A Comment on Bonnie Prince Billy’s New Yorker Profile
Is it just me, or does the new New Yorker profile of Will Oldham (aka Bonnie Prince Billy) make him seem like an uptight, vain hippie prick? It wouldn’t be so bad — on the contrary, it’d make him even more interesting — if there was something truly inspiring or compelling about the man to latch onto (insert beard joke). Like, his music. Some of it’s quite good, but how much of it is great? Nyeh.
My favorite excerpt describes the aftermath of a concert Oldham and some buddy of his held in a field.
When the show was over, the crowd dispersed, helped along by an announcement that there was an after-party at a bar in town. (This was true, though perhaps misleading, since none of the performers had any plans to attend.) Parsons passed around some moonshine, and Oldham created a cocktail of his own by mashing some watermelon into a plastic cup of tequila. A young fan was sitting at his feet, rapt. She had come from California, and had brought him some marijuana-infused caramel—”weedamel,” she called it.
It was time to go swimming. Oldham was one of the first people in the lake, and others wanted to know if it was cold. He looked thoughtful. This was not a simple question. “I found it cold, but there are others who are not finding it cold,” he said. “My body temperature dropped right before I went in—the world became cold.” He conjectured that maybe the water felt cold to him only because he was anticipating the cold feeling of getting out of it. He got out and dried off. The group headed back to the cabin. People pawed through a table full of empty potato-chip bags, looking for a bottle that had something in it. It was past three, and some of the revellers were talking about lighting a bonfire. More people left. Some tents appeared in the field. Oldham retreated to his minivan, and by dawn he was gone.
Silly Billy.
