“I remember when we were driving, driving in your car.”
I listened to Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” on a CD that my wife burned for me years before we were married, right when we had first started dating. She lived in Richmond, Virginia, and I would drive up from North Carolina to see her. “Fast Car” is a sad song about disappointment in life. The singer’s soaring hopes come crashing down. But being recently in love, I heard only the intoxication of a new relationship.
“Speed so fast, I felt like I was drunk.”
That said, I still recognized the difference between me, a young white dude, and the song’s protagonist, presumably a Black woman like Chapman. So, Luke Combs rubbed me the wrong way with his cover version. There is a fine line between respect for an artist and cultural appropriation.
But Chapman said she “was honored” that her song received acclaim in the country music world. Furthermore, she was “happy for Luke and his success and grateful that new fans have found and embraced ‘Fast Car.’” Those are gracious words.
Then Chapman and Combs highlighted the Grammys with their duet. I don’t think anyone even minded when the camera cut for a few seconds to Taylor Swift. Chapman looked radiant—to quote the song again, like she “belonged,” like she was indeed “someone” special. And Combs bowed to her at the end, a heartfelt tribute.
The morning after their performance, I picked up my guitar and decided to learn the chords. Like a lot of genius music, “Fast Car” is relatively simple. As I was plucking along, I had a feeling of déjà vu. The chords running up on the guitar neck were the same ones I learned to play “Blackbird.”
The blackbird in this famous song may symbolize a spiritual awakening or signify Black people’s strength and beauty during the Civil Rights Movement. Or maybe Paul McCartney wrote it for his stepmother’s elderly mother. There’s no need to pin down a single meaning. Like a diamond, a great song shines each way it is viewed. It can grow brighter in the light of passing time.
Strumming “Fast Car,” I thought about the lyrics describing the protagonist’s dashed hopes. It made me smile to think that her broken wings had learned to fly.
Andrew Taylor-Troutman is the author of “Little Big Moments,” a collection of mini-essays about parenting, and “Tigers, Mice & Strawberries: Poems.” Both titles are available most anywhere books are sold online. Taylor-Troutman lives in Chapel Hill where he serves as pastor of Chapel in the Pines Presbyterian Church and occasionally stumbles upon the wondrous while in search of his next cup of coffee.
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