[NOTE: I wrote about the “Fast Car” brouhaha involving the Luke Combs cover version two days ago. That sparked further thoughts – thus, this post.]
The strength of the song “Fast Car” is due in no small part to its lyrics’ powerful evocation of hope, desperation, and despair. Sometimes things just don’t work out, even for those who are doing their best to do what’s right. Sometimes the deck really does seem stacked against them – and that’s true whether the song is sung by a black woman back in 1988 or a country-type white guy in 2023.
Some of the lyrics:
You got a fast car
I want a ticket to anywhere
Maybe we make a deal
Maybe together we can get somewhere
Any place is better
Starting from zero got nothing to lose
Maybe we’ll make something
Me, myself, I got nothing to prove
You got a fast car
I got a plan to get us outta here
I been working at the convenience store
Managed to save just a little bit of money
Won’t have to drive too far
Just ‘cross the border and into the city
You and I can both get jobs
And finally see what it means to be living
By the song’s end, the singer seems trapped, although of course we don’t know the ultimate trajectory of her life. There’s also this lyric:
So I remember when we were driving, driving in your car
Speed so fast it felt like I was drunk
City lights lay out before us
And your arm felt nice wrapped ’round my shoulder…
In America in particular, the car isn’t just a form of transportation. It’s often seen as a way to express oneself, especially for the young, and a means of escape to freedom. Speed is part of this, as is lovemaking – or at least it was back then. The very first kisses, the very first touches, and the very first sex often happened to teenagers in a car.
My second boyfriend, whom I met when I was seventeen, came from a place that was more like the world about which country singer Luke Combs might be singing – rural, depressed, mostly white. It was a world in which the young men all had guns and hunted with them, and they had fast cars or fast motorcycles. At nineteen years of age, my boyfriend had a lot of friends who were already lying in quiet graves, the victims mostly of those fast cars plus alcohol. And the survivors like my boyfriend were already living lives of not-so-quiet desperation.
I had met this boyfriend freshman year at college, and as you might imagine we were a bit of an odd couple. He had somewhat of a Steve McQueen vibe, was smart but troubled, and had earned a scholarship to the far-off college where we’d met. But he didn’t last long there – it was a foreign world to him – and he dropped out just a few months after starting.
He went back to that small town where he’d grown up, and as far as I know he never left. I visited him there briefly a few months after his return home; he’d bought a motorcycle, and we went riding on it. Fast, with my arms wrapped around his waist.
That boyfriend died a long time ago. I know because now and then I’d Google his name, and the only mark he seemed to have made was when he died, because the first sign I ever found of him in all those years was his obituary. It was two sentences long. There didn’t seem to be a family; no wife and children. There was no mention of accomplishments. I don’t know what happened and will never know. But I don’t think it was a happy story.
“Fast Car” makes me think of him.
It also makes me think of another set of lyrics from another great song: Dire Straits’ “Telegraph Road.” It’s a lengthy song that tells some of the story of America’s history. It’s set in Detroit and came out in 1982, a few years before “Fast Car.” Here are the lyrics I’m talking about:
Well, I’d sooner forget, but I remember those nights
Yeah, life was just a bet on a race between the lights
You had your head on my shoulder, you had your hand in my hair
Now you act a little colder like you don’t seem to care
But just believe in me, baby, and I’ll take you away
From out of this darkness and into the day
From these rivers of headlights, these rivers of rain
From the anger that lives on the streets with these names
‘Cause I’ve run every red light on memory lane
I’ve seen desperation explode into flames
And I don’t want to see it again
From all of these signs saying, “Sorry, but we’re closed”
All the way
Down the Telegraph Road
And to put these words I’ve been writing about to the music that goes with them, here’s Tracy Chapman herself singing the original “Fast Car.” She’s got such an evocative voice with that fast vibrato and resonant timbre:
This is Luke Combs’ version, very faithful to the original:
And here’s Mark Knopfler the great, singing about roads, cars, love, and despair in Detroit along Telegraph Road – or anywhere (the part I discussed starts around 7:42, but the whole song is wonderful):
