-tracked guitars and Harriet Wheeler's intoxicatingly sweet vocals, over a pristine, perfect Smiths-like rhythm section groove are like watching flower petals carried into the distance on a gentle spring breeze. 

Until you listen to the words.

People I know places I go
Make me feel tongue tied
I can see how people look down
They're on the inside

Sad. And all too relatable for many of us.

Here's where the story ends 

Intriguing. Nice phrase. Really nice.

People I see, weary of me
Showing my good side

Are they wearying of her showing her good side, or are they simply weary of her and she refuses to give up? It's unclear, but either works just fine.

I can see how people look down
I'm on the outside 

Hm. Is she a touch paranoid or is she really an outcast? Again, either is entirely possible.

Here's where the story ends
Ooh here's where the story ends

So far what we have is a perfect pop song: lovely music, engaging vocals and a compelling, recognizable lyric. 

It's that little souvenir of a terrible year
Which makes my eyes feel sore 

A souvenir? Interesting. What could that be?

Oh I never should have said the books that you read
Were all I loved you for 

That does seem like the kind of thing that could cut a guy (admittedly, a pretty geeky guy) to the quick.

It's that little souvenir of a terrible year
Which makes me wonder why 

Wonder why...what, exactly?

It's the memories of the shed that make me turn red
Surprise surprise surprise

Uh-oh. And suddenly things take a much darker turn. They'd already been gray, a bit cloudy, but suddenly there's a storm upon us before we even saw it coming. What...what happened in the shed? I mean, I think we know, more or less, what happened...but there's still more than a few variables, and the devil's in the details, as they say. The main thing, of course, is the question: how willing a participant was she? 

Crazy I know, places I go 

I don't think the narrator is meaning to say she's well acquainted with insanity—I suspect she's merely being colloquial...but it's impossible to say for sure.

Make me feel so tired
I can see how people look down
I'm on the outside

If we take her at her word, that would seem to indicate she hasn't been paranoid about any of this, and that whatever happened in the shed, the rough outline is a matter of more than a little gossip around town.

Oh here's where the story ends
Ooh here's where the story ends

It's that little souvenir of a terrible year
Which makes my eyes feel sore
And whoever would've thought the books that you brought
Were all I loved
Oh the devil in me said go down to the shed 

And here she seems to be taking at least some responsibility for whatever happened in the shed. Which is to say, she's claiming she initiated the journey, with a pretty good idea of what was going to happen. Even here, however, she's distancing herself from the action, claiming it was the devil inside her, meaning she knows she shouldn't even as she's doing it...and yet doing it anyway.

I know where I belong 

On the other hand, this would seem to indicate a certain measure of self-loathing. Perhaps she was already an outcast before the events with the books and shed?

But the only thing I ever really wanted to say
Was wrong, was wrong, was wrong

More ambiguity. Is she saying that the only thing she ever wanted to say was incorrect? Or that all she wanted to do was tell him that what was happening was wrong, wrong, wrong?

It's that little souvenir of a colorful year
Which makes me smile inside 

And this is where, I think, we get a surprise turn away from the darkness and into an unexpected bright side. What could the souvenir possibly be? There are really only a few options that leap to mind: her permanently tarnished reputation, an STD...or a baby. And which of those three are most likely to make her smile, even if only on the inside?

So I cynically, cynically say the world is that way
Surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise, surprise

And here I picture her smiling down at her little bundle of joy, crooning this softly, just the two of them, alone, the only characters that matter. She's older, she's (sadly) wiser, perhaps a bit bitter but maybe not quite as much as she thinks because, after all, she's the one that came out of that terrible, albeit colorful, year with something of value—the most valuable prize of all, in fact.

Here's where the story ends

Why? Because her story is over and her child's is just beginning? Or because that's all in the past, a closed book, and from here on the two of them will be starting over, writing a new story: their own.

Ooh here's where the story ends

And that's all she wrote.