City Anthems

Portland, OR — the city that cared the most about everything: composting, weird, artisanal, progressive — and still watched Albina be displaced, the TriMet ribbon cut after the neighbors were already gone. An indie-folk shadow anthem for the most earnest city in America, and what earnestness couldn't stop.

New Orleans sings in first person — defiant, grief-saturated, and already knowing: the levees that broke on August 29, 2005 were not surprised by the storm. They had been under-engineered for decades while the Lower 9th Ward sat in the lowest ground. The city holds all of it the only way it knows — brass in the air, gold and silver on, second-line down the street.

Memphis, TN — shadow anthem for the grief-economy of a city made famous by two assassinations and a demolished record label: Elvis's death in August 1977, Dr. King at the Lorraine Motel on April 4, 1968, Stax Records gone by '75, and the blues musicians who built Beale Street now priced off it. Delta blues foundation, Stax-style horns, slow-burn gospel vocal.

Cleveland, OH — shadow anthem for the Cuyahoga River fire of 1969. The city sings in first-person singular, in the driving bar-rock and Hammond soul of its heritage, about the river that burned, the mills that went cold, and the "mistake by the lake" that never quite stopped standing on the shoreline.

Tulsa, OK — shadow anthem for the 1921 Greenwood Massacre. The city sings in first-person plural, in the warm dusty pocket of the Tulsa Sound, about the thirty-five blocks it burned and spent seventy-five years not naming.