We’re getting to that time of year when many of us just want to lock the front door, dim the lights, and sleep the winter away. Oh, sure, there are weirdos who enjoy snow and skiing, cold and crackling fires, who speak of the beauty of untouched snow without ever having to shovel it, but the rest of us suffer, endure. We look back. We look ahead. We rip the glossy wrapping paper from the present and reveal the ugliness beneath: regret, recrimination, sadness, grief. Yet, somehow, we roll out of bed each morning. We stumble and grumble (and grumble some more) through the day, our constant companions—be they spouses, significant others, or furry friends—by our side.
Too, there are those music artists who consistently furnish songs and albums to our life soundtracks. What was it the poet Denise Levertov wrote in “At the ‘Mass Ave Poetry Hawkers’ Reading in the Red Book Cellar”? “And songs from these/beloved strangers, these close friends,/moved in my blind illumined head,/songs of terror, of hopes unknown to me,/terror, dread: songs of knowledge, songs/of their lives wandering/out into oceans.”
Juliana Hatfield has been one of those strangers/friends in my life for decades now. Unlike many of her peers, she’s been remarkably prolific, releasing (if my count is correct) 29 studio albums and six EPs since her days with the Blake Babies in 1987, including a two-album stint with Some Girls, and several one-off collaborations (Frank Smith, Minor Alps, the I Don’t Cares), not to mention an unheralded (but great) live album. Lightning Might Strike is the latest addition, ably putting to catchy melodies the angst many of her older fans, including myself, feel from time to time.
“Fall Apart,” the opening salvo, is a great case in point. It’s the sound of an old friend, albeit one who knows how to craft a cool pop-rock tune, admitting that she tries to suppress the ugliness of the world around her—and, too, within herself: “I don’t exactly remember what happened/I must have pushed it out of my mind/I got good at looking the other way/but I feel things from time to time.” As with the 11 songs that follow, the confession features ample parts harmony, whimsy and insight: “It’s a skill to pretend that nothing horrible ever went down/and here I am falling apart again/I fall apart now and then.”
Juliana told me in a long-ago 20 Questions, “Often, when I say ‘you’ in a song I mean ‘I’…and often, when I say ‘I’ in a song, I mean ‘you.’” Whether these songs are or aren’t about her is beside the point, however; good writers tap into their lives and others to craft stories, poems and songs that resonate beyond the page or record. At one point or another, for instance, most sentient folks have felt—as she articulates in “Long Slow Nervous Breakdown” and “Popsicle”—their hopes melting away, especially this year. “My House Is Not My Dream House” is an admission of another type, with the mice, bugs and leaky roof of her home serving as a daily reminder that she should’ve planned ahead in a more responsible manner. (The same’s true of most of us, I think. No one expects to get old!) “Harmonizing With Myself” finds her rejoicing in the solitude she shares with her animal companions.
“Scratchers,” for its part, digs up an uncomfortable truth: lotteries and scratchers are often seen as the only way to get ahead—even if “ahead” translates, more often than not, to just 10 or 20 bucks. “Constant Companion” is a love song to a furry friend who passed too soon; all animal lovers will identify with it, I’m sure.
The aching “Where Are You Now” finds Juliana pondering what’s become of a onetime paramour; it would have fit well on Beautiful Creature or In Exile Deo, I think. “Strong Too Long” turns the spotlight on the stoics who walk among us, including how they often mask their pain behind bravado and false strength. “Wouldn’t Change Anything,” on the other hand, finds her finding solace from a storm—and a relationship—in a New York City hotel room. “Ashes,” for its part, pays homage to a beloved someone who, from the sounds of it, is buried in her backyard. The album closes with a thematic extension of “This Lonely Love,” “All I’ve Got.” Unlike that How to Walk Away song, which is about loving music, it shares the flip side of the equation— how making music grounds her, essentially.
Juliana handles all guitars, keyboards and percussion, harmonizes with herself throughout, plus plays bass on two and a half tracks; Ed Valauskas plays bass on the rest; and Chris Anzalone thumps the drums. Throughout, she balances a pop mindset with a solid rock undertow—similar to many of her past albums. Fans and fellow travelers, in other words, will find much here not just to enjoy, but think about; she articulates things we feel in our (albeit aching) bones.
Perhaps I got it wrong up top. Yes, we’re getting to that time of year when many of us just want to lock the front door and dim the lights—but, rather than sleep the next many months away, I’d be as happy to lose myself in music old and new, Lightning Might Strike included. It’s a wonderful album.
The Old Grey Cat 
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