John Mellencamp's Scarecrow a Haunting Sight To Behold

Back in 1985, John Cougar Mellencamp was just that. The "Cougar" portion had not yet sprung from the cage. The title track of sorts from his "Scarecrow" LP (I say of sorts because the exact title is "Rain On The Scarecrow") is compellingly laid down. There's no song I'd rather flash back to than that one in honor of Build a Scarecrow day. John's heartland loyalties run deep particularly here. Nothing but balls to the wall guitar playing coupled with some downright ferocious drum beats. "Scarecrow on a wooden cross. Blackbird in the barn. 400 empty acres that used to be my farm". Pure poetry aimed right at the sensibilities of the toiling, never completely compensated farmer. You'd be totally wacko not to catch the unavoidable spirit of loss surrounding the song. Loss of the opportunity to hand down the family farm from one generation to the next. Loss of pride in what fertile soil can reap. Even loss of dignity that comes with the gut level fulfillment of tending to such honest work. The skies are ever on the verge of opening up. What comes from them no doubt aren't just standard raindrops, but tears shed over what used to be and what likely will never be. The sound is heavy, not in the Led Zeppelin sense but in the weight of long abiding tradition threatening to become just faded memories cast to the wind. "Smalltown" is more of a valentine to the small town way of life. "R.O.C.K. in the USA" name drops many of the greats of the music world such as Martha Reeves, James Brown, and the Shang-Ri-Las. Those two songs are humble but you don't feel like a box of Kleenex is necessary to get through one listen. "Rain on the Scarecrow" is the sort of number where, after one or two listeners the makers of Kleenex put you on their Xmas card list because you've sent so much lucrative business their way. Haunting to the point of noting unmistakably the dire straits of the carcass of the farm ethic, "Rain on the Scarecrow" demands you keep that umbrella handy. It's raining blood. That last lurch from the drum mirror the sound of the coffin lid being slammed shut. John deals these cards with an iron fist and a still warm core of sentimentality at the epicenter.