Twenty Years On: Once More Unto The "Breach"

When we're young and inexperienced, we don't often give much thought to the reasons why we do the things we do, or like the things we like. Life is taken at face value, and we don't have the interest or capability of diving deeper than the surface. We can't hold our breath long enough to take a deep dive into the recesses of our minds, of ourselves, to try to find what it is about us that is reflected in the art we love.

I know this was true for me as I was developing as a music fan. It started with a few songs on the radio that captured my attention, and one album in particular a neighbor liked to play while we hung out. I never gave any of it a second thought. Why was I drawn to a twelve-minute enigma of a song sung by an overweight and overwrought voice? Why did a song half about Peter Pan and half about cynicism towards the music business become one of my favorites? I didn't care to know. I had music I enjoyed hearing, and pretending to sing along to, and that was good enough for me.

That all changed twenty years ago. I was just hitting the age where introspection was more possible, and it coincided with an album that spoke directly to the part of myself that was always there, but I hadn't known about. I suppose you could say it started when "One Headlight" came out, but while I was one of the millions of people who fell for that track, "Bringing Down The Horse", as great as it is, was only setting the table for what was to come.

I remember hearing about "(Breach)" first by reading a review in either Time or Newsweek (I can't remember which). Something about the writing told me that even as I was being warned The Wallflowers were going in a different direction, it was the one pointing toward my north star. Despite being a neophyte fan, I was already sure I needed to hear that album, even before I knew a note of it. When "Sleepwalker" made its way to the airwaves, my hunch was proven right, as that song quickly painted a vivid picture in my mind.

I had recently turned seventeen when the album came out, which makes no sense, given the subjects and tones of Jakob Dylan's writing. It should not have spoken to me, but yet it did. From the opening organ swell of "Letters From The Wasteland" to the closing guitar solo of "Birdcage", I was hearing an album that changed the way I looked at music. It was no longer simply about a catchy ditty I could pantomime to. Music had depth that required thought, that could tell me something about myself.

What has always struck me deepest about "(Breach)" isn't the classic American rock, or the strong and durable melodies, but rather the literacy and poetry contained in these songs. Growing up listening to pop radio, I wasn't used to hearing words that flowed with beauty of their own. This is the record that got me interested in lyricism as an art, and it unwrapped the poet inside me. I suppose I can blame Jakob Dylan for the countless words I have written over the years, as I continue to chase a line as perfect as his poetry in "I've Been Delivered". For twenty years, I have been haunted by the line, "I can't fix something this complex any more than I can build a rose."

It's such an evocative image, laced with deep meaning, that it has been a guiding light of what music can be, and what it should aim for. I complain often about lazy writing, with songs about drinking, partying, and rocking at the top of that list. The reason I do that is because I have heard music used as art, I have witness rock and poetry fuse together to create something greater than the sum of its parts, and I refuse to accept that it can't be done again.

For twenty years, I have listened to these songs, and I have felt the same overwhelming inspiration in them. Along with a few others, this record made me want to become a musician and a songwriter, because it taught me the keys to writing great music. "(Breach)" is, among other things, a masterclass in songwriting, a timeless example of the power captured in the creative spirit. It also introduced me to another artist who became similarly important in my development, but that's another story for another time.

Nostalgia is a condition where we look back at moments from the past and remember them as being better than they were. I feel no nostalgia for "(Breach)", because none is needed. It sounds as vital to me today as it did in those late autumn days twenty years ago. I wouldn't be who I am without this record. Even today, I pull lessons from it. What better sign of greatness is there than that?