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As our national and local elections draw near, and as I cast about wildly in search of column subjects of suitable weight and substance, it seems I've stumbled onto the ideal soundtrack, anyway.
I've been listening to the music of Susan Cowsill.
That's right: Susan Cowsill. Of The Cowsills. And I am completely serious.
The Cowsills, for those of you who didn't start listening to music in the lat '60s and early '70s, were a pleasant, light-weight pop band consisting of four brothers and their kid sister, Susan. They're sometimes confused with the Partridge Family of the hit TV series; in fact,lthe show's producers got the idea from The Cowsills, who toured the country in a bus driven by their mom.
But there are two big differences.
First, The Cowsills were related to each other; Cowsill is even their real family name. Second, they were a genuine band, unlike the Partridge Family, who were basically actors. And I blush to admit it - they were, after all, one of those groups that graced the covers of the teen magazines my sister, Laura, used to buy - but as such bands went, they weren't half bad. You may remember their biggest hit singles: "The Rain, the Park and Other Things," "Hair" and "Indian Lake." Laura had them all.
Of course, that didn't stop Laura and me from including The Cowsills in a ritual game of "record darts" years later, a bid to destroy any evidence of the musical tastes we thought we'd outgrown. I suspect other young Americans did something similar. The Cowsills had long since stopped being cool, if they ever had been.
Which may be why, when The Cowsills made a comeback album a few years ago, not a single major label took the bait - including reportedly, one that was interested until executive there found out who had recorded it. The Cowsills released the album on an independent label, and though I haven't heard it, the reviews were remarkably good. It sounds as if they’ve grown musically over the years. Unfortunately, it also sounds as if a lot of people don't want to know.
Fast forward to Oct 2000 . . .
For the past couple of months, Martha and I have been listening obsessively to the music of the Continental Drifters, a New Orleans alt-country band that's rapidly become one of our favorites.
Though the Drifters aren't exactly household names - one band members has said he'd be thrilled to sell 5,000 CDs - they include veterans of R.E.M. Hootie and the Blowfish, The Bangles and other acts of note. In any case, they make music that's pleasant, even bouncy, yet full of depth and genuine emotion.
Oh, and they also include a singer and songwriter whose voice can lift your heart one minute and break it the next.
Her name is Susan Cowsill.
I don't know much about how Susan Cowsill got from there to here, but I do know that being a Cowsill wasn't necessarily a picnic, even while she and her brothers were still performing together. There were family tensions. There were disputes over money. And there was the fact that the band waned to grow, while their adoring public had other ideas.
But a few things are obvious. Susan Cowsill didn't stop making music, as did many teen stars, though one suspects getting others to take her seriously may have been a real issue. She didn't stop growing musically, as a few listenings to her work with the Drifters will confirm.
And it's worth noting that while people in show business often change their names the way we civilians change tires, she kept hers. (Of course hers might sound pretty good compared with that of Peter Holsapple, Susan Cowsills's husband and fellow Drifter.)
I doubt that the Continental Drifters ever set out to make the soundtrack for the wee hours of the new millennium; for one thing, they strike me as a notably unpretentious lot. But as we careen drunkenly toward another election, into another century, it occurs to e that we could all learn something from Susan Cowsill.
And that something is: Life goes on.
Susan Cowsill is no longer a million-unit-selling child star, but she and her bandmates have brought a great deal of pleasure to a small but devoted following. If you don't believe me, check out the message board at www.continentaldrifters.com, which happens to include RealAudio files of every song the Continental Drifters have recorded.
We're not exactly what we used to be, either. Life is changing in the Mountain Empire, from the crops we grow to the coal we mine to the way we live. As inadequate as the roads may be in parts of our region, we're not isolated the way we were in the past, thanks to cable and satellite TV and the Internet. We're more like the rest of America than we once were, but we still have trouble getting used to it - and we still get our feelings hurt when others can't get used to it, either.
And being like other Americans has its ups and its downs. It's easy to look at the future and all the possibilities it offers, on all levels, and wonder how we'll ever get there. But it's just as easy to fear what might happen if we do.
Our past is a priceless foundation, and our heritage is something that deserves to be kept alive. (To this day, Susan Cowsill plays occasional gigs with her brothers under the family name) But they call it the past for a reason, and even if we don't change, the world around us does. We adjust. And even if no one does it alone, no one will do it for us.
That includes politicians, no matter what wonderful things we might promise or what they offer to protect us from. Whoever wins and whoever loses, we adjust. Life may be better, or it may be worse, but it goes on. Exactly how it goes on is up to us, not them.
Meanwhile, if you get the chance, listen to Susan Cowsill sing "The Rain Song" with the Continental Drifters. I promise it'll make your day.
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