1972 Don McLean: Vincent

The first of two number ones this decade 'about' painters, whilst Brian & Michael were content to summarise Lowry's life at arms length on 1978's 'Matchstalk Men And Matchstalk Cats And Dogs', Don McLean has rather more empathy with a certain Vincent Van Gogh. Though 'empathy' doesn't come close to describing Don's admiration for the man - on first name terms from the off, McLean has an interchangeable father/son, psychiatrist/patient, critic, lover and confidante relationship with the artist that elevates Van Gogh to an untouchable Christ like figure out to save the world with a pot of paint. It almost makes the listener feel guilty just for being alive; it's all 'our' fault apparently:

"For they could not love you, but still your love was true
and when no hope was left in sight on that starry starry night.
You took your life as lovers often do"

Of course, McLean himself is blameless in all this, he clearly 'could' love Van Gogh and his song maps a definite 'us' and 'them' separation between the tortured artist and the beer swilling Philistines who can't appreciate the way a sensitive soul can:

"But I could have told you Vincent
this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you".

Heaven save us from those who don't know much about art but know what they like eh Don? I'm sure Vincent would have appreciated your shoulder to cry on, but as he lived his life with a passion and intensity I doubt he'd have had too much time for this sentimental, awkward and ultimately hollow thumbnail biography, in much the same way that 'us' listeners don't much care to be patronised by a songwriter intent on creating his own mythos by borrowing somebody else's.

This may have worked to some extent with 'American Pie' (a song I have my own love/hate relationship with), but then he was tapping into a (by 1972) long tradition of rock stars checking out early. It doesn't work quite so well when transposed to Dutch Post-Impressionist artists and though 'Vincent' fair drips with a cloying sincerity, it makes for a dreadfully dreary four minutes. "La tristesse durera toujours" indeed, but McLean would probably shake his head and give me that condescendingly smug look he wears on the cover:

"They would not listen, they're not listening still
perhaps they never will".

Perhaps. But sorry Don, it really doesn't feel like any loss of mine.