Happy 35th Anniversary to John Mellencamp’s eighth studio album Scarecrow, originally released August 5, 1985.
A great joy of my adolescent years was growing up with a group of friends who all shared a passion for music. Whilst each of us might have skewed toward our own genres of choice, we quickly learnt of each other’s new passions when one of us would proudly proclaim, “Oh, you have to listen to this,” as they shoved their last find into your hand. Each week there would be an exchange of records, from 12-inch singles being traded, to albums and CDs being exchanged back and forth. It was a great way to become a fan of an artist with someone you trusted shepherding you along.
This is how I came to discover Scarecrow by John Cougar Mellencamp. In a crowded school hall in between classes, my friend Andre slid me the CD and nodded confidently like a chef serving up a dish he knows you will love. I trusted Andre’s taste in music, so if he recommended it, it would be well worth a listen.
Now I knew of Mellencamp with his rousing Top 40 rockers like “Hurts So Good” and the poignant “Jack and Diane”—the former I didn’t particularly care for, the latter I loved, so it was likely going to be make or break with Scarecrow. As a singer-songwriter, he felt caught between who radio wanted him to be—the “Hurts So Good” bad boy of rock that were a dime a dozen during the ‘80s and the more evolved artist of “Jack and Diane” or “Pink Houses,” someone with something important to say.
He was an artist in transition from Cougar to Mellencamp and Scarecrow was the album through which he truly came into his own. An album where he decided to bet on being the artist he wanted to be, not the one the label would try to cultivate.
And it is a powerful album.
From the opening narrative of generational famers sold out to corporate greed and seasonal change in “Rain On The Scarecrow,” there was a gritty, earthy realism to Mellencamp’s writing. Musically, it’s foreboding, murky bass and guitar lay the bed and the drums pound like impending doom making its way to your door. Reflecting on the plight of farmers, the backbone and lifeblood of a nation and the failing of the American dream, lines like “This land fed a nation / This land made me so proud / Son, I’m just sorry there’s no legacy for you now” hits you in the gut. And there’s no happy ending. There’s no promise of change. It’s just how it is.
This stark, unwavering honesty continues throughout the album, where change is a constant theme, and not always welcomed. “Minutes To Midnight” conveys the urgency of life advice passed down between elder to young buck that doesn’t resonate until age proves its truth, while the rocking strut of “Face Of A Nation” laments the loss or abandonment of founding ideals.
It’s there in the bittersweet moments of “Between A Laugh And A Tear” featuring Rickie Lee Jones on vocals and the momentary punch for hope in the metaphoric “Justice And Independence ‘85” that is still tinged with lament.
As a newly christened teen, the album gripped me in the mix of promise and reflection. It was sorrowful yet joyful. It had grit to it. The ache was palpable, the sense of loss in shifting soil beneath your feet. And it scared me, the notion that hard work and dreams maybe weren’t enough.
A song like “Rumbleseat” filled me with dread even with its catchy chorus and witty lyrics. But there was a sense of comfort in a line like “Am I the only one that feels this way?”—that collective isolation that I identified with and a sense of dusting yourself off and finding moments of joy. It’s also one of the few songs that twists the narrative into one of hope with lines like “Tomorrow is a new day / Gonna make these dreams come true.” That was all I needed.
For how heavy many of the songs' lyrics are, there is a sense of humor present within some songs that might have been easily missed upon initial listens, like in the Stones-esque rock blues of “The Kind Of Fella I Am,” where a confession comes with a smile in the delivery of “I’m a jealous kinda fella and I might fall in love with you.” Or in the jangling “Stand For Something” that calls out moments in pop culture with a degree of titillation before fashioning the Alexander Hamilton quote “You’ve got to stand for something / or you’ll fall for anything” as a rousing call to action.
The album’s breakout hit, “R.O.C.K. in the U.S.A. (A Salute to ‘60s Rock)” that calls out musical heroes gives the album extra oomph with a catchy sing-a-long chorus and shakes with energy. And the bar-rock appeal of “Lonely Ol’ Night” still holds up with its joyous sense of rebellion against loneliness, and is sure to get people singing along while swigging their beers still.
But the shining moment on Scarecrow emerges with the heartfelt, nothing to prove, rock-blues of “Small Town” where Mellencamp relishes the humble small-town upbringing and livelihood of growing up in Seymour and Bloomington, Indiana. There’s a sense of pride on display, but it’s not bluster. It’s confidence that resonates with the idea of being happy and fulfilled wherever you are.
I hadn’t listened to Scarecrow in quite some time before sitting down to draft this retrospective. As I relistened, all the memories came flooding back. Listening to the album in my room, reading the lyrics, feeling that visceral connection to the content. Buying the album myself and wearing it out as I would drum along to it. The black and white sense of Americana it conveyed. Going along to see John Mellencamp live during his The Lonesome Jubilee tour of Australia a few years later.
All these years later, Andre and I are still great friends who still connect over new music. And I‘m still keen to hear what he’s enjoying. And thankful that he hooked me up to this album.
Three-and-a-half decades on, Scarecrow holds up. It holds up well. The no-frills production still packs a punch. It still stirs the emotions, rouses the spirits, and grounds you to the earth. The authenticity remains. What more can you ask for?
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