I’m confessin’ (that I love K.D. Lang)
The first time I heard k.d. lang was in 1991. I was working in a toy store whose chief compensations were the necessity of shooting teddy bears in the head with a needle gun, and the syndicated love songs program that ran each night as I worked.
(I hate “Lay Lady Lay” infinity+1 even now, but otherwise it was pretty sweet.)
She had just recorded “Crying” with Roy Orbison, and it had caused a sensation… unbeknownst to me. All I knew was there was this one song that came on sometimes, the saddest and most beautiful song I had ever heard, and I didn’t know what it was called or who sang it, but I couldn’t wait to hear it again.
I don’t remember how I found out who sang it but eventually I did, and this was during k.d. lang’s moment in the sun, so when I went to Big K Records in search of a tape of hers, I found a display of Ingenue at the front of the store.
The clerk who sold it to me was as scornful of my choice as clerks were allowed to be, back in the day.
It wasn’t till years later when I saw k.d. lang name-checked on the cover blurb for High Fidelity as an example of something boring, settled people like that I realized the problem: liking k.d. lang was for dorks.
But it was too late for me by then.
By then, I had seen her play live (on television,) dressed in a royal blue cowboy suit with intricate white piping and rhinestones all over it; seen her flirt with the audience, and her band, and most of all with her voice: her incredible, agile, roaring, soaring voice. I had never heard anyone sing so playfully, so joyously, never heard anyone use her voice as an instrument.
I had never heard anything so beautiful. It was unearthly to me.
I was there when she wore a wedding gown to an awards ceremony and posed like a plane crash to honour Patsy Cline (since at the time, she believed–or said she believed) that she was Cline reincarnated. (Hence the name of her band: the ReClines.)
I was there when Alberta beef farmers turned on her for coming out as a vegan.
I was there when she posed in drag with Cindy Crawford on the cover of Vanity Fair.
I had her picture up on my bedroom wall, and I sought out Salmonberries, the film she starred in (and the origin of “Barefoot,” one of my favourite songs.) I watched her embarrassing appearance on Super Dave. I purchased and read poorly-assembled biographies and picture books about her. I sat through Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, just because she composed and performed all the music and I wanted to hear it in context.
I was there as she reinvented her sound, again and again.
First came Country: A Truly Western Experience, Angel With a Lariat, Shadowland and Absolute Torch and Twang took me from straight up, goofy honky-tonk to an old-school, mournful country sound, and then to pop/country crossovers.
Then, whammo! Ingenue, the album that made her famous. Supposedly, all of its songs were written for an unrequited love. I can believe it, you know? (Except for the rumour that that love was for Anne Murray. You’re like, really? The Anne Murray?) It’s got that banked passion, that longing, that hopelessness to it.
After that, she did Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. Some of her best songs are on that album: “In Perfect Dreams,” “Sweet Little Cherokee,” “Hush Sweet Lover“… They’re pretty, and whimsical, and warm, and a real pleasure to sing, let me tell you.
(My voice isn’t nearly as good as hers, but my range is similar, and I always push myself to sing her songs as accurately as possible, because it’s kind of a fucking rush to take them where she wants them to go. She has said in the past that her big love affair is with her voice. I believe this.)
Then, whammo! again. She released All You Can Eat, a goddamn pop album, but with swagger, with a wink. You got the feeling that she’d taken the measure of her career and realized that she was never going to be huge, and so why not just say fuck everything and sing what you feel like singing?
So obviously she had to make Drag after that: an experimental album, a cover album, a theme album about smoking–metaphorically speaking. The liner notes are a bunch of gorgeous photos of her in drag, all done up like a matinee idol. The songs are lush and lazy and wide-ranging in origin, and okay, mostly pretty sad. They’re torch songs, okay? That is the nature of the beast.
Invincible Summer came after that. Three years after that. (It felt like a lifetime.) It’s a summer album, as you might have guessed, light and breezy, and more importantly joyful. The title is a take on a Camus quote: In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.
This comes across in the music. “Extraordinary Thing” might be the happiest love song ever recorded that doesn’t make you want to vom.
Her next album was A Wonderful World, a series of duets with Tony Bennett–old standards like “La Vie en Rose” and “I’m Confessin’ (That I Love You).” I can’t deny that it sounds like the kind of thing you’d hear at Starbucks while you waited an hour and a half for the barista to finally come across with your Venti mocha, but damned if that wouldn’t be the best Starbucks visit of your life.
Hymns of the 49th Parallel came after that: another cover album, all the tunes written by Canadian songwriters. You’ve probably heard her cover of “Hallelujah.” It’s true that “Hallelujah” has been done to death by now, but this is different, okay? She sang it at the opening ceremonies for the 2010 Winter Olympics, y’all. It’s gorgeous. (But my favourite from this album is “The Valley,” another unbearably sad song.)
Most recently, she put out Watershed, her first album of original songs in ages and ages. It’s less cheery, more introspective, but equally transcendent. It reminds me of when I lived in Northern Alberta, and it was basically permanently snowing, and I knew I’d made a terrible mistake moving up there, but you know. The world keeps turning.
There’s a lot more I could say about k.d. lang–where I bought each of her CDs, what listening to them walked me through at various points of my life, how listening to them again makes me feel because of that–but all you really need to know is I’ve been in love with her since I was still a pupa, more or less, and I’ve had my sexy little affairs with other artists, but I always come back to her in the end.
k.d., if you’re reading this, call me. I’ll give up hot dogs for you, baby. For reals.
You have a limited amount of time, so why spend it reading about things that suck or are only kind of okay? Favorite thing EVER is not a review site. We're unrepentant fans, and this is the stuff we love. Hope you like gushing, because we're about to embarrass ourselves.
Constant Craving really has a longing hunger you can’t deny. But I don’t know about Anne Murray. I mean, I bet Anne would gave been glad to be her baby.
Anne Murray has had Grandma Hair since she was 25. It’s not even a little bit hot.
You are telling me that you would not hit this.
I would hit that, but not in the way I suspect you mean.
My eyes! My eyes!
Aw, come on, she’s sweet.
Yes, but I don’t believe her relative sweetness is the topic under debate.
You might as well argue the merits of her penmanship then, and speaking of, if she is indeed the author of that autograph, the M and those giant looks mark her out as an egomaniac. An egomaniac who is unafraid to be photographed clad entirely in pink Miracle Fabric.
The first time I saw K.D. Lang was on Pee-Wee’s Playhouse Christmas special and then I didn’t really hear about her again until I was in college. My roommate wanted to be her. I remember Angie trying on different ties, listening to Drag, and getting ready to go out to the clubs. I found the music soothing and enjoyable. Thanks for the post! I think I am going to put her on Pandora right now.
She’s got a new album out now, and it is amazing.