On Killing Men

I listen to country music. Someone once theorized that male country songs are about cheatin’ and lovin’ women. In the plural. And female country songs are about lovin’ yet killin’ the men who do the multiple lovin’ and cheatin’. I was very amused at the theory but also I can’t dispute it. Broken hearts and crimes of passion and all that.

I do not consider myself a violent person although I do enjoy vicarious violence. I have stopped whatever it was I was doing just to watch people fight. I don’t know. Perhaps it is something lacking in my life that I like to see somewhere else on display. It happens. I am sure there is a psychological name for it too.

Not for nothing therefore that I like violent songs sometimes but mostly lyrical violence wrapped up in sweet melody. Which is why Kill Bill by SZA really resonated with me. Such a sweet melody singing “I might kill my ex. Not the best idea. His new girlfriend’s next. How’d I get here?” The first time my sister played this song in my vicinity, it gave me pause. I stopped what I was doing and listened and said: what is she singing?

I laughed and have returned for multiple re-plays. It feels to me like an updated version of Olivia Newton-John’s excellent psychotic and honey-voiced narration of how she asked her lover to take a walk by the Banks of the Ohio and then sweetly crooning, “I held a knife against his breast, as into my arms he pressed. He cried, ‘My love, don’t you murder me; I’m not prepared for eternity.” which then went on to, “I walked on home between twelve and one. I cried, ‘My God, what have I done?’ I’ve killed the only man I loved. He would not take me for his bride.” 

My favourite country stars have often sung of violence and even murder. Sometimes they even make it a joyful dance number. Like the most excellent Goodbye Earl by the Dixie Chicks (The Chicks, now). The story telling remains fantastic. “Earl walked right through that restraining order and put her in intensive care. Right away Mary-Anne flew in from Atlanta on a Red Eye midnight flight. She held Wanda’s hand and they worked out a plan and it didn’t take them long to decide: That Earl had to die.” So that was the Why. What about the How? “Those black-eyed peas, they tasted all right to me, Earl. You feelin’ weak? Why don’t you lay down and sleep, Earl?” where they couldn’t help taunting their erstwhile-abuser-now-a-corpse with the line, “Ain’t it dark wrapped up in that tarp, Earl?” The girls would later admit to not losing any sleep at all over this because Earl had to die. There is a haunting line in this upbeat number: “It turns out he was a missing person who nobody missed at all”. It's like those Bible verses where they write about bad kings and go: he passed away, to no one's regret. Haunting. Makes you wonder who would miss you if you were gone.

Taylor Swift also joined this bandwagon with the matter-of-fact narration of Dexter-esque vengeance in No Body, No Crime where her friend Este went missing. But there was no body, so no crime, no prosecution. She was sure the husband did it though because he’d been acting differently, drinking merlot with someone else, and buying jewelry from Este and his joint account that was not for her. And when Este went missing, his truck got some brand new tires, he brought home his mistress who slept in Este’s bed and everything. And for Taylor, it was a “good thing my daddy made me get a boating license when I was fifteen, and I’ve cleaned enough houses to know how to cover up a scene; good thing Este’s sister’s gonna swear she was with me.” Luckily for Taylor, the mistress took out a big life insurance policy so everyone thought she did it. And again, as with Este, there was no body, so no crime. Taylor ended her narration with a satisfying, “I wasn’t letting up until the day he died.”

Such charm. Entire murder stories in 4-5-minute songs. And told in such entrancing, enchanting ways that you just start to, if not sympathise with, at least understand the murderer. Genius.

Cell Block Tango by the six merry murderesses of the Cook County Jail from Chicago is possibly where I first started being captivated by this genre of women murdering men because they wronged them. Ooh, this probably deserves its own blog.

Meanwhile on the flip side, I’d read once that judges who pass a death sentence break the pen they use to sign the papers. One, to show how heavy this sentence is and how they are themselves broken over it, and two, to ensure the pen that has killed a person would never be used again. Symbolic. Of course sometimes when it’s really high profile, they have also been known to retire the pen but keep it as a souvenir. Psycho-alert, anyone?