Growing up, I was one of those Midwestern kids who said I liked all kinds of music, except country of course. Anything but gross, stereotypical, tractor-lovin country. Then I grew up, apparently used my sense of hearing for the first time, and realized how naïve I had been. Country is awesome. Well, some country is awesome. Patsy Cline, Dolly Parton, Johnny-Fucking-Cash.

Recently I came across this slowed down version of Dolly Parton’s song, Jolene:

It’s haunting. It’s heartbreaking. It’s lovely. Then again, so is the original:

Jolene tells a better story than half the books I’ve read recently. Our dear narrator, Dolly, doesn’t have the bravado one would expect of this genre. She’s been bested. She’s humbled.  “Please don’t take him, even though you can.” She’s fighting for her man by begging the green-eyed, auburn locked, adulterer to have pity on her. She isn’t condemning the other woman. She isn’t threatening her. She begs. That narrative kills me every time!

That is all.