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Note the Second: Spoilers ahead!
I finished Brian Reed's new podcast, S-Town, on only the second day after its release, and I found it absolutely remarkable. It was, as Sarah Koenig of Serial promised, at times beautiful, at times stunning, filled with unexpected twists and turns. Ira Glass said it feels more like a novel than a true crime podcast, and I guess it is. I found myself missing these characters, wondering about their real lives, putting myself into their shoes. Days later, I can't put it out of my mind. The final image, of young and newly married Mary Grace Brooks McLemore sitting in the Alabama soil, rubbing her belly, and praying that her child would be a genius, will likely be burned into my memory forever.
Interestingly, there has been some controversy in recent days concerning the release of the podcast, particularly as it relates to certain details of the life of John B. McLemore himself. Some pundits have gone so far as to say the podcast shouldn't have been made, that it was exploitative, as it exposed details about John's sexuality, possible partners, and his proclivity, toward the end of his life, for tattooing and piercing. I cannot speak for John, but I can disagree with those folks. And I choose to disagree on the grounds that I, like John, can be myself in two (or maybe more) seemingly contradictory ways.
if you've been following my previous posts here on A Lowlander's Renaissance, you're aware of my multitudinous identity. I was born and raised in the rural South, yet I'm a progressive in mindset and political leanings; I was raised an evangelical Christian but have gravitated toward the liturgical, etc. I've written a post or two (or several) about my feeling that people from the rural South, such as myself, are unfairly pigeon-holed as ignorant or bigoted or uneducated or all three, and more to boot. But that's not my experience at all, and I don't think it was John's either.
John B saw himself as a citizen of the world. But he was born and lived and died on a 124 acre plot in Woodstock, Alabama. He was a Southerner for sure. His accent was enough to give that away. And he also seemed to have a love of the land, or at least of his own little corner of it. His rants against "Sh** Town" always seemed, to me, at least, to be more about particular people he was having conflicts with rather than an indictment of the south in general, but perhaps I'm connecting it too strongly to my own experiences.
At any rate, my understanding of John is that he wanted stories to be told. He might not have expected that his story would be the one that would reach and touch so many people, but it has. And the lesson we can take from S-Town is that we are all complex and fascinating people, if one only takes the time to look. Yes, even in the South. So I'm thankful Brian Reed took us on this journey. And it may not be too long before I return to the podcast version of 2014 Woodstock, AL, when John B McLemore wasn't yet a memory, but was a man with a clock shop, a hedge maze, and a mother who had, so long ago, prayed for a genius.
Note the Second: Spoilers ahead!
I finished Brian Reed's new podcast, S-Town, on only the second day after its release, and I found it absolutely remarkable. It was, as Sarah Koenig of Serial promised, at times beautiful, at times stunning, filled with unexpected twists and turns. Ira Glass said it feels more like a novel than a true crime podcast, and I guess it is. I found myself missing these characters, wondering about their real lives, putting myself into their shoes. Days later, I can't put it out of my mind. The final image, of young and newly married Mary Grace Brooks McLemore sitting in the Alabama soil, rubbing her belly, and praying that her child would be a genius, will likely be burned into my memory forever.
Interestingly, there has been some controversy in recent days concerning the release of the podcast, particularly as it relates to certain details of the life of John B. McLemore himself. Some pundits have gone so far as to say the podcast shouldn't have been made, that it was exploitative, as it exposed details about John's sexuality, possible partners, and his proclivity, toward the end of his life, for tattooing and piercing. I cannot speak for John, but I can disagree with those folks. And I choose to disagree on the grounds that I, like John, can be myself in two (or maybe more) seemingly contradictory ways.
if you've been following my previous posts here on A Lowlander's Renaissance, you're aware of my multitudinous identity. I was born and raised in the rural South, yet I'm a progressive in mindset and political leanings; I was raised an evangelical Christian but have gravitated toward the liturgical, etc. I've written a post or two (or several) about my feeling that people from the rural South, such as myself, are unfairly pigeon-holed as ignorant or bigoted or uneducated or all three, and more to boot. But that's not my experience at all, and I don't think it was John's either.
John B saw himself as a citizen of the world. But he was born and lived and died on a 124 acre plot in Woodstock, Alabama. He was a Southerner for sure. His accent was enough to give that away. And he also seemed to have a love of the land, or at least of his own little corner of it. His rants against "Sh** Town" always seemed, to me, at least, to be more about particular people he was having conflicts with rather than an indictment of the south in general, but perhaps I'm connecting it too strongly to my own experiences.
At any rate, my understanding of John is that he wanted stories to be told. He might not have expected that his story would be the one that would reach and touch so many people, but it has. And the lesson we can take from S-Town is that we are all complex and fascinating people, if one only takes the time to look. Yes, even in the South. So I'm thankful Brian Reed took us on this journey. And it may not be too long before I return to the podcast version of 2014 Woodstock, AL, when John B McLemore wasn't yet a memory, but was a man with a clock shop, a hedge maze, and a mother who had, so long ago, prayed for a genius.
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