Nobody understands it, least of all me:
this is the truth I wish I carried with me.
I'd love to be all in agreement, naturally;
but nobody understands it, least of all me.
Everyone understands it, with the exception of me.
Anyhow, that’s the way I perceive it to be.
The looks in the eyes and the faces all seem smarter than me.
Seems like everyone understands it, with the exception of me.
Sometimes in the name of love, we do things we’re not proud of,
but lately it’s been ever-changing, tranquilizing, liberating.
Under the overhang, I listened to the rain come banging down,
and all the songs that were stuck in my head were finally gone.
Everyone is afraid, especially me.
Things didn’t turn out how they thought they would be.
Today's only partly cloudy, and that’s unsettling, see.
And everyone was astounded, especially me.
I stood in the April lake, so cold that my bones would break,
but I thought, this is the way, just jump so you can swim today...
otherwise, how will you face those moments you don’t want to face,
and get through to the other side, where it’s warmer outside than inside?
Nobody understand it, least of all Mickey.
Look at myself in the mirror...what do I see?
I don’t look sad or happy, but I do look free.
Really, I think that’s all that’s expected of me.
I’m finally understanding, with difficulty,
that nobody understands it, least of all me.
Rebecca Turner's music is a beat-up valise full of Laurel Canyon postcards, filled out with New York citygirl musings and country car-radio anthems. Her novelistic folk-rock is full of vivid imagery, happy/sad chords and unusual melodies that delight.