SONG OF THE DAY: Where'd You Come From

I don’t use streaming services like Spotify so I have no Spotify wrap-up for you. I’m not acting like I’m better than you, or worse; I just don’t stream shit. I have an innate distrust of algorithms because their artificial intelligence is most likely programmed by the same people who have always suggested to me how much I would love the Drive-by Truckers, whom I hate, even though I’ve tried multiple times because even people I respect tell me how much I’d love them. Same thing with The Mountain Goats. Also, which should be obvious, streaming rips the fuck off artists, so if you’re going to stream, I’d suggest Bandcamp. I’ve been making an effort this past year to support more and more Bandcamp artists, because I know from experience they actually get that money. One Bandcamp purchase goes a lot further than streaming your favorite artist’s album on Spotify. If I bought an album on Bandcamp that the artist got an $8 cut from, I’d have to stream songs from that album over two thousand times to equal that payout for them. I know even y’all’s number one artist on your social media-friendly image post about Spotify wrap-up probably ain’t got two thousand streams. Even if it does, think how much work it takes in terms of time to stream that shit two thousand times as opposed to buying it once on Bandcamp? Nonetheless, so that I don’t sound like an old man yelling get off my lawn full of external hard drives containing mp3s gotten from Mega links in old blogs, I figured I’d share my song of the year for 2020.
It’s “Where'd You Come From” by Psalm One, from 2004. I love this fucking song. Simple tales of writing on trains, riding on trains, getting high in the yard, and freestyling. It’s a dirtgod heaven anthem, and it’s my song of 2020. I’ve played it at least three dozen times. The best was when I bumped it right after wandering for a couple of hours in a CSX yard on the Potomac River on the West Virginia side, with the tiniest sliver of Maryland across the way so that if you rode the bridge across, then through the tiny town there, you were in Pennsylvania before you ran out of town completely. This shit sounded extra good that day, seeing all the Trump signs and a slow death small town called Hancock after having just baptized myself for a while in giant idling freight cars covered in the homemade tattoos of a buffet of vagrants and vandals.