Major key chords. G to A. Then G to D to A.

And immediately the mood is set. Happy. Carefree. A little nostalgic. It sounds like a reminder of a time that existed somewhere between yesterday and a version of America that perhaps never really existed at all.

The first thing I thought of was “In The City” by Joe Walsh.

It appeared in one of my all-time favourite movies, “The Warriors”, and it has that same feel-good quality. That feeling of being out there in the world, living your day without a worry or care.

Then I started reading comments about the song and somebody mentioned “Jane Says” by Jane’s Addiction from their 1988 album “Nothing’s Shocking”.

I’ve never heard “Jane Says.” I was never a fan of Jane’s Addiction.

So I went to Spotify and pressed play. 160 million-plus streams.

Isn’t that bizarre?

You think you have your finger on the pulse of music and then something like that happens and you realise you don’t.

You really don’t.

The song also could have appeared on almost any Kid Rock record from 2007 onwards, when he moved further into that country, southern-rock, beer-on-the-verandah territory.

The music is uncomplicated. The melody is uncomplicated. The sentiment initially appears uncomplicated.

And then you listen to the words.

Underneath all that sunshine is something considerably more interesting. A small-man-against-the-machine philosophy.

What does success actually buy you? And what does it cost you?

“While money is buying your house / It’s selling your sanity”

Money isn’t simply buying something. It’s selling something back.

Because the price of something isn’t necessarily the number on the receipt.

The real price might be your time. Your attention. Your relationships. Your freedom. Your identity.

We spend an extraordinary amount of our lives being told what winning looks like.

Bigger house. Better car. More money. More followers. More success. More. More. More.

But you don’t get everything.

You choose what you’re willing to sacrifice.

Lane wasn’t standing outside Hollywood throwing rocks at the rich.

He was inside it. He had the records. The fame. The money. The cars. The Hollywood lifestyle.

He had achieved the thing he was questioning and became the somebody who got close enough to the machine to ask whether the machine was actually worth feeding.

“I think that they could learn / A thing or two from me”

There’s a cheekiness to this.

The guy living in Hollywood, underneath the stars, should presumably be looking upward.

Instead, Lane flips the hierarchy.

You’ve got the mansion.

I’ve got something you don’t.

And he doesn’t immediately tell us what that thing is.

The answer arrives gradually.

A girl. A relationship. Shared responsibility. Intimacy. Contentment.

That’s the quiet rebellion running underneath the song.

Don’t automatically accept somebody else’s definition of success.

The culture says, “look at that guy. He’s winning.”

Lane’s answer is, “maybe. But what if I’ve built something he hasn’t?”

Your scoreboard isn’t necessarily my scoreboard.

We spend so much time competing in games we never consciously agreed to play.

“The only thing I’ve ever seen / On a tree was leaves”

It’s so deceptively stupid. And I mean that as a compliment.

“Love grows on trees” is a cliché.

Lane takes the cliché literally and kicks its legs out from underneath it.

Trees don’t grow love. They grow leaves. It’s almost childish. Which is exactly why it works.

Love isn’t an unlimited natural resource. You don’t get to assume it’s always going to be there.

You can’t keep taking it for granted and expect the tree to keep producing.

And that’s interesting in this song.

Because Hollywood is surrounded by things you can buy.

Houses. Cars. Clothes. Status. Access. Experiences.

But the thing that matters most isn’t for sale.

You can’t buy somebody else’s attention. You can’t put a price on having someone beside you who actually gives a shit what’s happening inside your head.

“But unlike the rich we share / What’s in each other’s head”

They share a roof. They share a bed. But most importantly, they share what’s in each other’s head.

The scarce resource is attention. It’s knowing somebody. Being known by somebody.

Having a relationship where the transaction isn’t what can you do for me?

It’s what’s going on in your head?

Money matters. Work matters. A roof matters.

But there is a point where accumulation stops being the same thing as living.

“So far it’s pretty good / Pretty good so far”

After spending the entire song telling us how good his life is, he doesn’t declare victory.

He says:

“Pretty good so far.”

So far. Pretty good.

And then he repeats it.

So far so good. So far so good. So far so good.

It becomes a mantra.

Maybe he’s trying to convince himself. We can’t know what Lane intended.

But knowing what happened to Jani Lane later gives those words an uncomfortable resonance.

Because hindsight changes the way we hear things.

Life is fragile. The things we think are permanent aren’t.

And suddenly so far so good isn’t just a happy ending.

Hollywood tells you to look at the stars. The cars. The houses. The money.

Lane looks sideways. At his girl. At the person beside him. At the person who knows what’s in his head.

Jani Lane became successful writing songs for an industry that was very good at selling the Hollywood fantasy.

Warrant were part of the machine. They sold records. They played arenas. They lived the lifestyle.

And here Lane is, looking at that world and essentially saying, “you can have all of that and still be poor in the places that matter.”

Because this song is about the price of wanting more.

You can spend your whole life accumulating things and still never accumulate a life.

Work hard. Pay the bills. Share a roof. Share a bed. Find someone you can actually talk to.

And if, at the end of the day, you can look around and say, “so far so good.”

Maybe you’ve already won. According to you. And that’s not a bad definition of success.