Featured Essay: In Memory Far Away - Old 97's Drag it Up

by Joseph Szalinski

The drawn-out twang of Ken Bethea’s guitar rang throughout the cabin of my Dodge Intrepid as a thick cloud of odorous smoke bounced off the windshield. This was my routine. A mini road trip back to campus following a weekend at home, soundtracked by a revolving door of albums that found their way into the car’s CD player. One record made the rotation more often than the others: Drag It Up by Old 97’s. Few opening tracks could perfectly set the mood for my journey north, but the energy and electricity of “Won’t Be Home,” made the drive magical. Plus, the title resonated with me. I was literally leaving home. Headed to the “greener pastures” of undergrad life at Slippery Rock University (SRU), where I was fortunate enough to indulge in all manner of creative pursuits, and shenanigans, while continually growing into myself.

Much like frontman Rhett Miller, I decided to major in creative writing. Developing himself as a lyricist with Old 97’s, he returned to the medium of prose not too long after releasing a solo effort following a series of albums with the alt-country outfit. 2004’s Drag It Up marked the first project the band made together in the wake of Rhett’s growth as an artist. Anytime I came back home, I felt like I experienced something similar. The same dynamics I had been steeped in for years were refreshed with an influence rife with change. 

“Moonlight,” the second song, was perfectly complemented by the night sky that practically swallowed the landscape and then spat it out in segments of road that carried me closer to my destination.

“Borrowed Bride” found me reflecting on relationships and the messiness of love, while “Smokers” rejuvenated my mood with surf-rock-inspired sounds straight out of a spy thriller, beautifully accentuated by drummer Philip Peeble’s relentless rhythm—which my hands mimicked on the bony frame of my steering wheel. Bassist Murry Hammond provided a nice, vocal change-up from the Rhett-dominated songs prior. Unlike previous records, lead guitarist Ken Bethea got a song to show off his singing skills with, “Coahuila,” a goofier song in comparison to the rest of the track list. It was a great song to blast as I succumbed to my stupor and giggled like an absolute lunatic, ravenously devouring whatever delicious snack I packed myself. 

Northwestern Pennsylvania is known for many things, but awful weather is likely at the top of the list. Many drives were made all the more treacherous by a sudden downpour determined to dampen my spirits. However, my mood was buoyed by “Blinding Sheets of Rain,” a slow-paced and relatively sad number featuring beautiful songwriting and haunting sonic elements, such as a pedal steel guitar.  

Staying true to the more intimate sound this record offers in comparison to past releases, “Valium Waltz” provided a harrowing chronicle of addiction that few understood in the early aughts but is now unfortunately familiar for so many. Having witnessed what benzos and similar chemicals are capable of, the song served as a love letter to those afflicted by the disease of addiction, and a warning to me not to get carried away with partying at college. 

Murry’s second chance to depress listeners even further floored me, with a heart wrenching account of isolation within a failed relationship in “In the Satellite Rides a Star.” Life was a little tumultuous for me at that point in time, and while I only grew to relate to the song more and more in the future, it was those drives that I started to understand its depth. 

Speaking of romantic turbulence, “The New Kid” served as a perfect excuse to belt out some music as I bopped to this anthem of passive vengeance while flying down the highway. Dripping with pettiness, this bombastic ode to love’s cyclical fickleness would see me turn to it as therapy in the years that followed.

Conversely, “Bloomington” exuded happiness. It was hard not to smile as the idyllic imagery Rhett painted flashed across my brain, mirrored by the woods and farmland of Butler County. The town of Slippery Rock was a lot like what was being described: sleepy and small, full of wholesome moments people ponder fondly. 

“Adelaide,” my favorite track on the album, left me in awe with its raw simplicity. Although Rhett employed similar lyrical structures in songs elsewhere on the album, they stood out the most here. Not only was it a song I enjoyed listening and singing along to, but it was an invaluable study in songwriting. It inspired me as a lyricist and continues to stand as a song I long to cover someday. 

Another energetic track, “Friends Forever,” ferried me further in my journey that night, helping to cement the importance of creating distance from what once defined me. Oftentimes, we let our hometowns and classmates tell us who we are and how, or if, we matter. I felt limited by my adolescent experiences, and as I ventured into adulthood, I found joy in making my own lane and in realizing a self that had previously been curtailed or denied in favor of appeasing people or fitting in. Yes, I’d always have lifelong friendships from those years, and be influenced by how I grew up, but that song emboldened me to embrace the uncertainty of inventing my own destiny. 

“No Mother,” a tearjerking elegy to a woman’s deceased son, closed out the album as I neared my destination. Even though I wouldn’t directly relate to it until 2020, when my brother Dave’s life was taken, the song still managed to deeply affect me from the moment I heard it five years prior. Some may consider it a downer ending, but I feel it brilliantly speaks to the themes of the record: weariness from the world testing one’s mettle; a reminder that even the most well-intentioned efforts are sometimes doomed to be futile; and despite the challenges life has to offer, we must find enough purpose in the chaos to persevere. Certainly, a lot to mull over in the freshly silent cabin of my car as I puttered from the exit, along windy backcountry roads, back to the inviting arms of campus, sobered by the fortitude of the human spirit.

Joseph Szalinski is a writer/performer/educator from Pittsburgh, PA. He is an alum of Slippery Rock University, having graduated from there in 2017 with degrees in Creative Writing and Language & Literature. His writing has appeared in various lit mags and anthologies. In 2021, he released his debut poetry chapbook, Nondescript Other Such. Aside from writing, Joe acts, makes music, and performs comedy and spoken-word. He regularly posts content to his instagram @poetry_hugger