A coworker of mine—a diehard Van fan, apparently—was appalled (to say the least) that I had never spent significant time with Veedon Fleece. He gave me a copy last week and since we (the album and I) have grown rather cozy.
This song is so sweet. A romantic cut that also cuts through the bullshit—kinda like Silver Jews’ straight-up track “Punks In The Beerlight.”
Love is cool and nice and sparkly and all that but sometimes you have to buy a cranberry kombucha for your girlfriend with a raging UTI and other icky things like that. Sometimes jealousy flares up, insecurities, general discomfort and chaos. It’s all true. But it’s all part of it. Or whatever.
Long before all the high school boys learned this song as a quick chance at getting laid by a larger percentage of broads and made it almost insufferable, it was something my dad always sang to me. Even now, he still gleefully answers the phone when I call, addressing me, “Brown Eyes!”
He and I are the only two in the family with dark eyes. Over the years, he’s taught me a deep appreciation for pulling weeds (literally and metaphorically), an honorable work ethic and perhaps most importantly, classic rock.
Confession No. 1: I’m a total Daddy’s Girl. Confession No. 2: I don’t mind. That dude is one the wisest I know.