Justin Vernon’s Birth Date

Someone give me Justin Vernon’s birth date. I have to know if my theory is correct, to wit: all the singer-songwriters I really like are water signs, like myself. I have a friend who’s an air sign. She and I have no musical tastes in common. She likes Jack Johnson; I like Ryan Adams. You get the distinction. Air signs like whatever blows across the surface of things without making a disturbance. They like to stay dry. Water signs like whatever plunges to the emotional and psychological depths. They don’t mind getting wet. I’m a double water sign, which in my case means music = tears. Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve heard something. If it makes me cry once, it’ll get me every time.

Today I watched Bon Iver on Blogotheque again. (Love their quiet little Take Away Shows. So digitally clear and so moving.) I’ve seen #93.4 a bazillion times. Made me cry anyway. Justin’s sitting there with his made-to-order bandmates, looking like nothing so much as a French Canadian woodsman. A friendly, hulking presence in the tidy apartment in Montmartre, his small audience already familiar with his songs. He starts singing “Flume” in that clear falsetto that would seem to belong to someone else and immediately I feel a catch in my throat. Then comes --

Only love is all maroon
Gluey feathers on a flume
Sky is womb and she’s the moon

-- which I take to be in praise of the female anatomy, but that’s just me. Then the band pauses mid-song as each musician goes at his instrument as if trying to unleash every last drop of emotion. The containment has been unbearable; there must be release. They beat and strum until there is release, then gently the song resumes and finishes. And, alas, Queen Bea is spent. But not too spent to watch it again.

Here's #93.4.