![]() ![]() His follow-up to For Emma -last year's Bon Iver, Bon Iver-was a surprise hit with the music establishment, and he's struggled with the spotlight ever since. ![]() In December, Vernon was nominated for four Grammys as his course almost inexplicably collided with the mainstream. Since then, the Vernon family vacation home has become indie rock’s version of The Band’s “Big Pink.” That space, a large pink-painted Woodstock-area home, was where four Canadians and the son of an Arkansas cotton farmer crafted essential standards of American roots rock like “The Weight.” For Vernon, his family’s cabin marks the beginning of the ultimate indie rock creation myth-the despondent dude disappearing from the world and reemerging with authentic art. Suffering through mononucleosis and dissolving relationships-with women and lifelong musical friends-Vernon retreated to the woods, recording an introspective set of songs that landed him on every year-end “best of” list and afforded him a unique blend of indie cred and critical acclaim-the truest evidence of success in the current moment where “making music worth stealing” is the new cultural currency. For the uninformed, Vernon wrote much of his breakthrough 2007 album For Emma, Forever Ago in his father’s hunting cabin located in the woods near his family’s Eau Claire, WI home. Somehow, it always goes back to this cabin. “Guy breaks up with his girlfriend, retreats to some mythical cabin…” “I’ve heard the story a thousand times,” my old professor joked. I was kind of surprised to hear that each year there was a new generation of me, relating their own personal insecurities through the lens of indie moodsmith Justin Vernon’s falsetto-infused Bon Iver persona. “Every semester without fail, there’s a guy who writes about Bon Iver,” he said, laughing. ![]() He still assigns the song review each semester and chuckling to himself he described the next generation of my “Layla” story. Years later, during a dinner with the professor who’d taught the class, I brought up the assignment and the song I’d reviewed. In my head, I was Derek and his pain was mine. “Layla,” of course, was the album’s undisputed masterpiece, and it made the ideal choice for my review. ![]() Between his impassioned vocals and guitar work and Duane Allman’s slide transcendence, what felt like raw, unbridled emotion oozed from my small pair of speakers and into my soul. Eric-or Derek, as it were-and I felt like kindred spirits frustrated by loneliness and unrequited love. At the time, I was obsessed with Eric Clapton, whose Derek and the Dominos recordings had fortuitously made their way onto our building’s illicit servers that spring. There were no real directions other than this. The first time I ever wrote about music was for a journalism class I took during one of my first years in college. A View of the Mountain Pass Called the Notch of the White Mountans (Crawford Notch), 1839. ![]()
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