Welcome back to another deep dive. Usually we're
taking a pretty wide angle lens to a massive
topic, you know, like. The history of a whole
civilization. Right. Or a massive breakthrough
in AI, things like that. That's the picture stuff.
Exactly. But today I'll do the exact opposite.
I really want to zoom in like microscope style.
Okay. Yeah. We are looking at one specific artifact
from the year 2001. You know, sometimes the smallest
artifacts tell the absolute biggest stories.
They really do. It's kind of like finding a single
piece of pottery that somehow explains an entire
ancient trade route. That is a perfect analogy.
So what's on the slide today? What are we looking
at? It's a song. A song called Don't Be Sad by
the alternative country band, Whiskey Town. Okay,
Whiskey Town. Yeah. And now before you, the listener,
tune out thinking this is just some retro music
review. I have to share the specific reason we're
looking at this track today. It's not just a
review then? Yeah. No, definitely not. I mean,
it's not just because it's a great song, which
for the record it is, but because of this warning
label I found when I started researching it.
A warning label? Like what? Like explicit lyrics?
No, much, much drier than that. I pulled up the
Wikipedia page for this specific song and right
at the top of the page there was this massive
banner. Oh, I know those banners. Right. And
it said, quote, The topic of this article may
not meet Wikipedia's notability guideline for
music. Ouch. Yeah. Wow. Yeah. That is basically
the digital equivalent of being told, you know,
sit down. You're not important. Exactly. It's
the algorithm literally saying move along. Nothing
to see here. Nothing notable anyway. Right. And.
Naturally, that triggered my contrarian streak.
Of course, dude. I took that as a personal challenge.
So our mission for this deep dive today is to
essentially put this song on trial. I love this.
We are going to prove that the algorithm is completely
wrong. So we're basically the defense attorneys
for a 20 -year -old country rock ballad. We are.
And honestly, I think we have a incredibly strong
case here. I'm ready. Let's build the case. Because
when you actually look at... The liner notes,
the production context, and just the sheer emotional
weight of this track. It's not just a song. No,
it's a lot more than that. It's a time capsule.
It captures this very specific moment where entire
genres were colliding, where a band was completely
falling apart, and where the songwriting reached
this peak of... Beautiful denial. Yes. Beautiful
denial is a perfect way to frame it. Well, frankly,
looking at the materials you sent over for us
to review... The personnel list alone should
instantly disqualify it from ever being called
non -notable. It's insane. It is. This is one
of those scenarios where you look at the credits
and realize, wait, all of these people were in
the same room at the same time. It really is
a hidden supergroup. And we'll get to the names
in a minute because there are some absolute heavy
hitters from the 90s rock scene involved here.
Oh, yeah. I want to start with that concept of
denial that you just mentioned. Okay, let's start
there. Because the song is literally titled,
Don't Be Sad. Right. On the surface, if you just
glance at the track list on the back of the CD,
it looks like a pep talk. It sounds like a command,
really. Chin up, it'll get better. Exactly. But
that is the trap. Yeah, it's a total misdirection.
Because if you actually listen to the harmonic
structure, and more importantly, if you really
dig into the lyrics, you realize, don't be sad.
isn't an instruction at all no it's a plea that
has already failed it reminds me of when someone
is in a really bad spot and they just keep repeating
i'm fine i'm fine i'm fine right the repetition
itself proves they are definitely not fine exactly
and we actually have the primary songwriter ryan
adams confirming this he talked about this specific
track he did i found a quote from him discussing
don't be sad that sort of unlocks the whole puzzle
for us yeah i read that in the prep notes That
quote is devastating. Let me read it for you.
He said, I think there's a duality in that song.
I think on one hand it's saying, hang on, we'll
get through this. But deep down, we know we're
not going to get through it at all. It's that
second half that just gets you. Deep down, we
know we're not going to get through it at all.
Right. That takes the song from being a standard
radio ballad and turns it into a tragedy. It
really does. And he finishes the thought by saying.
Damn, that song just kind of says it all, doesn't
it? It does say it all. It perfectly deals with
that cognitive dissonance that we all experience
during a crisis. How do you mean? Well, you have
the surface level optimism running parallel to
this subterranean knowledge that the relationship
or the band or whatever the situation is, is
totally doomed. You're putting on a brave face
while the ship is sinking. Exactly. Don't be
sad, but we're sinking. And what's fascinating
is how that duality plays out. In the actual
music itself. Yes, the music. It's not just the
lyrics doing the heavy lifting. The sound of
the song is doing that exact same push and pull.
And that sound definitely didn't happen by accident.
Not at all. Which brings us to the hidden supergroup
aspect of our defense. The personnel file. Right.
I think a lot of people associate Whiskey Town
solely with Ryan Adams or maybe Caitlin Carey.
They were the faces of the band, sure. But the
writing credits on this specific track are pretty
unexpected. To say the least. I mean, you have
Ryan Adams, obviously. You have Mike Daly, who
is a core member. But then you have James Iha.
James Iha, the guitarist from the Smashing Pumpkins.
Exactly. And for any of you listening who might
not be deep into 90s alternative rock lore, the
Smashing Pumpkins were absolute... Titans. Massive.
They were known for this huge, fuzzy, dreamlike
guitar distortion. So having James Iha co -writing
a track for an old country band in 2001 is a
wildly significant crossover. It really contextualizes
the era, doesn't it? It does. In 2001, the walls
between grunge and country were becoming really
porous. Very porous. You had this old country
movement where punk rockers and grunge guys were
suddenly picking up acoustic guitars. And James
Iha brings a very very specific sensibility to
this track he's not just a guest star coming
in to play a quick guitar solo right he has a
writing credit he's a co -writer that suggests
he fundamentally helped shape the melody and
the structure of the song and you can hear it
right you absolutely can the song has a pop sensibility
It has a melodic smoothness that feels very distinct
from the rougher, more jagged country stuff Whiskey
Town was doing back in the mid -90s. It's smoother.
It's definitely dreamier. It is. But IHOP isn't
the only rock refugee on the track. Oh, no. When
I looked at the performance credits, I literally
did a double take at the name Tommy Stinson.
Another absolute legend in the room. Tommy Stinson
from The Replacements. Yes. And again, just for
some context for you listening, The Replacements
were the ultimate chaotic, messy, brilliant punk
and post -punk band of the 80s. They were the
poster children for beautiful chaos. They were.
So you have the guitarist from The Smashing Pumpkins
and the bassist from The Replacements on a country
ballad. It's a crazy lineup. But look at what
Stinson is actually playing. Right. He isn't
playing a driving distorted bass line like you'd
expect from a punk guy. No, he's credited with
guitar and dobro. A dobro. Yeah. Resonator guitar.
Yeah. That is the most quintessentially front
porch, high lonesome country instrument you can
possibly find. It really is. It has that distinct
metallic sliding whine to it. There's something
so cool about that mental image. What's that?
You have this punk rock icon sitting in a studio
playing a dobro with likely a lot of delicacy.
Yeah, that is a great image. It creates a texture
you just don't get from a standard Nashville
session musician. Precisely. Because the session
musician would play the dobro perfectly. Right.
They would hit all the standard, technically
correct licks. But Stinson plays it like a guy
from a rock band trying to evoke a raw feeling.
It adds so much character. It really does. But
even with those big names, Iha and Stinson, I'd
argue the real sonic weight of this track comes
from somewhere else. The multi -instrumentalists.
Exactly. The reason it sounds so thick and rich.
Oh, absolutely. I was reading the credits for
Mike Daly and Ethan Johns, and it reads like...
They basically raided a music store. They played
everything. It's not just guitar and drums. Let's
look at Mike Daly first. Okay, let's break down
Daly. So Daly is credited with playing guitars,
pedal steel, lap steel, dulcimer, mandocello,
mandolin, and keyboards. Just think about the
frequency range happening there. It's massive.
You have the high chiming sound of the mandolin
up top. You have the sweeping crying sound of
the pedal steel cutting through the middle. Then
you have the dulcimer and the mandocello. I wanted
to ask you about the mandocello, actually, because
I know what a mandolin is. Right. And I definitely
know what a cello is. I assume this is basically
the love child of the two. That's actually a
really good way to put it. Really? Yeah. It's
an instrument in the mandolin family, meaning
it has paired strings that you pluck, but it's
tuned much lower. Like a cello. Exactly like
a cello. So it has this deep, woody, really resonant
growl to it. It occupies the lower mid -range
of the audio spectrum. Which is usually where
a standard rhythm acoustic guitar would sit in
a mix like this. Right. But by using a manda
cello instead, you get a totally different texture.
It feels more organic. More organic, more ancient
in a way. Wow. And what's crazy is that Mike
Daly isn't even the only one playing it on this
track. That's right. Ethan Johns, the producer,
is also credited with manda cello. Two manda
cellos. Ethan Johns really seems to be the MVP
of this entire session. Without a doubt. I mean,
usually you picture a producer sitting behind
the glass in a comfy chair saying, you know,
do it again, but with more feeling. The traditional
producer role, yeah. But Johns is credited with
drums, bass, mandolin, manda cello, keyboards,
percussion, and guitars. That is a critical detail
for us to look at. Why is that? Notice that there
isn't a dedicated drummer or a dedicated bass
player listed for the core band in this specific
lineup. Oh, you're right! The producer is the
rhythm section. That implies a very specific
type of recording session, doesn't it? Highly
specific. This was not a band standing in a circle
in a live room, making eye contact and playing
a song together in one take. No, not with the
producer playing seven instruments. Right. This
was likely a massive construction project. A
wall of sound. Exactly. They were building a
wall of sound, brick by brick. They would lay
down an acoustic track, then Johns would jump
on the drum kit to lay down a beat. Then they'd
layer Amanda Cello over that. Then a dulcimer.
I'm a layer. Which perfectly explains why the
song sounds so lush and so controlled. It's a
pure studio creation. It's atmospheric. And that
atmosphere is absolutely crucial to that duality
we talked about earlier. The emotional dissonance.
Yes. Because there is one specific instrument
listed that I think perfectly captures the lie
of don't be sad. I know exactly which one you're
going to say. The Celeste. Yes. Played by James
Jumbo -Owenye. So for you listening, if you don't
know what a Celeste is by name, you definitely
know its sound. Everyone knows the sound. It's
that keyboard instrument that sounds like magical
bells. It's the dance of the sugarplum fairy
sound from the Nutcracker. Exactly. It's inherently
innocent. It sounds like a lullaby or a little
wind -up music box. Which is such a brilliant,
deliberate production choice. It really is. Because
think about the contrast. You have Ryan Adams
singing about how they aren't going to make it,
singing about the... inevitable painful end of
things the tragedy right and underneath that
tragedy you have this glittering fairy tale sound
of the celeste just sprinkling magic dust over
the track it's almost manipulative it is manipulative
the music is actively trying to soothe you while
the lyrics are systematically breaking your heart
that is the literal definition of bittersweet
It really is. If the song was just an acoustic
guitar and a gravelly voice, it would just be
a standard dirge. It would be a bummer. Yeah.
But with the Celeste and the Mandacello and those
incredibly smooth backing vocals from James Aya
and Caitlin Carey. It becomes beautiful. It seduces
you right into the sadness. And we really can't
forget Caitlin Carey's contribution here. Absolutely
not. With all these alternative rock guys and
studio wizards piling onto the track, her role
seems pivotal in keeping the band's actual identity.
identity intact she is the anchor of whiskey
town yeah her fiddle playing and her vocal harmonies
are the central thread that ties this whole massive
production back to the country in alt country
that makes total sense without her grounding
it this might just sound like a smashing pumpkins
b -side or just another solo ryan adams track
right she's the one who reminds you no this is
whiskey town this is roots music at its core
So we've established that the sound is incredibly
complex and the personnel is essentially a who's
who of the era. The defense is looking very strong.
It is. But to really understand why that specific
lyric, deep down we know we're not going to get
through it, why that hits with such force, we
have to look at the historical timeline. The
context of the release. Because the band Whiskeytown,
well, they were actually living that lyric. They
absolutely were. Let's talk about the album this
track lives on. The album is called Pneumonia.
Right. And it was officially released in 2001
by Lost Highway Records. But here is the massive
kicker for this whole story. What's that? When
this album finally came out in 2001, Whiskey
Town didn't really exist anymore. It was essentially
a posthumous release for the band. Effectively,
yes. Yeah. The band had completely dissolved.
Wow. They had a famously tumultuous run. They
released Faithless Street in 1995 and then Stranger's
Almanac in 1997. And both of those are considered
absolute classics of the alt country genre. Unquestionably.
Yeah. But after that, they entered this massive
black hole of record label mergers and intense
creative infighting. Yeah, I saw the list of
unreleased projects in the source notes. It's
on the long list. It really is. Those weren't
the days, the Freight Whaler sessions, Forever
Valentine. It was album after album. It seems
like they were recording constantly, but absolutely
nothing was sticking or getting released. It
was a period of intense creative output, but
paired with massive crippling instability. That
sounds exhausting. Imagine the frustration. You
are writing and recording entire brilliant albums
that just get shelved by corporate label politics.
Right. All while you are dealing with the immense
pressure of being labeled the next big thing
by the music press. So by the time they actually
got to these pneumonia sessions, the structural
integrity of the band was already failing. It
was crumbling. So when Ryan Adams sings, deep
down we know we're not going to get through it
at all. He might be singing about a girl or a
fictional relationship on the surface. But knowing
the history, it's impossible not to hear him
singing directly about the band itself. It's
almost certainly both. Yeah. That's the hallmark
of truly great songwriting, right? The hyper
-personal becomes universal. Exactly. But in
this specific historical context, it absolutely
sounds like a eulogy for Whiskey Town. A eulogy.
Think about it. They are in the studio layering
these beautiful, intricate instruments. Yeah.
Bringing in their famous friends like James Ihan
to help out. Building the wall of sound. Right.
But everyone. in the room knows the machinery
is permanently broken. It adds such a profound
layer of poignancy to the whole thing. It does.
They are creating this lush, technically perfect
thing. I mean, it was recorded at Dreamland Studios
and House of Blues and mastered at the legendary
mastering lab in Hollywood. Top tier facility.
Top tier. They are polishing this diamond all
while standing on a sinking ship. And that reality
creates a tension that you can palpably feel.
in the final recording you really can it doesn't
sound like a young band at the beginning of their
journey full of raw energy and grit and hope
no it sounds like a band at the very end of the
road It sounds refined, deeply reflective, and
ultimately resigned. Resigned. That is exactly
the word for it. It's a beautifully polished
resignation. Which brings us all the way back
to our notability trial. The Wikipedia warning.
Right. Let's look at the evidence. We have a
song that serves as the literal tombstone for
one of the most critically influential bands
of an entire genre. Check. We have a totally
unique collision of grunge, punk, and country
personnel in one room. And we have a masterful
production that utilizes incredibly rare instrumentation,
like the Celeste and the Mandicello, to create
this incredibly complex emotional landscape.
I think the defense finally rests. I think we
won the case. The idea that this track is somehow
not notable is honestly laughable. It's completely
absurd. This track is a masterclass in how to
construct a song. It really is. It perfectly
shows how you can take a painfully simple sentiment,
just... Don't be sad and completely weaponize
it using arrangement, texture and historical
context. It also serves as a perfectly preserved
snapshot of the year 2001 in music. How so? Well,
if you ever wanted to explain to someone what
alt -country actually was at its absolute peak,
that brief moment before it just morphed into
what we now call indie folk or Americana, you
just sit them down and play them this song. That's
a great point. It has the studio polish, it has
the alternative star power, but it still has
the fiddle and the genuine heartache. Exactly.
It's a pivot point in modern music history. It's
the exact moment where the ragged flannel edges
of the 90s were being smoothed out into the more
produced sound of the 2000s. You know, stepping
back, it really makes you wonder about the nature
of these cultural artifacts we dig up. What do
you mean? Well, we started this whole episode
by laughing at a Wikipedia warning label. Right.
But it points to a much bigger issue in how we
generally consume history, especially music history.
We are so often conditioned to only look for
the massive hits. The chart toppers. Exactly.
We look for the billboard number ones, the stadium
anthems. We look for the loud moments. Why? We
want the obvious success stories. But very often,
the most profound artistry is actually found
in the quiet failures. The quiet failures. I
like that. Think about it. This song was a failure
in the practical sense that it didn't save the
band. Right. They still broke up. And it certainly
didn't top the mainstream pop charts. No. But
artistically, as a piece of recorded human emotion,
it's an absolute triumph. That's a really powerful
distinction to make. A commercial failure, but
a total artistic triumph. And honestly, that's
exactly why we do these deep dives. It is. To
brush the digital dust off these forgotten things,
hold them up to the light and say, no, wait,
look closer. This actually matters. Well said.
Before we wrap up today, I want to leave you,
the listener, with one final thought to chew
on. Give it to us. We've talked a lot today about...
the sadness of the track and the breakup of the
band. The tragedy of it all. Right. We talked
about how the song openly admits that the subject
isn't going to survive the storm. We're not going
to get through it. The harsh reality of the ending.
Exactly. The relationship ended. The band broke
up. The moment passed. Gone. But the record itself,
the actual audio file we can still listen to
today. The artifact. It's incredibly beautiful.
It shimmers with that celeste. It's warm and
woody with that mandichello. It is gorgeous.
So here's the question for you to think about.
If the reality of a situation is deeply tragic,
but the art created from that tragedy is undeniably
beautiful, does the beauty somehow redeem the
tragedy? Oh, wow. Is the sadness actually the
point? That is the eternal question of ours,
isn't it? It really is. Is the beautiful song
just the pearl that eventually comes from the
painful irritation of the oyster? Maybe the title
Don't Be Sad. isn't a failed command to the singer
themselves. Who is it for them? Maybe it's a
direct message to us, the listeners, 25 years
later. The band is gone, the pain is over, but
the music is still spinning. Don't be sad because
the song remains. Exactly. I really like that
interpretation. It's just something for you to
mull over next time you see a warning label telling
you something isn't important. Look a little
closer. Always look closer. Thanks for diving
in with us today. Always a pleasure to dig into
the crates with you. We'll see you on the next
one.