Here's a deceptively straightforward question: What makes "1952 Vincent Black Lightning" such an incredible song?

My association with Richard Thompson's most-popular harmony has for ever and a day been an uneasy lone. I love it, but I don't know why. On a passive take note, it seems like a reasonably lifeless, theatrical love ballad. Now a word, it's unpleasant. Yet I can't take note to it lacking the stake of my chin quivering.

For years, lacking having devoted much philosophy to the be of importance, I offhandedly assumed its old-world Irish vibe specifically gave it a romanticism with the aim of resonated with me (yes, Richard Thompson is British; but the song feels Irish). Half the blood in me can be traced back to Ireland...But I need exit back solitary as far as the dead '70s to tap memories of drunken relatives singing "Danny Boy" or "Harrigan" or various such folk song. Anytime I hear a Celtic-sounding guitar or the flitty whirr of bagpipes, I well up by reflex. Mix in lyrics vis--vis star-crossed lovers and a babies man's death, and you state an actual recipe in lieu of drawing the melancholy old hat of me -- whether the art snob in me likes it or not.

But the song is much, much more than with the aim of.

For folks of you who don't know the song or its tale, I'll fail you the synopsis:

Girl (Red Molly) meets Boy (James) once she notices his cool bike (a 1952 Vincent Black Lightning) > Some unsaid courtship happens > Boy proposes wedding ceremony to Girl, but discloses to her in earnest: "I'm a perilous man / in lieu of I fought with the law since I was 17, / I robbed many a man to develop my Vincent system. / Now I'm 21 years, I might cause 22, / and I don't mind dying but in lieu of the love of you." > They marry > Boy gets shot all through a break-in > On his deathbed, Boy sums up his existence: "In my view, there's nothing in this humankind / beats a 52 Vincent and a red-headed girl" > Boy dies, but not in the past handing the keys to his prized bike to Girl/Wife.

On the plane, it's a ridiculously straightforward story that's weighed down with questionable morality. James is an obstinate criminal, in lieu of lone device. If he robbed in lieu of various proven determination -- like food or rent, or even a definite desperately wanted bike -- with the aim of would be lone device. But nobody of these are the container. At the start of the song, James already has his bike. And by the back verse, he has his girl, too. These are the solitary two things with the aim of be of importance to him. So why, if he accurately loved Red Molly, would he not adjustment his ways so with the aim of they may well state a life composed?

Because his one-dimensional existence is exactly could you repeat that? She loves vis--vis him. And by lean-to, it's could you repeat that? We love vis--vis him, too -- for the reason that he's everything we are not.

James is a sort of Nietzschian bermensch ("Superman"). He has rebuff be afraid of of bother or death. He has rebuff kids to lose sleep in lieu of. He by no means stresses on top of money. He suffers rebuff regret. And he certainly doesn't envy someone else's probably greener grass.

James is who he is.

Now, I understand how underwhelming with the aim of sounds. So could you repeat that?, accurate? Each lone of us is who he is, accurate? Wrong. We are all, both of us, someone to boot. And nobody of us really knows who.

The renowned documentary filmmaker Errol Morris was on one occasion asked vis--vis the interview process. Specifically, he was asked why he thought family were willing to unlocked up and have a word honestly to a camera. "I'm not all right we accurately state privileged access to our own minds," he whispered. "I don't think we state whichever view who we are...We're engaged in a constant battle to chart old hat who we are." The interview process, he believes, is a funds by which various portion of with the aim of access may possibly be granted. Like deliberation or analysis, it's a process of isolating by hand from the outside humankind -- and the nonstop assault of stimuli it projects -- to assent to the white din become lighter...And followed by take note to what's missing. The truth.

But even in lieu of folks of us who can develop near, individual truths are solitary glimpsed in moments: The profound think, the Freudian slip, the breakthrough on your analyst's couch.

I remember the night I originator heard "1952 Vincent Black Lightning." I was sitting by the prohibit in the Khyber, abandoned, waiting in lieu of my lonesome T. My reminiscence of this stands old hat in lieu of two reasons. First, in the lead earshot this song I'd by no means heard in the past, I had the evident suspicion I'd proven it all my life. The feeling was consoling and queer by the same stretch.

The back device I remember continues to embarrass me to this generation.

T. Was dead. The opening group was vis--vis to exit on. New and more hipsters were on the edge into the place and congregating in little groups. My self-consciousness ongoing to build. I felt like a pariah sitting near by myself. (The brown by the jukebox with the tarantula tattoo, is she giggling to her lonesome vis--vis me?) I couldn't take it. So I looked down the far stop of the prohibit, as if I adage someone I knew down near, and leaning my eyes up as if to say, "Hey!" I even lifted my goblet and air-toasted the unnoticed man. It was pathetic. I couldn't simply sit near, my nothing short of lone self, and hold your horses in lieu of my lonesome. No. To dodge the secret scornful of strangers (which probably wasn't even happening), I had to feign like someone to boot -- a cooler, more-social version of myself, a version who ran into random acquaintances wherever I went.

Erroll Morris argues with the aim of we can't accurately know ourselves. But the harsher truth is, we can't even be sincere to who we think we are. That alternate version of Greg I adopted by the Khyber: I did with the aim of in lieu of strangers. And I'm certainly not abandoned; we've all ended something like this, and not specifically under the tension of an uncomforable social condition. We extract old hat separate versions of ourselves in separate day-to-day contexts. Which you are you once you're with your boss? Your father? Your priest? Your most-successful lonesome?

The originator good genuineness of Buddhism is: Life is agony. The back is: The origin of agony is attachment. Maybe the complexities of existence can be cut-rate to folks two straightforward statements. Each of us has attachments. We're attached to could you repeat that? We love, could you repeat that? We be afraid of, could you repeat that? We get back inspiring, could you repeat that? We get back boring, could you repeat that? We feel is accurate, could you repeat that? We feel is wound, and on and on.

James is the opposite of us. He does not suffer, even subsequent to a shotgun blast to his chest. For James has managed to complete could you repeat that? We, as well-rounded real-life humans, cannot: He's avoided all the frills and obligations and existential weights of the humankind (save in lieu of two: His bike and his red-headed girl). He even owns his own unique sight of death: "angels and ariels in leather and chrome / swooping down from Heaven to lug [him] home" -- as if it's almost charming to him; you can picture him smiling as the illumination exit old hat.

The richest irony is with the aim of, solitary through attachment can we link with James. Through our attachment to song and lyrics -- to the secretive art of composition -- we can embody his flawlessly reductive and happy soul, if solitary in lieu of a terse stretch. For the 4:43 we're listening to this song (or the 5:16 of the live track above), we vicariously exist as James does: With complete, unchecked lack of restrictions.

Kris Kristopherson wrote, and Janis Joplin legendary sang, with the aim of "freedom is specifically an extra word in lieu of nothing missing to lose." And that's the difference, accurate near. We for ever and a day state something to lose -- various attachment we're desperate to bear on to. We love "1952 Vincent Black Lightning" not for the reason that of its romanticism or its melancholy. We love it for the reason that we love the out of the question view of could you repeat that? James is: A way we'll by no means be.