Remarkable Lyrics: Glenn Tipton, by Sun Kil Moon 🇬🇧

“Glenn Tipton” is a prime example of Mark Kozelek’s nostalgic, intimate, and subtly unsettling songwriting. Known for his work with Sun Kil Moon and Red House Painters, Kozelek crafts melancholic, Americana-infused narratives that blur the line between confession and storytelling.

The song begins with an unexpected inventory of cultural figures—boxers, rock guitarists, and crooners—presented in an almost dispassionate list. The choices seem arbitrary, yet they introduce the idea of personal preferences and how people attach meaning to certain figures.

Even though Judas Priest is a British band, the list itself anchors the song in a distinctly American cultural landscape, setting the tone for what follows.

Cassius Clay was hated

More than Sonny Liston

Some like K.K. Downing

More than Glenn Tipton

Some like Jim Nabors

Some Bobby VintonI like ’em all

This seemingly simple enumeration carries an almost childlike innocence—there’s no argument, no deeper rationale, just an acceptance that everyone has their own tastes. The phrasing is disarmingly neutral, creating a strange intimacy even before the narrator has revealed anything personal.

That changes in the next verse. The narrator describes his nightly routine: alone, with his feet up on the coffee table, staying up late watching classic Hollywood films—movies that his father also used to watch.

I put my feet up

On the coffee table

I stay up late watching cable

I like old movies with Clark Gable

Just like my dad does

With this casual admission, Kozelek transports us into the narrator’s world—a dull, solitary existence, defined by small, repetitive rituals. But then comes a subtle shift, barely noticeable at first.

Just like my dad did

When he was home

Staying up late,

Staying up alone

Just like my dad did

When he was thinking

Oh, how fast the years fly

The first sign of rupture appears in “When he was home.” That single phrase hints at an absence—perhaps a father who worked long hours, was frequently away, or even left the family.

The reason doesn’t matter as much as the emotional weight it carries: the narrator clings to an image of his father as a man retreating into old films, lost in a world he can’t control.

The closing line of the verse—”Oh, how fast the years fly”—is devastating in its simplicity. The narrator echoes his father’s quiet resignation, as if realizing that he, too, has become trapped in a cycle of loneliness and helplessness.

The song, at this stage, feels deeply personal but still relatable—a reflection on time passing, family, and solitude.

As the song progresses, nostalgia gives way to another type of absence—this time, the death of Eleanor. The narrator introduces her with a dry, factual statement, almost as if recounting a local news item.

I know an old woman

Ran a donut shop

She worked late serving cops

The phrasing is striking in its plainness, especially the omission of a relative pronoun between “woman” and “ran,” which gives the sentence a rough, rustic quality.

It’s an archetypal image, instantly recognizable: the elderly woman behind the counter of a diner or donut shop, serving coffee to police officers working the night shift.

It’s a stock character in American storytelling—the working-class, no-nonsense woman who labors tirelessly without fanfare. Then, with almost brutal abruptness, we learn of her death.

Then one morning

Babe, her heart stopped

Place ain’t the same no more

Kozelek resists any melodrama, opting instead for a restrained, understated line: “Place ain’t the same no more.” The phrase is repeated immediately, this time with the added detail that Eleanor was the narrator’s friend.

Place ain’t the same no more

Not without my friend, Eleanor

Place ain’t the same no more

Man, how things change

There’s something almost offhand about “Man, how things change,” as if the narrator didn’t quite know how to articulate his emotions. The awkward phrasing makes the line feel even more sincere.

It’s a simple, gut-level response to the inevitable passage of time. At this point, the song still feels grounded in loss, nostalgia, and loneliness, but nothing yet prepares us for what comes next.

Then, without warning, the song takes a sudden and disturbing turn. Without prelude or justification, the narrator confesses to murder.

I buried my first victim

When I was nineteen

The bluntness of the statement is shocking. There is no explanation, no remorse—just a simple admission, dropped into the song as if it were a casual memory.

One might be tempted to interpret this as a violent metaphor, a poetic way of describing a lost love or a traumatic event. But Kozelek doesn’t allow for that ambiguity.

The stark phrasing, combined with the morbid details that follow, makes it clear that this is meant to be taken literally.

Went through her bedroom

And the pockets of her jeans

And found her letters

That said so many things

That really hurt me bad

The horror of the moment is twofold. First, the realization that the victim was not just an anonymous body but a person with a life, thoughts, and emotions.

Second, the way the narrator reacts—not to the murder itself, but to the contents of the letters. What disturbs him isn’t the crime he committed, but what he learns about his victim after the fact.

I never breathed

Her name again

But I like to dream

About what could have been

I never heard her calls again

But I like to dream

Saying more than what is explicitly stated, never confining meaning—these are the hallmarks of Kozelek’s songwriting. And in “Glenn Tipton,” he delivers a masterclass in how to turn an ordinary ballad into something unforgettable.

The most chilling line here is “I never heard her calls again.” Given the context, “calls” could very well mean her cries for help. And yet, in the same breath, the narrator indulges in romantic fantasies.

At this point, the song’s structure reveals its true brilliance. What began as a seemingly mundane, nostalgic reflection has slowly, imperceptibly, twisted into something deeply unsettling.

Kozelek’s mastery lies in his ability to make these transitions seamless. Small shifts in tense, the understated phrasing, and the casual way crucial details are dropped all contribute to a portrait richer than the narrator himself understands.

Beneath its deceptively simple folk melody, “Glenn Tipton” is a profoundly disturbing work. Every element of American popular culture—cable TV, Cassius Clay, the donut shop—serves as an anchor to a world we recognize, only to be subverted.

What begins as a nostalgic meditation on time and memory slowly becomes a portrait of alienation, emotional detachment, and quiet horror. Kozelek’s genius is in presenting the mundane in a way that makes it feel unfamiliar.