Minimalism is a fairly recent development in the visual arts, and I don't regard it as very successful. A white canvas decorated by a white spot may make important statements about perception and the nature of reality, but it doesn't do much for my emotions. Although it hasn't always been called by its name, minimalism has a long tradition as an effective device in song and poetry, even, or perhaps especially, when the writer is not consciously using it. This month's song is an example of making the most of minimalism.
Herbert Halpert, a prolific Library of Congress collector, recorded it in 1939 from Austin Harmon of Maryville, Tennessee. The Harmon family was a musical treasure, preserving a wide variety of songs, including rare versions of British ballads and banjo ditties. I know nothing about the age or history of this song, and I know no related versions. It's definitely not the work of professional songwriters, who are much more extroverted and explicit. It could be a self-pitying lament, of the modern country music style, if only there were any self pity expressed.
Narrow drill bits can cut the deepest, and this simple little song hits emotional bedrock without revealing much. Use of present tense and vagueness about the actual order of events increases the intensity. The wife's abandonment motives are unstated. Perhaps she is looking for a man who knows proper verb conjugation. Is he fantasizing that sweetheart, or is she the reason for the trouble? If the narrator is to blame, because of (say) abuse, inattention or infidelity, he's not admitting it. At least, he's not going to get his revolver and cut his wife down -- that would involve too much commitment. He's heading for the meadow.
Among the treasures buried here we might find: loneliness; despair over abandonment; betrayal; infidelity; shame; death (traditionally, west is its direction); but no sobbing. This is a good song to sing during January, the coldest month of the year, when tears would just freeze on your face, anyway.
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Complete Lyrics:
Oh, My wife and baby run away
Oh, My wife and baby run away
And my heart become a lump of clay
Way down in the meadow I will go.
Go tell my woman not to weep
Go tell my woman not to mourn
For my heart become a lump of clay
Way down in the meadow I will go.
For I have a sweetheart out in town
For I have a sweetheart out in town
And my heart become a lump of clay
Way down in the meadow I will go.
Oh, there's snow on the western windowpane
Oh, there's snow on the western windowpane
And my heart become a lump of clay
Way down in the meadow I will go.