Spleen - well put. Mostly, anyway.

I'd suspect that 1954 folk music, to paraphrase Morrissey, "says nothing to us about our lives".

I know what you mean - I quite fancy singing The old cock crows, but if I did I'd have to point out that every single line was a lie ("I like to hear the old cock crow early in the morning"... well, er, no actually). But still - no death, no heartbreak, no horror, no riotous boozing, no opportunistic seduction? No nights that you wish had lasted seven long years? (You don't have to answer that one.) No morns that look bright and clear, but the forest won't yield me no roses? You must lead a sheltered life.