A Balloonist's Lesson in Romanticism

11 Jul, 2026

"The Balloonist" was written in the latter days of 2012. This would have been right around the time I was discovering Mark Knopfler. Knopfler, in particular his post-Dire Straits work, is incredibly adept at building quiet stories around quiet characters and making them land in fun, meaningful, and unexpected ways.

A song like "Secondary Waltz"  tells the story of a grade school class learning to waltz with a crazy instructor ("McIntyre's out of the army/you'll be slippered if you get it wrong"). It builds a funny, touching scene of a bunch of awkward grade schoolers trying to learn this skill under constant pressure from this nutjob while also navigating the ultimate anxiety jump: "This time we're gonna' do it with girls," our poor narrator sings. 

The story unfolds over several verses without any sign that we are going to leave that gymnasium; we think this funny story of mild childhood trauma is the story. That is until the final section comes out of nowhere:

When you come to my fights
And I'm under the lights
And you see that my footwork is false
Don't count me out at the start of the bout
I'm just doing the secondary waltz
Doing the secondary waltz

The story isn't just about kids waltzing in a gymnasium; the story is about a boxer with this quirky event buried deep in his past. When you see him before his fight looking like an idiot, don't think it says anything about his boxing ability; he's just doing this stupid dance he learned in seventh grade.

This is what great songwriting looks like to me. It's smart, funny without being silly, unexpected, and shows tremendous discipline on how to link disparate stories together. It creates scenes and characters dripping with interesting, thoughtful details, so specific that it helps them feel believable and real.

Nick Cave says that good songwriting is all about counterpoint: "Putting two disparate images beside each other and seeing which way the sparks fly. Like letting a small child in the same room as, I don’t know, a Mongolian psychopath or something, and just sitting back and seeing what happens. Then you send in a clown, say, on a tricycle and again you wait and you watch. And if that doesn’t do it, you shoot the clown.”

"The Balloonist," has very little to do with "Secondary Waltz," and even less to do with Mongolian psychopaths, but "The Balloonist" originated from two disparate places: The first was from another Knopfler song --"Quality Shoe". You can hear the similarities in the hoppy chord progression, but that's about where the similarity ends. As I listened to "Quality Shoe" on my way to teach a guitar lesson, dozens of hot-air balloons were floating across the horizon. And so Knopfler's guitar energy from "Quality Shoe" mixed with my love of vignettes to make a character who has the same sort of uncommon life as our boxer doing waltzes at his matches --the life of a hot-air balloonist.

I've never met someone who does this for a living. I don't know if hot-air balloonists are a quiet group of people, a terrifying group of people, or a kindhearted, romantic group of people. The guy in "The Balloonist" is likely the latter. He doesn't really say anything that might make you think he's terrifying; he really just says a whole bunch of stuff that signals he's full of regret, loneliness, and mostly unhelpful romanticism.

All of which has led him to this uncommon career path. He spends a lot of time telling his audience how great and special it is. He beat the day job, he can "sing with the bluebirds and fly with the doves/get you a little bit closer to the stars above," and he has a beautiful life of freedom that he wants to share with the person standing across from him --"a little bit of mystery is a lot better than chains."

That lesson he arrives at is likely true. Though he has managed to come to this worthwhile conclusion for the wider world, it's not a conclusion adequate for himself. He claims he has, and loves, this freedom, but he also realizes that all of this freedom can't buy him what he really wants --not to be lonely.

But he's a romantic; he thinks the person he's talking to is the perfect partner he's been waiting for. The first two verses find him confident in his retreat from traditional society; he beat the day job and seems to be making at least a modest living, but the last verse allows for some dissention to creep in. The final verse isn't the confident declaration I thought it was when I wrote it fourteen years ago; it's a goalpost-moving series of retreats convincing the other party to come along:

First, it's "whatya' say my darlin? A new life awaits." You can guess a "no" comes from the other person because then comes a line convincing her of what he's peddling: "A little bit of mystery is a whole lot better than chains." You can ascertain that another "no" lands because then he changes the demands of what he's asking to make it more palatable: "We don't have to travel long, or even wide or far." We don't have to be that freewheeling and crazy if you don't want to be.

And sadly for our narrator, it's another "no." He has to close with another desperate shot at the buzzer: "Realize not knowing where you're going is often better than where you are." You can almost imagine him shouting this as the other party walks away --some variation of a "you'll be sorry!" Again, he might be right about not knowing where you're going being a better existence, and maybe it's a good Pinterest motivational life lesson to handle fear of change, but he's once again stumbled into that conclusion. This is not a lesson he is teaching to the other person; he thinks it is, but it's not. He's still on the receiving end of this wisdom. Not knowing where he's going is still preferable because where he currently is still kind of sucks.

But he gives up. Had I left out the final chorus, "realize not knowing where you're going is often better than where you are" becomes the last line of the song, and therefore offers no space for another "no." It would have provided some degree of hope that maybe our narrator convinced the other party to come along for the ride in the end. But we get another chorus and it ends the same way as the other two: "But of all the things I find I can do, not a single one is getting me to you." After all that, he's back to floating through the sky alone with his head literally in the clouds.

Around the time of "The Balloonist," I could relate a lot to this character. The lack of romantic success, the pushing back against cultural norms, and the dumb ways I tried to seek out that romantic success all combined to make a case that this song was tangentially autobiographical --at least a little more so than how every song you write is in some way autobiographical. I am, however, perhaps to my modest misfortune, not a hot-air balloonist, so we're more in the emotionally autobiographical yard.

I think the narrative is realized and that makes me happy all these years later, but it's that guitar riff that really makes the song pop. I can't take credit for that. The lead guitar part was written by my brother, Kevin. Without it, the song was likely another boring strummed entry that mirrored what I was capable of on the instrument at the time. The riff, much like a good rug, really ties the room together. That's why it's fourteen years later and you'll still find me playing it enthusiastically.