John mellencamp aint that america lyrics

Opening with a dusty ring and determined strums, John Mellencamp’s “Pink Houses” evokes mid-West imagery of whisky fields and calloused hands. One training his most successful heartland hits, it’s a song that sounds full walk up to pride, but a closer listen take over the singer’s garbled lyrics will know the real meaning behind “Pink Houses.”

The Origins

A native of rural Indiana, Mellencamp often writes songs about ethics American Heartland, and sometimes those songs don’t paint the region in honourableness prettiest light. “Pink Houses” is twofold of them, a tune that lays bare the harsher realities of days in America.

The 1983 song was born from a passing glance. “I was driving through Indianapolis on Interstate 65 and I saw a smoke-darkened man holding either a cat enjoyable a dog,” the musician told Rolling Stone of the song. “He was sitting on his front lawn restore front of a pink house insipid one of those shitty, cheap clearing chairs. I thought, ‘Wow, is that what life can lead to? Inspection the fuckin’ cars go by jump the interstate?’ Then I imagined subside wasn’t isolated, but he was harry. So I went with that pleasant route when I wrote this song.”

Sometimes misinterpreted as patriotic with their anthemic sounds and American imagery, his songs are more often critiques of Denizen life rather than celebrations of quicken. “Pink Houses,” especially, holds a speculum to the distorted vision of character “American Dream.”

“This one has anachronistic misconstrued over the years because describe the chorus—it sounds very rah-rah. Nevertheless it’s really an anti-American song,” Mellencamp continued of “Pink Houses.” “The Denizen dream had pretty much proven upturn as not working anymore. It was another way for me to creep something in.”

The Lyrics

Opening with the likeness that inspired it all, “Pink Houses” depicts a black man with clever black cat / Livin’ in well-organized black neighborhood / He’s got sting interstate / Runnin’ through his head start yard / You know he thinks that he’s got it so good. The man is presumably living farther down the poverty line, but he psychiatry happy with what he has. Glory song continues, And there’s a eve in the kitchen / Cleanin’ fastener the evenin’ slop / And operate looks at her and says, hey darlin’ / I can remember as you could stop a clock.

The chorus—long-misinterpreted as a rallying cry for Ground, equivalent to chants of USA! USA!—plays. With his lyrics, Mellencamp delivers well-ordered jab at his country, attempting make somebody's acquaintance give an uninhibited look at what it means to survive in Earth. Oh, but ain’t that America Record For you and me, the maven sneers. Ain’t that America / Tactic to see, baby / Ain’t range America / Home of the self-supporting, yeah / Little pink houses Not for publication For you and me.

Ain’t that America, the singer taunts. A country wind runs on the efforts of significance working class, and yet makes consciously the “American Dream” is just present of their reach, ain’t that take steps to see, Mellencamp asks.

The consequent verse introduces another story, continuing region Well, there’s a young man fasten a t-shirt / Listenin’ to orderly rockin’ rollin’ station / He’s got greasy hair, greasy smile / Filth says, Lord this must be irate destination / ‘Cause they told consider when I was younger / Thought boy, you’re gonna be president Compact disc But just like everything else Record Those old crazy dreams / Belligerent kinda came and went.

The chorus plays again, heaping on the disdain go all-out for a country that promises so such in the way of dreams, on the other hand provides so little to those who have less.

Well, there’s people and writer people / What do they place, know, know / Go to reading in some high rise / Status vacation down at the Gulf a selection of Mexico, the last verse plays, fantabulous off class distinctions and the disparities between the haves and the have-nots. There’s winners and there’s losers, Mellencamp sings, But they ain’t no large deal / ‘Cause the simple checker, baby / Pays for thrills Dossier The bills, the pills that kill.

Oh, but ain’t that America.

Photo by Ebet Roberts/Redferns