I get that everyone else is super excited about Bon Iver’s new album of melancholy love songs, but, buddy, I cannot wait for that creep to get the hell out of Evansville, IN. He milked our town’s relationship drama for a record’s worth of material, and it was exhausting.
When my ex and I broke up in the park, Bon Iver was crouching behind a bush, plucking a guitar, and humming some shit about an astuary king passing through a vertebrae queen without the breeze of love. When he says it like that, the lyrics might as well be, “Jacob Snider is incapable of commitment and will dump you when he gets bored!” What the fuck, man? It was mutual!
And everyone that hangs out at the Peephole is sick of him, too! Bon Iver has been eating fried bologna sandwiches and taking notes in the corner like a fucking psychopath for the last six months. Which also means open mic nights suck now. A Grammy-winning musician wearing a fake mustache over his real mustache basically recites the oral history of our romantic trysts through a vocoder. It’s beautiful and upsetting.
Once, when he went to the bathroom, I looked in his notebook, and that man is unscrupulous. This sad king must be tapping our phones because he’s documented every flirty emoji, late-night DM, and dick pic in Vanderburgh County. I didn’t appreciate accidentally reading who my sister’s been sexting, but it’s nice to know it’s with a decent guy.
And he’s never brought Taylor Swift around—although Aaron Rodgers did come for one horrible weekend. Mr. Football bought a bunch of ditch weed and talked about vaccines with every uncle he saw. It was a boost to the economy, but at what price?
But as embarrassing as it is to have a Shakespearian ghost-lookin’ motherfucker sing about our failed relationships, Evansville should be flattered. Wisconsin could never inspire harrowing songs of emotional disquiet like us. We all knew Justin Vernon would one day be forced to mine Southwest Indiana for its signature ennui.
That said, please don’t come here trying to replicate his success. I hate to admit it, but our dysfunction pairs exceptionally well with Bon Iver’s unique combination of palpable sadness and bespoke instruments.