Jeff Tweedy Presaging Trump Voters on No Depression...Plus the Tubs, Dead Gowns, and an Actual Trump Album

After two special edition posts, we’re going to put the 3Albums back into the 3Albums6OldGuys, and with three very meaningful ones for us: two albums that are at the top of our lists this year and one of the defining albums of our lives. Perhaps it’s a bit click-bait-y to try to connect Uncle Tupelo, and especially its bass player Jeff Tweedy (of Wilco fame), to Trump, though we are not the first to do so (though the main pieces on this topic are all from Trump 1). And for good measure (or bad measure, as the case may be), we add in a “we listen so you don’t have to” piece about an actual Trump (Lara, in this case) making music. This is admittedly a very long piece, but we believe one of the better ones from us. Enjoy.

New-ish album (and album from a recent/upcoming show): Cotton Crown by The Tubs. The debut album by this Welsh jangle-pop band, Dead Meat, was one of my favorites of 2023. Back then, I noted all of their ‘80s influences, from The Smiths to Pylon to The Feelies to R.E.M. I also expressed a desire for two things from the Tubs: another album (of course), and the opportunity to see the band live. Here in 2025, we get both. Back in March, The Tubs released their second album, Cotton Crown. And now The Tubs are touring North America for the first time, opening for The Wedding Present, who are touring for the 35^th anniversary of their second album, Bizarro. The Tubs and The Wedding Present played DC’s Black Cat on May 22.

First, a note about the show. While both bands played terrific sets, we’re here to mainly focus on The Tubs. Their fantastic 35-minute opening set was brisk, energetic, lively, and fun. The band was loose, relaxed, and had an easy rapport with the crowd, with drummer Taylor Stewart’s smart-ass sense of humor being their secret weapon. The Tubs played a blistering set filled with a selection of songs from their two albums along with a new track, and closed with “Wretched Lie,” one of the many standouts off of Dead Meat.

One other thing I have to add regarding the show. DC, you made me proud that night. The Black Cat wasn’t sold out (maybe half full? two thirds?), but the people who made it to 14^th Street were into it. Anyone who came to this show for The Wedding Present but was unfamiliar with The Tubs became fans of the latter by the end of their set, as evidenced by the crowd’s overwhelmingly positive response during the show and their rush to the merch table immediately after (which may or may not have been aided by Stewart’s extremely funny time-sensitive hard sell between songs). I was equally impressed by the wide age range of people fully engrossed by The Wedding Present’s amazing set. Maybe there’s hope for us after all (seriously – seeing people who weren’t born when Bizarro was released lose their minds at the opening chords of “Brassneck” and during extended bursts of the high-speed, high-pitched chugga-chugga of David Gedge’s guitar warmed my heart). If nothing else, we definitely had more fun than those losers who were listening to Jake Tapper and Alex Thompson talk about their Biden book at the 9:30 Club on the same night.

Moving on to the new album, I’m pleased to report that Cotton Crown builds on what The Tubs started with Dead Meat. Singer/songwriter/guitarist Owen Williams is still clearly influenced by the IRS Records playbook, and I mean this as a compliment. The Tubs utilize a stripped down dual guitar-bass-drum sound. On this new album, Williams takes the band’s folky jangle-pop from the first record and doesn’t change it as much as he amplifies it, doing even more with the same (or less). The music is still upbeat with lyrics that can be deceptively dark. While Williams maintains a Richard Thompson vibe for most of Cotton Crown, the guitars occasionally get more aggressive than on The Tubs’ debut. Cotton Crown doesn’t go full Black Sheets of Rain, but it’s inching in that direction.

In interviews, the band has acknowledged that much of the album deals with the suicide of Williams’ mother, who is also featured on the album cover. Album closer “Strange” addresses this topic directly (“Sometimes when everyone’s high / They ask me what it’s like, if I’m alright / I say it makes me more interesting / Then we laugh and it’s all fine”) and even goes further by merging the matter-of-fact aspects of dealing with grief into the creative process (“At the wake, someone took my arm / Said that you could write a song to honour your mum / Said the band could write a song / A song about this / Well, whoever the hell you are / I’m sorry, I guess this is it”).

Other tracks, however, channel these thoughts into ruminations on self-loathing or failed relationships. “Chain Reaction” is the most aggressive, driving track on the album, and the music is in sync with how Williams beats himself up lyrically on this song (“I am a scammer in the world of love / I take it all and I won’t give it / I’m the mould on the bathroom floor”). As the band hammers away on “Chain Reaction,” Williams repeats, “I do it to myself.” “Freak Mode” is almost a lyrical prelude to “Chain Reaction” in which the central idea is “Yeah, I’m not myself / Haven’t been him for weeks.”

The introspective lyrics of “Illusion” (“Sometimes I can’t see myself when I look into the mirror”) are offset by churning chords and a pounding rhythm section, along with call-and-response pub-rock harmonies reminiscent of the original Joe Jackson Band. “Narcissist” is as Smiths as it gets, with the Johnny Marr-style guitars and the Morrissey-style lyrics (“Sick of the vibe in my room / Sick of all the flowers in bloom”).

“Embarrassing” also showcases the band’s ability to convey dark themes under rocking power chords, with lyrics about self-destruction and a damaged relationship (“Drank a lot of what I know is beer / So I call, wondering if you’re gonna come down / Yeah I know just what you’ll say / You’ll be vague, you’ll be looking for a way out”). Similarly, “Fair Enough” makes its message plain in the opening lines (“Know I’ve been an arsehole baby / Know I’ve been such a pain”).

It's a testament to The Tubs’ collective musicianship and songwriting that, despite the dark underlying messages, Cotton Crown is an enjoyable listening experience that has warranted multiple replays since its release. I’ve been talking up this band for the past few years, and I’m glad my faith has been rewarded. Cotton Crown proves that Dead Meat was not a one-off indie year-end best-of darling from a band never to be heard from again. The Tubs appear to have staying power, and their stripped down formula proves that sometimes less really is more.

Before the show, I was talking to The Tubs’ merch guy. He told me that the band will be back in DC later this year. It’s a given that I’ll be there, and it’s a safe bet that a good number of people who just discovered them at the Black Cat will too. The Tubs are a great live band, and as with their albums, you want to come back for another listen. (Brian)

New-ish album (and album from a recent/upcoming show): It's Summer, I Love You, and I'm Surrounded by Snow by Dead Gowns. Questioning and waiting. When you are asking questions and waiting for answers, and especially when you are waiting for someone else to come through, there is a quiet tension that builds. How quickly do you push? When have you had enough? Is it more effective to be loud and demanding, or more subtly pushing towards resolution? What do you do when it feels like a summer of love, yet you have to admit the sense that there is cold all around you?

That dynamic feels at the heart of the gorgeous album from Portland’s (Maine, that is) Dead Gowns, which I mentioned in an earlier post but has slowly developed into one of my favorites of 2025. And when the band played in DC recently opening for the indefatigable Califone, they took the dynamic in a different direction with a stripped-down version of the band (just lead singer Genevieve Beaudoin and multi-instrument Luke Kalloch), evoking a more stark but somehow lusher version of the sentiments on the record and the band’s earlier work. At times, I will say I wanted the lusher arrangements with a full band in the live setting, but that only brought home how powerful the album is.

The album opens with “How Can I,” a perfect encapsulation of that tension of waiting and wondering. Beaudoin sings gently over a gorgeous acoustic guitar, “Every time I say/I’ll do it in the morning/the alarm goes off/And I don’t do it in the morning/”It’s hard to stay in touch with you.” As her questions about this relationship and where it might go, and what control she should take over it build, the full band comes in at about the 2-minute mark. The emotion in Beaudoin’s voice takes over but also gives way to powerful drums and a soaring guitar riff. And a repeated question - “How Can I?” That question will stay with us throughout, paired (though in an unspoken way), at times with “How Can You?” I did miss the full power of the band when hearing the song live, but it only helped to hold the tension of the lyrics that much closer to the surface.

On “Wet Dog,” the range of Beaudoin’s voice comes through - somehow hitting everyone from Paula Frazer to Margaret Glaspy to Cat Power to Julien Baker to Julia Jacklin and even Adrienne Lenker at times - in a lush and driving song where she’s working through frustrations, brilliantly juxtaposing the confusing trajectory of a relationship with an outing: “After all/it’s all for nothing/You keep turning ‘round, but I’m still counting/The steps from where we parked/The steps from where we are and what we thought we wanted.” Does she catch up, or stay back to recognize that she’s a “wet dog who doesn’t like fireworks?” The way Beaudoin’s vocals seem to wrap around the instruments, alternating pitch and volume, gets even deeper into the tension and reveals what a powerful instrument her voice can be. “Kid 1” continues the dynamic between waiting and questioning life’s directions, looking back as you know you have to keep moving ahead, with a song still rooted in a big and powerful blues sound. “I’m starting to feel/how foolish I’ve been/as if it out slips and goes/all the life to live in/let me be that kid.”

But the standout track comes in the middle, “Bad Habit.” which comes closest in feel to early catalog Big Thief. The song opens with a fuzzy yet contained garage-y guitar and bass line undergirded by a steady, if somewhat muted, drum beat. “Drop your shoulders/relax your chin/take a breath/do it again and again/and I know what you want/and you can’t have it/it’s a bad habit.” That tension hits hard - do we do what we know is bad for us, even if it feels right? — or do we recognize that it’s wrong and will leave us worse off, so it’s best to wait? — and Beaudoin’s vocals soar precisely when she gets to the phrase “it’s a bad habit,” as if she’s trying to remind herself of that truth by being ever that much louder and stronger.

The album’s closing tracks are quieter, and in my view, don’t quite deliver the full range of power, dynamic, and emotions like the first half, though “Maladie” is a standout for the way Beaudoin integrates French lyrics. Even with that slight quibble, if only driven by a desire to revel in the way the band fills in the gaps in the tensions she paints, it’s clear Genevieve and the full Dead Gowns project have a lot to pull from the classic tension of loud and quiet, questions and decision, summer and snow. (Brad)

Album being rediscovered (at least 10 years old):  No Depression by Uncle Tupelo.  “Give me back that year, good or bad/Give me back something that I never knew I had.” 

Did Uncle Tupelo presage Donald Trump? Or even if not presage Trump himself, did Uncle Tupelo capture the essence of one segment of Trump voters? Provide a window into the hearts and minds of folks that many non-Trump voters still say they need to get to know? An elegy of the non-hillbilly variety? 

Okay, I admit that feels like a click-bait rock critic “thinkpiece” intro if ever there was one (And if you have clicked for such a piece, well, I will say I did think a lot about it). As noted at the top, I am not the first person to make this connection, but the other pieces came before/during the first Trump Administration and, understandably, focused more on lead singer and songwriter in the band, Jay Farrar. To me, it turns out, it was Jeff Tweedy who had his finger more on the pulse of the mix of fatalist gloom and eternal, if contradictory, hope that seemingly underlies the blue collar Trump voter, angry at a system that has left them behind (or really never included them in the first place) but who believes somehow can still work out for them. Or who maybe just wants to see the other side feel the pain they have been suffering with and medicating (largely with alcohol on this album). 

If you will indulge me a bit before I dive in, let me start by saying this album changed my life. In April of 1991, I sat at my Brother^TM word processor desperately trying to finish a paper. It was about Qaddafi’s Green Book, I think. I was lost. Worn out and brain dead. Maybe a little hungover? Ready for the semester to be over and to get out of St. Louis and back home to suburban Philadelphia. I was a classic rock kid, through and through, with some metal and a smattering of punk and hip-hop. But when I needed inspiration, it was Jethro Tull, Yes, Zeppelin, or Pink Floyd I had always grabbed for, and frankly, none of them were grabbing back in that moment.  

And then I borrowed No Depression from my friend Jeff, who was the guy who knew everything about everything. Especially music. Did he tell me to listen to it, or did I just see it on his shelf while procrastinating — no doubt intrigued by the fact that a beer bottle is the only thing in focus on the cover photo — and borrow it? Whatever happened, somehow I had it, and it was in my CD player. 

Then the opening riff began, a mix of electric and acoustic guitars. A distinct bass line that reaches out to shake you. I stopped. Or, more accurately, I started.  “Hometown same town blues/same old walls closing in/What a life, a mess can be/I’m sitting here thinking of you/won’t you give your thoughts to me.” Then the band, especially drummer Mike Heidorn, erupts. I was transfixed. “Some say a land of paradise/some say land of pain/Well, which side are you looking from/some have it all/and some, all to gain.” 

My memory is of experiencing a lightning bolt. It still feels that way. There’s a reason the core magazine of the genre is called No Depression. I worked through the night to get the paper done (it was actually pretty good, as I recall), hitting repeat every time album closer “John Hardy” ended.  

The album has never really left my side, and it opened up multiple worlds of musical exploration. And those explorations took me in life directions I may not otherwise have followed - hence, life-changing.

But until recently, I have always been a Jay guy, in the battle of Jeff Tweedy (who would go on to form Wilco and become a sought-after producer and collaborator after the band’s demise) vs Jay Farrar (who somewhat infamously drove that demise, at least in part, because of an aversion to getting too big, and went on to form Son Volt, a lane he has very much stayed in), as the two main figures in the band. Every bit the debate that Paul vs John is for hardcore Beatles fans (John is the correct answer). So after Brian mentioned Tupelo in his Fust post, I put the record back on again, and for one of the only times ever for me, it was all of Jeff’s songs that stood out. 

And the thing that struck me on a deeper level than ever before is the way the mix of anger, frustration, boredom, hopelessness, combined with optimism, kindness, and, yes, even a sense of what greatness could mean comes together in the album and reflects the conversations I’ve had, at least, with people who have voted for Trump in an interest in tearing down a system that never worked for them, if only to feel like they might have a shot in the wreckage. Or at least think they will have been seen.

Uncle Tupelo is known for merging country and punk. But the core ethos of old school punk is to be angry and criticize; it’s a screed against what’s around you - your family, your school, your local world - and society at large. Punk is rarely a genre where “human interest" stories are told, especially the kind of 70s and 80s punk that would have been spinning in Jay and Jeff’s Belleville, IL bedrooms. There’s a point to make, and you make it; punk is a black and white genre rather than gray. Sure, personal details may come in, but that’s not the focus, and there is less empathy than energy. After all, punk was a response to the bloated rock music of the 70s (the same music that had stopped working for me when I had writer’s block in my dorm room), which was creating multi-part tales connected to mythical characters or creating symbolism from nature and space. As the 70s ground to a close, the world was way grittier than any of these bands reflected. Play your instruments loud (even if you don’t know how, exactly), call out the problems, and move on; little time for stories and even less for optimism. 

Country music often feels the opposite, by which I mean not angry or critical enough. There’s frequently an inherent sadness and core human understanding somewhere, possibly even overtly driving the song, but, too often, the emotions stay at the surface. Perhaps overly reflective of the idea that men (and for the most part, classic country is male) are not supposed to be getting too in depth emotionally or belying anything other than pride and bravado, even if they need to drown their pain with a beer, whiskey, or worse. Country music tells the stories that punk doesn’t, and often about characters that mainstream rock would not dare to consider, but we rarely get below their emotional wall or find an entry point to feel any real empathy. “Three chords and the truth,” as the Harlan Howard saying goes, may be apt, but it also doesn’t always leave a lot of room for depth or contradiction.

Uncle Tupelo was not the first band to blend the sounds of country and punk, nor were they the first to take either genre in a new direction. But Farrar and Tweedy found a way inside the emotional hearts of the people they were observing in a way that was truly unique and quite clearly Midwestern, all of which was especially remarkable given they were just in their early 20s when No Depression was recorded. Belleville, in addition to being the home of tennis legend Jimmy Connors, was the classic case of a coal mining and manufacturing town that developed in the 19th century, boomed in the first two-thirds of the 20th century (apparently once “the stove capital of the world” and home of the company that became Jelly Belly), and then fell on hard times, with no real sense of what came next. 

Farrar told stories that made clear he was bothered by, but still empathized with, what he saw around him as the town struggled, though he also sang in a way that made clear he remained depressed (notwithstanding the title of the record). What stands out now is that Tweedy told stories and was similarly concerned, and maybe also depressed at times, but he also found ways to acknowledge that life wasn’t entirely doom and gloom, both in his words and his vocal style. 

There was a steadfast joy and hope, as in the acoustic and drumless (Jay’s harmonica playing that follows the acoustic guitar opening somehow provides what otherwise might have been missing) but still powerful “Screen Door,” which helps end No Depression on more of an upbeat note: “Down here, where we're at/Sweat drips from the tip of your nose/You wear loose clothes, and you try to stay cool/We all still have a lot of fun, never saw much school. And as he continues in the chorus: ”Down here, where we're at/Everybody is equally poor/Down here, we don't care/We don't care what happens/Outside the screen door.” In addition to that sense of fun that Jeff clings to, there’s a community, a bond, an “us against the world” vibe, from the point of view of people that outsiders would likely assume want to leave the “us” and join the rest of the world. Not so fast, it turns out. And when a candidate like Trump comes along and tells them that things will be better precisely if they just stay put and fight back against the world to get back to the times that came before, you can clearly understand the appeal.

Consider “Flatness,” channeling not only the geography of the land but the trajectory of life for most everyone in the universe Jay and Jeff knew. In the verse, Jeff recognizes that the world beyond Belleville is hardly worth paying attention to or at all relevant for them:  “You lie on that couch/And try to dream once more/But your only goal is to sleep/Until the news is over.” But yet in the chorus, he can’t decide if he’s hopeless or not: “And I've lost all hope/There’s hope for you/If not just in the possibility/Of a better next day/If not just in the simple fact/There’s no other way." As he closes the song, with the swirl of the instruments just that much louder: “So open up those curtains/And drink up the daylight/Just by the brightness/Open your door wide/‘Cause things don't get better/But some people do/There's darkness in this life/But the brighter side we also may view.” And isn’t that what Trump tries to play on? It’s the other guys’ fault that you’ve experienced darkness and hopelessness; so, just put on your red cap, and you’ll find the brighter side. This is not to say that anyone really believes it will be that easy, but when the system has indeed failed you for so long, what else have you got to lose?

In “Train,” the song that shows off Jeff’s bass playing as dominantly as his songwriting, as well as a powerful multi-part track that begins with a slow, booming, if almost ominous intro and then a fast-galloping verse, Jeff hits the feeling that comes through most clearly on the whole record: “The whole damn town was sleeping/Dreaming the same dream.” This is a place where people acknowledge, but also feel uneasy about, the sameness - of ideas, of goals, of fates. In the song, the fate Jeff sees is ending up in Iraq in the first Gulf War, as a long train carrying army trucks and tanks goes past: “I'm twenty-one, and I'm scared as hell/I quit school, I'm healthy as a horse/Because of all that I'll be the first one to die in a war.” With few other economic outlets, where else to go but the army? Such prospects are the perfect recipe for a Trump approach that promises massive change that might just disrupt things enough to make a difference for you. Wave the flag, cheer on our strength, even if it means you might be the one in the firing line. And if it doesn’t work out? Jeff answers in the song: “Guess I have no right to say/We all die anyway.”

This revisit began with a quote from “That Year,” which appears as the second track (the other three Jeff songs come in the album’s second half). The line “give me back something that I never knew I had” really does feel like it captures MAGA’s essence, as many of us have spent the last ten years asking things like “when do you think America was great? And who was it great for? What would it mean to be great again” The answers are elusive, usually, because the memories aren’t real; they come from those “same dreams” that everyone in the town was dreaming. But they are necessary if you’re going to maintain hope or find a way to keep going. For people in a town like Belleville, where there was an actual memory of “greatness,” even if distant, it’s an understandable appeal, and one that Jeff Tweedy saw decades before it became our dominant political reality (as OG Brian reminded me, Jeff would go on to do this again, with Wilco’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, completed in early 2001, presaging much of what would come in a post-9/11 world).

With a newfound respect for Jeff’s contributions as a songwriter and quasi-political analyst, I still need to end with a Jay song, “Life Worth Livin’,” (though Jeff’s backing vocals during the chorus still stand out for their simplicity and power), as it is where the album comes most clearly to point to the future Trump voter: 

“We've all had our ups and downs/It's been mostly down around here/Now this whole damn mess/Is becoming quite clear/Looks like we're all looking for/A life worth livin'/That's why we drink ourselves to sleep/Yeah, we're all looking for/A life worth livin'/That's why we pray/For our souls to keep.”

In the end, I very much believe that Trump has and will continue to make the world a worse place for just about everyone other than his family and the people around them. But he has understood well the idea that people, especially where it’s “been mostly down,” need a loud, visceral, in-your-face sense that an “up” might come. Maybe it will, and maybe it won’t. But it’s the promise that we might be great again that carries the day; whether we are or not is somewhat besides the point. We just want to be seen and heard. As Jay sings on “Factory Belt:” “Don't want to go to the grave without a sound.” 

Here’s to hoping we find better, if much more understanding and caring, sounds to make than what we hear from President Trump, and albums that are as searing, honest, and resonant as No Depression to guide us through this chapter of our history and into an actually great next one. (Brad)

Bonus Feature – The 6OGs Listen So You Don’t Have To: The “Discography” of Lara Trump. Sweet motherfucking shit, I didn’t think it was real. Perusing social media (my first mistake), I learned that Lara Trump – ex-RNC co-chair, current Fox News host, and of course spouse of legendary disappointment Eric Trump – is releasing an album in July called “Just Lara.” At first, I simply thought this was the worst idea since Don Johnson’s “Heartbeat” or William Shatner’s cover of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.” But no! It turns out that Lara Trump has actually released recorded music out into the world before now. So because I either truly hate myself or I have bizarre fascination with the oddities of pop culture (or, more likely, both) I did a full deep dive into Lara Trump’s discography prior to the audio car crash that I expect “Just Lara” to be. Don’t worry, we’re only talking six songs here, but that’s already six songs too many.

Lara’s musical journey started in 2023 with a cover of Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down.” A bold choice, considering Petty’s family in 2020 famously sent the Trump campaign a cease and desist letter to prevent the song’s use at rallies. On top of being an affront to Petty’s legacy, she absolutely butchers the song. Her singing voice is completely monotone, like someone singing karaoke before the booze has kicked in. And musically, the cover seems to create a new genre called “milquetoast country.” She also released a piano-only acoustic cover, which sounds like a cringy open-mic night at the local coffee shop and serves as the musical equivalent of the Simpsons’ “stop, he’s already dead” meme.

Next up – 2024’s “Anything is Possible,” a sort-of-country, extremely bland pop song, once again with vocals that sound like she is singing against her will, ostensibly about achieving any goal but reading between the lines is really about poor little Lara rising above her enemies. Lyrically it’s like one of those “hang in there” motivational posters but with incomprehensible references to a “little girl riding on the Pegasus” and living a “hurricane life.” “Hero” is a duet with someone named Madeline Jaymes, an ode to first responders with lyrics so obvious they make Toby Keith sound like Stephen Malkmus. And Jaymes’ ability to actually sing just highlights how out of her depth Trump is. The addition of auto-tune proves that it can’t work miracles. I’d feel embarrassed for her if I wasn’t so repulsed.

Can you believe we still have three more songs to go and we still haven’t hit the low point?

We actually reach the nadir later in 2024 with “Colors Don’t Run.” It’s worse than it sounds. This song(?) with country rap duo Moonshine Bandits is batshit nuts. The opening lines set the tone – “Don’t let em take / No more of our freedoms from us every day / They wanna come into our homes / And take our guns and faith away.” A lot of references to “they” – being insane, lying, not getting the message, wanting the singer/rapper’s liberty and land. You know, normal stuff. The saving grace is that Lara is heavily auto-tuned, barely audible over what passes for music, and given very little to do. I’ll at least give the Moonshine Bandits credit for advocating responsible gun ownership (nah, I’m messing with you, check this lyric out: “Bible by my pistol, pistol by my whiskey”; what could go wrong?). Also the cover art for the single is an American flag made of red, white and blue bullets. I could do a whole post analyzing the lyrics to “Colors Don’t Run,” but I’ll spare you.

2025 – the year Lara thinks she goes full pop. “No Days Off” is electro-pop with her voice heavily auto-tuned yet still lacking any vocal range, now sounding like a female version of the robot from Lost in Space (come for the music analysis, stay for the dated references). “No Days Off” features a figuratively and possibly literally phoned-in guest verse by rapper French Montana. (Fun side note: when I tried to Google “French Montana,” the SEO-challenged rapper was superseded on the drop-down list by French fries, French bulldog, French toast, and the TV actor French Stewart.)

Which brings us to “Back to Believing,” the first single from her upcoming album in which AI-modified Lara advises the listener, “When life knocks you down, don’t stay on the ground.” I know, I feel inspired too. I’m sure her goal is to be quoted in homeschool yearbooks by skinny blond MAGA girls nationwide.

The best part of this exercise was being reassured that I am not nearly as online as I could be. Lots and lots of people have been making fun of Lara Trump’s attempt at a music career since her Tom Petty cover in 2023, and I really did just learn about this. Never let it be said that I refuse to sacrifice my sanity for our readers, who can now continue avoiding Lara Trump’s music. The colors may not run, but at least your ears don’t have to bleed. (Brian)