The Place I Know – An Exploration of the Music of Arthur Russell

The current pandemic may be keeping us from attending live events, but that doesn’t prohibit us from listening to and writing about the music and lyrics that move us. What follows is an exploration of Arthur Russell’s work, along with a consideration of the tangible effect music can have on our lives, written by contributing editor Murphy Bradshaw.

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When I turned seventeen, I got into my first relationship. When I used to think about dating I’d imagine all of the small things I would do for that person: make them little notes with cut-out paper hearts, offer to go on walks, and give them rides home if they ever needed. At the top of this internal list, though, was to show them music. And so when I was finally with someone, that is what I did. I sat on my bed listening to song after song, writing the titles neatly on cards and gluing small pieces of star-shaped glitter around each one. And what I guarded most lovingly, and was most eager to share with him, was the music of Arthur Russell. I started to show Russell’s music to him long before we ever dated, texting a nervous disclaimer of how it may be “strange” to hear at first, and he texted back a warm (and honest) review of each song I sent, describing them as invasive, intimate, and varied; words that still stick in my mind a year later as I listen. Love is woven throughout Russell’s music. It exists in his lulling voice, in his quietly pastoral imagery, and in his all-encompassing melodies. He was well known for making dance beats and disco, not so much for his lyrically ambiguous experimental pop. But when I think of him, I think of last autumn and feeling new; of experiencing being in love for the first time.

There is something meaningful about the way that Russell uses place in his music. He lived in New York City and San Francisco at the time that most of his music was recorded, but is from a small town in Iowa called Oskaloosa. He sings about the Midwest with a sort of reverence that is rare to hear. The corn fields and giant skies are not boring, they’re beautiful. With and without words, Russell manages to let his listeners know what it means to be from this endless place. His hushed voice is reminiscent of old country music: the song “Close my Eyes,” from a compilation record released in 2004, sounds like it could be by Townes Van Zandt or John Prine. Russell follows a steady guitar with his gentle voice, the lyrics “Will the corn be growing a little tonight / As I wait in the fields for you / Who knows what grows in the morning light / When we can feel the watery dew” create a sense of the peace that Iowa keeps secret. These songs are love letters to the state and to the people he knows there, and I think there is no better way to see love than the way it is in this scene: waiting in warm air, grass towering above, two people meeting under a star-filled night sky. 

In the fall of 1986, Arthur Russell released his first (and only) album World of Echo. When I bought a copy of this record there was a sticker on the front that read “UNINTELLIGIBLE,” and a lot of the time, this is true. Russell very tenderly pieces together sound, making each song full and dissonant, the lyrics often being lost in the noise. Unintelligible is not a bad thing, though, as the sounds become feelings in their own way. But the final song on this album is a different story. Russell was diagnosed with AIDS shortly after the release of World of Echo, so the album possesses an awareness of something to come that I find extremely gripping. He does not know yet that he’s sick, and a lot of the songs off of this record are shadowed by his illness. The closing song, “Our Last Night Together,” is an example of this feeling. He sings “Although you’re coming back / I’m losing you for now / This job is just a one-way street / It has taken you away from me,” only his voice and his cello moving slowly through the song. These lyrics are piercing because they take into account the future. Arthur Russell is singing to someone, most likely in a literal way, about a relationship that isn’t working out but can never truly end. We know ourselves through these lyrics, know that we too have lost people in our lives that we love but who stick around in some less tangible way. For the listener, these words are also illuminated by what, or who, was actually lost. This final song off of the only record he ever released is our last night together. Our final, and only, time knowing Arthur Russell as he would have wanted.

World of Echo is Russell’s music in the most complete sense. He was particular about what he would release, and after his death left thousands of unfinished tapes for those closest to him to sort through. This is where many of his most striking love songs sit: as tapes on old shelves waiting to be listened to. In the posthumously-released song “Love Comes Back” the awareness of his fleeting life is in focus. The lyrics read: “Being sad is not a crime / Want you to know that / Love is back / So put your little hand in mine / Love comes back.” It is a love song from someone who is dying telling their partner that it is okay to be sad, that love still surrounds them.  I think that this song in particular reflects the way that we know Russell: as someone whose music has come back to us. In life he was unable to reach mainstream success, and although he isn’t a universally recognizable name, he is being listened to now. This connection is quite gripping; something so sad and so honest that speaks to us in ways both personal and detached. Arthur Russell has a way of making those who hear his music feel like that: like he is speaking so candidly about his own life while echoing the feelings of those who listen.

In the same way that Arthur Russell explores love he explores heartbreak: with softness and with an understanding of what it really is. It’s strange to think of an experimental musician as someone leaning into such traditional feelings, but this is why I admire his work so much. He uses sound to create space and magnetism, and he uses words to level with those who hear his work. Being heartbroken means that you have to find things to fill the spaces where you are hurting. Russell’s music has an inherent sadness to it, explored at length in the 2008 documentary “Wild Combination: A Portrait of Arthur Russell.” The movie includes interviews from many people who knew him and a lot of them remember him as someone who was paranoid and self-conscious, especially near the end of his life. But they also remember him with warmth for who he was, for what he made in his lifetime, and for who he is now able to reach almost thirty years after his death. The poignant shadow of his life coupled with the joy and profoundness of his work is what makes his music perfect to fill the painful spaces we all have. When I broke up with my boyfriend, I thought I would never be able to listen to anything that reminded me of him. But when I hear lyrics like “You’re too sweet to worry, I always have thought / Never bothered to ask why I like you a lot / You move your hands slow up my back with your heart / But now we’re so close, yet feel so far apart” I am reminded of what is so healing about his music. These lyrics make sense in many songs, and variations of them can be heard across genres, but it is the tenderness with which these lyrics are sung and comfort of the sounds behind them that makes me need them to feel better. This is what I think the best musicians do: they heal us or expose something in us that we couldn’t name before. Arthur Russell’s music keeps space for us to know ourselves as listeners, and to know him.