What’s On The Shelf | Games, Music & Culture

“Broom People” by The Mountain Goats paints a picture of a person with the clarity of an artist holding a brush mid-stroke. The instrumentation is simple and steady, giving the vocals and lyrics room to stand on their own. There’s nowhere to hide here—no wall of sound, no distraction. Just storytelling.

This isn’t going to be a universal Chillers pick. But for me, it hit—hard enough that I kept going back, replaying it, turning over the lyrics to see what they revealed each time. This one’s a bit of a departure from the usual format, because it feels like it deserves a closer look.

I grew up as a child of poverty during the opioid crisis in Rust Belt America. I’ve been incredibly fortunate in how things turned out—through a mix of luck, timing, and opportunities that don’t come to everyone. But this song pulls me straight back to the parts of that life that never really leave you.

And they’re not the good parts.

They’re images of instability. Of promises that didn’t hold. Of responsibilities that weren’t met.

What “Broom People” captures so well is the emotional reality of growing up in that environment. The quiet isolation of it. The way your friends have no real frame of reference, even when they care. The way you build walls—not because you want to, but because letting anyone see behind them feels impossible.

Even the well-meaning adults don’t always land the way they intend. Teachers, counselors—people trying to help—can feel distant at best, intrusive at worst. When you’re in it, there’s a constant undercurrent of embarrassment and shame attached to a life you didn’t choose.

The song doesn’t shy away from where that thinking can go. Not in a direct or graphic way, but in something quieter—and in some ways more unsettling. The idea that maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to just… not be here. Lines about writing down “good reasons to freeze to death” don’t feel like action—they feel like the moment where the door cracks open. Where the thought is allowed to exist.

And once it’s there, it either fades… or it doesn’t.

What keeps pulling the song back from that edge is the presence of someone else. An unnamed figure who becomes the only consistent source of warmth in the entire track. There are flashes of something almost like a love song here—descriptions of her hair, the feeling of being something wild and unguarded in her arms.

Those moments don’t erase everything else. But they matter. They’re grounding. They’re human.

They’re enough to keep coming back.

“Broom People” isn’t the saddest song you’ll ever hear. It’s not even necessarily the most beautiful love song. But what it does, it does with precision—and it lands with a kind of quiet force that sticks with you long after it ends.

This one hits differently.

If you or someone you know is struggling or in crisis, confidential, free 24/7/365 help is available. Call or text 988 or chat at 988lifeline.org.