It Is Divine

On the surface, "It Is Divine" seems like Robert Pollard's paean to summers of his youth. "The colorful summer, I still remember the smell of the chlorine, the diving hairline," he sings. Ah yes, summer. The smell of chlorine and the... um... diving hairline? Lost me there, Bob.

That, it seems, is his point. Inspired by one of Mac McCaughan's most straightforward, pretty instrumentals, Pollard eagerly embraces the feeling of sweet melancholy. But with each verse, he offers a twist. Thus the diving hairline. That is followed by the second verse, where the study of plants and hiking of trails morphs into strange echoes, lights and advice from cows. The third verse is just as strange, though more consistently. One can imagine polishing the pearl and opening the tomb, I suppose, but pissing on the hot street like transistor sunman? I cringe at the thought of watching that slide show in the Pollard's basement the subsequent winter.

With each verse, Pollard gets to the point: "It is divine my child, and it only lasts a second." No matter how strange your summer -- Bob, I'm looking at you -- it needs to be cherished, for it is truly divine, and, as any of us for whom childhood summers are an ever-receding memory in the rear view can attest, it does seem to last no more than a second.