Author: Aamo Lieko

Mystery and longing, aching and passion. Michael Martin Murphey’s Wildfire is a story about a woman who lost her pony called Wildfire, but it is easy to hear the song also as an allegory of love that was either lost or has never been. The melancholy piano and the lilting guitars also contribute to the feeling of indeterminate longing.

It is not exactly clear what is lost, what Wildfire signifies, but it is important. The night is empty, the call of the hoot owl sounds meaningful as the farmer is still working when the moon comes out. Life is hard as the narrator is sodbusting (breaking the sod to make fields), and thinking of a way out. Not necessarily a physical change, but getting “these hard times right on out of our minds riding Wildfire”.

I think of the pony itself as a symbol of love. The woman comes at night with a whirlwind by her side, she’s been even presumed dead because she went out into the blizzard looking for the pony, calling for it, yearning, risking her life. For Wildfire was more important than her safety. It is her companion, her meaning.

And the narrator understands. He is waiting, hoping that the woman comes for him too, and they’ll both be riding Wildfire. The image of just waiting in solitude for the woman and Wildfire is touching. One could argue that the narrator is being too passive, just longing for happiness amid his toil. But where could he go? He does not even know whether the woman is real anymore. Maybe she is dead, just a ghost from the mountains. But he must believe. Love is real, and one day Wildfire will be here.

Murphey has himself stated that he doesn’t know what the song is about, and he’s heard many interpretations. That is what makes sparse storytelling fascinating; it leaves room for the audience to insert their own meanings into it.

The song came to him in a dream, and it reminds him of a ghost story he heard as a kid. In that story the horse is a symbol of Jesus carrying people through hard times. While that interpretation could somehow fit also the song, it would make the lyrics even more mysterious. If it was a religious allegory, who would the woman be? It is her, after all, who’s the focus of the narrator, though Wildfire is also essential to the story. Nevertheless, even taken like this, the song is about love, albeit a different kind.

The song was actually finished with the co-writer Larry Cansler, which may explain the discrepancy. If the third verse was removed, it wouldn’t be a love song at all, but more in line with what Murphey is saying. So I think it’s possible that the verse that actually explains the narrator’s position was added only after the second songwriter came onboard. Still, the way the story is told now, I consider it to be a love song, if only for a woman the narrator doesn’t even know to be real.

I have selected this song for my first post since it serves as an example of the complexity of the love song as a phenomenon despite their apparent simplicity. My aim is to post songs that can be taken at face value, enjoyed for their purity and ostensible sincerity. And yet it can be difficult, because distrust has permeated the western culture, whatever that may be. I do not necessarily mean distrust toward relationships and the permanence of romance. That may be a reality as well, but in the context of love songs I’m going to focus more on the distrust toward narratives that claim to be earnest, especially if they’re deemed positive, or viewed critically, sentimental and saccharine.

Sixteen Reasons was released in December 1959. Connie Stevens has been known mainly as an actress, and later she dismissed the song, saying it was a kids’ song for 12-year-old girls. Well, there’s nothing wrong with being a 12-year-old girl. Certainly the song has the kind of charming naivety that serves as an escape from the reality of relationships, the incompatible views and goals that always exist until they are resolved one way or another.

The song has also been featured in the David Lynch movie Mulholland Drive, and one of its functions is to bring forth the artificiality of the entertainment industry. What first looks like a recording scene then turns out to be a movie set, and the performance an audition. It shows a reality constructed in layers, and the movie itself is yet another layer, another narrative that is just as much a construction. Even the criticism of values is another narrative, which brings us to an endless cycle of critique. In the end I have grown tired of how futile it starts to feel, when all this talk of narratives only leads to emptiness.

Moreover, the overuse of innocent songs as an ironic contrast to scenes of violence in modern cinema has made me tired of the trick. And yet the “sincere” use of such songs often makes me squirm as well.

As a writer I have a bad habit to examine the structure of the works I am trying to enjoy. If I feel touched, it is tempting to immediately ask: how was this effect achieved? And unfortunately the answer is a realization that I am being manipulated by really simple means that are used over and over again. Certainly when it comes to love songs, the melodies and lyrics tend to choose the tried and true formula. Yet what makes a song different from a text is of course the performance, the emotion that a human voice brings to it, transforming what now would seem like kitsch (and let’s face it, most love songs are kind of musical kitsch) into something heartfelt with which we can identify.

And that is what Connie Stevens brings to the song. She may not be technically a great singer, having been just 21 years old when recording, but performing the song she is being a great actress, and that is why the song is still popular, at least considering it’s more than 60 years old.