I’ve been meaning to do another book tag for a while, and now that I’m on spring break, it seemed like the perfect time! I found this one over at Georgia @ Lost in Neverland, and it was originally created by one’s peculiar. Fantasy is a genre that I always end up coming back to, so I thought this would be a fun tag!
THE LOST PRINCESS: A book/series you lost interest in halfway through
I loved the first book in the Invisible Library series, but I ended up quitting at book 3—with such an inventive concept for the series, it just felt like Genevieve Cogman was no longer doing anything interesting with it.
THE KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR: A hyped book/series you were swept up by
Leigh Bardugo has yet to let me down with any of her fantasy novels, but Six of Crowsis a rare series—it lives up to almost all of the hype it’s been given over the years, in my experience!
THE WISE OLD WIZARD: An author who amazes you with his/her writing
At the risk that I’ll sound like a broken record, I’ll talk about an author that I don’t talk about as often; I’ve only read The Wide Starlightand The Depths, but the the former was an unexpected 5-star read for me—Nicole Lesperance’s prose was endlessly stunning and beautiful! Although I didn’t enjoy The Depths quite as much, she made use of an incredibly underused setting for horror, and built up her suspense wonderfully.
THE MAIDEN IN DISTRESS: An undervalued character you wished had a bigger storyline
I wouldn’t say that Silas from Sorcery of Thornswas an undervalued character, but he was so compelling that I wished we’d gotten more page time from him!
THE MAGICAL SWORD: A magical item/ability you wish authors used less
This isn’t necessarily an item or ability, but I’ll never get the trope where the protagonist (most often a woman, in this case) loses her powers at the end of the book. The only exception I can make is if said powers are destroying her from the inside/making her a shell of her former self (ex. Aurora Rising), but if not, it just feels icky to me. LET OUR FANTASY LADIES KEEP THEIR AGENCY!!
THE MINDLESS VILLAIN: A phrase you cannot help but roll your eyes at
Any “romantic” quote that comes from the clear male-manipulator love interest (see: The Darkling, Cardan). There are way too many of these guys that the authors intended to be terrible people, but end up turning into the bad boy teen idols of their respective fandoms…
THE UNTAMED DRAGON: A magical creature you wish you had as a pet
+ anyone else who wants to participate! If you see this tag and want to do it, I’d love to see your answers! If I tagged you and you’ve already done this tag/don’t want to do it, my bad.
Today’s song:
That’s it for this book tag! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
As some of you may know, last week (March 20-27) was when the #TransRightsReadathon was hosted in response to a dangerous increase in anti-trans legislation across the U.S. Created by Simi Kern, the goal of the readathon was to give the spotlight to as many trans books and authors as possible to bring them awareness and support in light of the rampant transphobia across the country and beyond. It’s been frightening and heartbreaking to see what’s happening in other states, and I want to support my trans siblings in any way possible. So I’ve decided to include shorter reviews of all of the trans books I read this week—all of which were good!
For as long as they can remember, Aaron and Oliver have only ever had each other. In a small town with few queer teenagers, let alone young trans men, they’ve shared milestones like coming out as trans, buying the right binders–and falling for each other.
But just as their relationship has started to blossom, Aaron moves away. Feeling adrift, separated from the one person who understands them, they seek solace in digging deep into the annals of America’s past. When they discover the story of two Revolutionary War soldiers who they believe to have been trans man in love, they’re inspired to pay tribute to these soldiers by adopting their names–Aaron and Oliver. As they learn, they delve further into unwritten queer stories, and they discover the transformative power of reclaiming one’s place in history.
TW/CW: transphobia, dysphoria, misgendering/deadnaming, homophobia, off-page sexual assault, religious bigotry
Novels in verse always get me when they’re done well, and A Million Quiet Revolutions was no exception. The story of Aaron and Oliver is one that was essential to be told, and it resulted in a beautifully poignant piece of verse!
The growing relationship between Oliver and Aaron felt so genuine, and the combination of pseudo-epistolary format (oh god, that sounded pretentious…) with verse emphasized the way that their relationship transcended barriers of both place and time. The interweaving of the past with the present gave me an insight into a queer part of history that I’m almost embarrassed that I didn’t consider until reading this—better late than never, I suppose. Their voices both leapt off the page, and the easy flow of Gow’s verse made the reading experience feel effortless, drifting like wind—good poetry, to me, doesn’t quite feel like poetry; the rhythm remains, but it doesn’t feel like going line by line in such a rote way.
Above all, the message of this novel in verse is one that’s so important, especially in a time where the narrative of LGBTQ+ people being trendy and new is being pushed so often—queer people have always been here, and we will always be here. Aaron and Oliver’s journey of researching their trans namesakes—cross-dressing soldiers in the Revolutionary War—was one that’s so necessary for understanding our own roots. The key to belonging is realizing that you have always been a part of history, no matter how many pains historians have taken to ignore or deliberately erase the queerness and transness that has always been there. For me, that’s why A Million Quiet Revolutions is such an important read.
Brimming with history and rich verse, A Million Quiet Revolutions is an ode to discovering your own roots, and finding solace in hidden histories. 4 stars!
In this queer contemporary YA mystery, a nonbinary teen with autism realizes they must not only solve a 30-year-old mystery but also face the demons lurking in their past in order to live a satisfying life.
Sam Sylvester’s not overly optimistic about their recent move to the small town of Astoria, Oregon after a traumatic experience in their last home in the rural Midwest.
Yet Sam’s life seems to be on the upswing after meeting several new friends and a potential love interest in Shep, the pretty neighbor. However, Sam can’t seem to let go of what might have been, and is drawn to investigate the death of a teenage boy in 1980s Astoria. Sam’s convinced he was murdered–especially since Sam’s investigation seems to resurrect some ghosts in the town.
Threatening notes and figures hidden in shadows begin to disrupt Sam’s life. Yet Sam continues to search for the truth. When Sam discovers that they may be closer to a killer than previously known, Sam has a difficult decision to make. Would they risk their new life for a half-lived one?
My ultimate hope was that this book would be as well-crafted as its cover, and for the most part, it lived up to my expectations! The Many Half-Lived Lives of Sam Sylvester deftly toes the line between a coming-of-age story and a decades-old mystery, buoyed by a diverse and lovable cast.
Sam Sylvester has a batch some of the most diverse representation I’ve seen in a realistic fiction/mystery novel in a while—aside from having a nonbinary, asexual, and Autistic protagonist (more neurodivergent protagonists, please!!), there were so many different characters that were incredibly intersectional—queer, POC, and disabled characters all across the board, and not just the teen characters too! All of these identities were woven so well into the story, and I loved the journey of self-acceptance and reckoning that Sam experiences throughout the novel as they unravel the mystery of the boy who died in their room 30 years ago.
That being said, although I liked most every aspect of this novel, this really feels like a novel that’s going to date itself. I enjoyed a handful of the references (always extra points for David Bowie), but a lot of the more recent ones—the references to Tumblr, Gen Z slang, internet culture, and a Steven Universe gag every other page, read as very hackneyed and stilted. As authentic as the rest of Sam Sylvester was, those parts dragged down what would have otherwise been powerful and realistic dialogue. Most of the writing did its job and did it well, but the attempt to ground it in the present day only ended up making a novel that’s going to date itself far quicker than it was probably intended to.
Despite that, I’d say that Sam Sylvester is still a must-read—for the excellent representation, for the mystery, and for the coming-of-age story. 3.75 stars, rounded up to 4!
The author of the “vivid and urgent…important and timely” (The New York Times BookReview) debut The Map of Salt and Stars returns with this remarkably moving and lyrical novel following three generations of Syrian Americans who are linked by a mysterious species of bird and the truths they carry close to their hearts.
Five years after a suspicious fire killed his ornithologist mother, a closeted Syrian American trans boy sheds his birth name and searches for a new one. He has been unable to paint since his mother’s ghost has begun to visit him each evening. As his grandmother’s sole caretaker, he spends his days cooped up in their apartment, avoiding his neighborhood masjid, his estranged sister, and even his best friend (who also happens to be his longtime crush). The only time he feels truly free is when he slips out at night to paint murals on buildings in the once-thriving Manhattan neighborhood known as Little Syria.
One night, he enters the abandoned community house and finds the tattered journal of a Syrian American artist named Laila Z, who dedicated her career to painting the birds of North America. She famously and mysteriously disappeared more than sixty years before, but her journal contains proof that both his mother and Laila Z encountered the same rare bird before their deaths. In fact, Laila Z’s past is intimately tied to his mother’s—and his grandmother’s—in ways he never could have expected. Even more surprising, Laila Z’s story reveals the histories of queer and transgender people within his own community that he never knew. Realizing that he isn’t and has never been alone, he has the courage to officially claim a new name: Nadir, an Arabic name meaning rare.
As unprecedented numbers of birds are mysteriously drawn to the New York City skies, Nadir enlists the help of his family and friends to unravel what happened to Laila Z and the rare bird his mother died trying to save. Following his mother’s ghost, he uncovers the silences kept in the name of survival by his own community, his own family, and within himself, and discovers the family that was there all along.
TW/CW: transphobia, xenophobia, racism, Islamophobia, miscarriage, grief, sexual assault, animal death, loss of a parent
I didn’t go into The Thirty Names of Night with any expectations, but I was stunned by the writing! This novel is one of the best magical realism novels I’ve read in recent years, with writing as rich as a tapestry and a story that’s just as well-woven.
Joukhadar’s writing style was the star of Thirty Names; this is the first of his novels that I’ve read, but he has such a unique talent for finding unlikely comparisons and weaving them into the richest, most obvious but out-of-sight metaphors imaginable. I would never have compared the gray sky on a foggy day to the color of a kitchen knife, and somehow, it was right in front of me. His talent for metaphor suited the emotional depth of this story, as well as the almost fantastical element of the birds in New York—I will never claim to be the expert on him, but if there was any story that was suited for Joukhadar to tell, it’s this one.
That writing also made the emotional core of this story possible. There’s so much to Thirty Names: gender identity, grief, heritage, family, and the body itself, but all of it was handled with such grace and aplomb that made the story feel really, truly real. I might’ve even passed the aspect of the birds by as something that could feasibly happen with how this story was written. Every part of this novel is deeply moving, raw and beautiful, and the prose flows as smoothly as air over a bird’s wings.
All in all, a beautiful, literary tale of connections—to family, to gender, and to the world around us at large. 4.25 stars!
“If you control our sleep, then you can own our dreams…And from there, it’s easy to control our entire lives.”
From the brilliant mind of Charlie Jane Anders (“A master absurdist”—New York Times; “Virtuoso”—NPR) comes a new novel of Kafkaesque futurism. Set on a planet that has fully definitive, never-changing zones of day and night, with ensuing extreme climates of endless, frigid darkness and blinding, relentless light, humankind has somehow continued apace—though the perils outside the built cities are rife with danger as much as the streets below.
But in a world where time means only what the ruling government proclaims, and the levels of light available are artificially imposed to great consequence, lost souls and disappeared bodies are shadow-bound and savage, and as common as grains of sand. And one such pariah, sacrificed to the night, but borne up by time and a mysterious bond with an enigmatic beast, will rise to take on the entire planet–before it can crumble beneath the weight of human existence.
TW/CW: animal attack/animal death, police brutality, body horror
Alright, so the only explicitly stated Latinx characters, specifically of Mexican ancestry, are named…Carlos and Maria? So most everybody else gets semi-unique names, but not them? It’s like Cho Chang all over again…[LOUD INCORRECT BUZZER}
If I hadn’t read Victories Greater Than Death beforehand, I would’ve been more suspicious, but it seems like Anders has gotten a lot better with diversity on that front, but…still iffy. Just saying.
That aside, The City in the Middle of the Night was one of the more inventive dystopias that I’ve read recently, but it fell victim to very convoluted writing. It’s obvious from every page that Anders put so, so much work into creating a fleshed-out world with an equally fleshed-out history—that was a riotous success on her part. The premise of society being divided by a tidally-locked planet felt eerily feasible, and I absolutely ADORED all of the alien life forms on the night side of January—the Gelet were obviously my favorites, but I would’ve liked to have seen more creatures. ALWAYS MORE CREATURES.
However, Anders’ writing choices ended up making parts of The City in the Middle of the Night something of a struggle. The story itself ended up being rather convoluted and tangled, and I found myself getting lost and confused about wait, which side of the planet are we on again? Why are we here in the first place? The additions of a boatload of characters that ended up having very little consequence to the plot at large didn’t help either. This story had the potential to be incredible, but it ended up getting so lost in itself that it became an ordeal to figure out where I was.
All in all, an inventively-conceived dystopia that excelled in worldbuilding but floundered in its writing. 3.25 stars.
Tell me what you think! Did you participate in the #TransRightsReadathon, and if so, what books did you read? What do you think of these books?Let me know in the comments!
Today’s song:
That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has treated you well.
It’s finally spring. Sprouts are crawling out of the crumbly earth, the fog is lifting, and I have a depressingly gray color scheme to show for it. My overexcitement for getting Peter Gabriel tickets (HUUUAUAAAAAAAAAAAAGGHGHGH BIG THANK YOU TO MY PARENTS) trumps any hope of a springtime aesthetic for this post.
Picture this. It’s early in the morning. You have a 9 AM class you have to get ready for. You’ve decided to listen to Up, so you put it on while you start putting your makeup on. Track 1. You turn the volume up, because nothing much seems to be happening. 0:29 hits. All hell breaks loose.
And yet, even though I do my SPD jumpscare dance every time it rolls around, I find myself listening to this song like an adrenaline junkie. Peter Gabriel knows how to open an album—lulling you into near-silence, then hitting you with a concentrated, almost industrial opening that probably keeps Trent Reznor up at night wondering how he could top it. More than that, “Darkness” is another song I’ve added to my internal list of reasons why Gabriel is such a uniquely talented musician—he makes creating a musical atmosphere that mirrors the lyrical story look so easy. As he speaks of being consumed by fear, the instrumentals crash in, enveloping all else as his voice grinds to a gravel-edged plea for solace. It was enough to give me a heart attack, and, if I’m going by the YouTube comments, enough to give people nightmares. Gabriel whispers of fearing “swimming in the sea/dark shapes moving under me/every fear I swallow makes me small,” and in the edges of the near-silence, a strained moan sounds, like a distant whale call or the grinding of a boat. The imagery is startling in its clarity—if I had the patience, I’d jump at the chance to make some kind of stop-motion or claymation music video. Unlike other artists, Gabriel’s instrumentally darker, more abrasive side doesn’t surprise me—after the first listen, all I could think of is that it was the next natural evolution of “Intruder.”
But over two decades after the release of “Intruder,” (which, unlike this song, was enough to keep me up at night—on the first night alone in my dorm, no less…good times) Gabriel has a deeply nuanced understanding of fear. Even as these fears swallow him like the whale in Pinnochio, he finds a way through the tangled woods, knowing that fear will pass—”I have my fears/but they do not have me.” Well. I needed to hear that. Sometimes it’s hard to hear these things when we’re swallowed up so easily—which I can relate to a little too well, with my experience with general fear over various things, as well as the truckload of anxiety that came along with making the move to college—but as the song ebbs and flows from monstrous crescendos to something more bare and gentle, so too do our fears. It’s all too easy for me to think that there’s no light at the end of the tunnel when I get in a place like this, but fear, like everything else, is impermanent. And when we look back, like Gabriel, we can “cry until [we] laugh.” Maybe that’s why I find myself seeking out this song so much—I love when I can give myself a musical mantra. It has no control over me.
I’ve been meaning to listen to Shakey Graves and the Horse he Rode In On solely because of how much I love that name, but I’ve got more motivation (not that I didn’t have any—the eternal album bucket list waits for no man) after hearing this one in my brother’s girlfriend’s car. Shakey Graves can make anything seem natural, be it the more experimental wanderings of Can’t Wake Up to the classic folkiness of this song. And like a classic folk song, there’s something inherently haunting about it—even without the lines about drinking and deep-seated regret, there’s an off-kilter waver to “Nobody’s Fool,” a shadow creature that’s emerged from under the bed, hanging over Alejandro Rose-Garcia’s shoulder. If that’s the case, he’s probably given said creature a banjo or something since this song, but here, it lingers. “Nobody’s Fool” is a song so atmospheric that it feels like there’s a tangible coat of dust over it—again, the lingering eeriness about it, but something of a good kind of dust, given this song’s bizarre pull.
I love the irony in the fact that I just got an ad claiming that “99.9% of women will chase you when you do this” above the search results for this song. At that point, you can’t even say that YouTube has bad gaydar—it just doesn’t have any gaydar whatsoever…
There’s a solid chance that I’ll be blabbing about The Magnetic Fields for the next week or two afterwards, but I had the incredible privilege of seeing them last Friday night! At a small venue, too—no annoying drunk people, no jostling for a good view, just cellos, sad gay breakup songs, and Stephin Merritt’s three mugs of tea. And other than the pure genius of playing “The Book of Love,” getting everbody sobbing (it’s me I’m everybody), and then launching into “The Biggest Tits in History” (IT’S ABOUT THE BIRD IT’S ABOUT THE BIRD I SWEAR GUYS GUYS) directly after, this show made me remember how many pockets of Merritt and co.’s genius that I hadn’t heard of, or just forgotten about. Take this song; with the amount of wry, folky breakup songs that they’ve produced, you’d expect for there to be an eventual formula. Bitterness is a constant, but it’s delivered in such a clever, creative way that I can’t help but smile and nod along as if Stephin Merritt is singing about rainbows and kittens. He’ll never outright say “you broke my heart” or “I can’t forgive you for what you did”—like clay, he pulls that core emotion into “don’t you know love/goes home to Paris in the spring?” That’s the kind of wry, tongue-in-cheek magic that draws me to The Magnetic Fields again and again—Stephin Merritt never has any boring ways of interpreting love and heartbreak. Still, it’s been a few decades since they’ve started the band—I just hope he isn’t in for any “I Don’t Believe in the Sun” relationships anymore. Dude deserves a break.
Before I get into the song itself…another reason why I admire Peter Gabriel so much—skip to 1:00 in the video and you’ll see him performing an early, unfinished version of “Playing for Time” without any lyrics. The prospect of performing…well, anything is already nerve-wracking enough for me, but playing something that you haven’t even finished live? That’s a feat, but I guess you can just do that when you’re Peter Gabriel. I can barely even make myself share in-progress bits of writing with friends.
Onto the song itself…I’m not gonna survive this album. I barely survived this song. Gabriel’s ability to dig into our most base emotions has never faded away, and “Playing For Time” is no exception. It’s a meditation on aging, on time, and on the memories we share between loved ones. He envisions a planet comprised of the memories made by a couple— “any moment that we bring to life/will never fade away.” It’s a song that came tragically late for Arrival, but maybe that’s the way it should’ve been—the movie, and the message that mirrors this song, already made me ugly cry three separate times. I could barely hold it together after listening to this twice. But along with this song and this movie, it’s something that I’ve been thinking about a lot; I’ve always treasured moments with my loved ones, but moving to college and being alone and independent for the first time has made me realize how precious it really is. But it’s also made me realize that these memories really do never quite go away, as long as we keep them close. Don’t let these things pass you by.
Okay, I need to stop. I think one sitting is the only time frame that I can listen to this song without curling up in a ball.
The Shape of Water has been my all-time favorite movie for several years now—I’m looking over my shoulder at the poster above my bed as I’m writing this. I had the novelization on my TBR for a few years, but only got around to it recently, probably for fear of it not living up to the film. I had no idea that it was a dual release with the film, but after reading it, the novelization of The Shape of Water struggled to live up to the poetic poignance of the film.
Visionary storyteller Guillermo del Toro and celebrated author Daniel Kraus combine their estimable talent in this haunting, heartbreaking love story.
The Shape of Water is set in Cold War-era Baltimore at the Occam Aerospace Research Center, which has recently received its most sensitive asset ever: an amphibious man captured in the Amazon. What unfolds is a stirring romance between the asset and one of the janitors on staff, a mute woman who uses sign language to communicate with the creature.
Developed from the ground up as a bold two-tiered release—one story interpreted by two artists in the independent mediums of literature and film — The Shape of Water weaves together fantasy, horror, and romance to create a tale that is equally gripping on the page and on the big screen.
TW/CW: racism, homophobia, xenophobia, ableism, misogyny, sexual harassment/assault, blood, gore, murder, animal death, loss of loved ones
The Shape of Water is a movie that’s touched my heart in a way that I doubt any other will. In summation, the film is a testament to the marginalized experience—any kind of marginalized or othered group—and self-love and acceptance. Guillermo del Toro is a storyteller without parallel, and maybe that’s why I was so hesitant to pick up the novelization for so long. I had no idea that it was a dual release with the film, but either way, my fears ended up being confirmed—Daniel Kraus’ novelization is faithful in the barest, structural way, but largely failed to capture the heart of the film’s message.
I’m not familiar with Daniel Kraus’ other novels, but even a quick scan on Goodreads tells me that he’s a frequent collaborator with Guillermo del Toro, which, after reading this, frankly surprises me. Del Toro’s storytelling, from this film to Pan’s Labyrinth and the most recent Pinnochio, has a consistently strong emotional core, something that anchors the fantastical elements to our most core human experiences. And somehow, Kraus chose to adapt this novel in the most flat, checklist-like way possible. Yes, all of the beats of the film were there, as well as some bonus content. But thanks to Kraus’ dry writing, the emotional core—what made the story so deeply impactful in the first place—apparently flew straight over his head.
Now, before I get into my major gripes, I will say this—the novelization picks up far more at the halfway point. The chapters that Kraus writes from the perspective of The Asset were an unmistakable highlight, charming, dreamlike, and refreshingly strange compared to most of the other perspectives. I almost find myself wishing that the scene with Bob Hoffstetler and The Asset made it to the film. And the very climactic events in the third act were dealt with the appropriate amount of weight, and the pace picked up significantly, unlike the steady pace of the movie. And as much as I love the dance scene, I completely get the decision to nix it from the novel—out of all of the scenes to translate from screen to page, that would be at the top of the page.
With that out of the way, I was bothered by how much emphasis Kraus places on the antagonist, Strickland. There were some fascinating scenes that never made it to the film of the process of him capturing The Asset in the South American rainforest; they were interesting additions, and although I liked them in general, it mostly ended up being Strickland being incredibly racist. It’s painfully on brand for his character, but beyond that, it seemed like his character got the most page time out of the whole cast. He is the main villain, sure, but given that this story is about the marginalized experience and he is the predatory antithesis to what the film stands for, the decision didn’t leave the best taste in my mouth.
My other main issue was how Kraus wrote the character of Elisa Esposito. For the most part, Kraus was somewhat faithful to her personality, but there were multiple instances where the descriptions of her were incredibly concerning. On several occasions, she is described as “childlike” and “[like] a kindergartener” in scenes where she is struggling to communicate her needs—for those of you who have not seen this film, Elisa is mute, and she uses ASL to communicate. It’s already offensive on the front that Elisa is such a treasured character to me, but Kraus seems to, once again, miss the message of the film by a mile, and ends up right smack in the middle of the all-too-common trope of infantilizing disabled people—especially disabled women. Elisa is in no way “childlike” for trying to communicate her needs—she is a grown woman, and she is frustrated by the struggle to communicate with her abled peers in a world that is not built for her. Let me say it again: Elisa Esposito is a grown woman. Even though Kraus was somewhat respectful in some of his other descriptions of her, but these instances all but negated everything else that he had established in the adaptation.
All in all, a structurally faithful, occasionally beautiful, but often frustrating adaptation of a film that will forever have the prime spot in my heart. 3 stars from a peeved Guillermo del Toro fan. Just watch the movie instead.
The Shape of Water is a standalone, as the film is, but Daniel Kraus has also collaborated with Guillermo del Toro on the novel Trollhunters. Kraus is also the author of The Life and Death of Zebulon Finch, The Teddies Saga, and several other books for all ages.
Today’s song:
saw these legends on Friday night—such a beautiful experience, and I’ve had this song on repeat ever since
That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has treated you well. 💗
I’m not even touching the fact that we’re somehow already halfway through March, but the passage of time is fine, right? Right? Hopefully the shades of red in this week’s songs are blinding enough to distract you from the fact. Would’ve been a more fitting color scheme for Valentine’s Day, but I’m a non-conformist if nothing else.
It’s been a few years since I found out about Suki Waterhouse via Apple Music and “Johanna,” but now, I’ve come to the conclusion that she’s only ever made…one or two different songs. Is she good at it? I’d say so. A good 90% of the time, at least. Strangely, her songs work better solitarily for me; after listening to her debut album I Can’t Let Go in full, I had a decent listening experience, but, again—same song 10 times. It got a little tiring, but I got some nuggets of goodness out of it.
So after I found out that “To Love” had been released, I went in expecting more of the same. Lyrically, it’s still the same song, but it’s gotten me so excited that the instrumentation has started to change! Waterhouse has embraced sweeping maximalism in this song, with starry guitar tones reminiscent of the 70’s, an orchestral hum in the chorus, and no shortage of grandeur as she sings of losing herself in a once-in-a-lifetime love. And with all of her songs, her airy, sparkling voice provides an anchor for the journey that the instrumentation goes on—light on one verse, then diving straight into an ocean of orchestral wonder. It easily separates itself from most of her other catalogue, and although I can easily see her riding the same wave for the rest of her musical career, part of me is still holding onto hope that she’ll embrace this feel.
After I heard about Sorry and “Starstruck”from my brother a few weeks back, I went on a brief frenzy and downloaded a handful of songs from their 2020 album 925 and then left it alone. I still need to listen to said album, but when the dust settled, I was left with “Heather” as one of the standouts. In contrast to the wry, post-punk sensibilities of “Starstruck,” “Heather” gently sways, a listless stare out the window as a spring drizzle trails down the glass. Threads of chaotic instrumentation linger in the background, but the song remains a gently rocking hammock, keeping momentum but never snapping loose. Asha Lorenz’s voice comes off continuously tired, slipping at the edges, but it’s the perfect fit for this song, singing of “The only one you’d choose/to spend your rainy days with.” Somehow, this song is able to make the line “we’ll lie like dead birds in the heather” sound bizarrely romantic, just as innocuous as the acoustic guitar strums. Even with Lorenz’s voice croaks in the background of the chorus, there’s still a gentle whimsy to it, an easy head-nodder to stare up at a sunset to.
The cycle never ends. I see any interview with Jack White. I want to hate his guts. And then this comes on shuffle, and I really can’t…WHY DO YOU KEEP DOING THIS TO ME? CAN YOU NOT BE SO OBNOXIOUS SO I CAN PROPERLY APPRECIATE HOW FANTASTIC OF A GUITARIST YOU ARE, DUDE? He’s the kind of guy with the misplaced bravado to say that, on the eve of him filming the documentary “It Might Get Loud” alongside The Edge and Jimmy Page, they would probably “get in a fistfight.” Most of the time, that kind of bravado doesn’t have the talent to back it up. I’m not justifying…him™️ at all, but for once, he has the sheer musical talent to back it up. There’s a reason that he was put alongside the likes of The Edge and Page.
Just like the way it unexpectedly appeared on my shuffle not too long ago, “Black Math” immediately kicks in with a sudden and propulsive burst of guitar. White’s fuzzed-out notes, all at once tightly controlled and wild and reckless, never steer off course—every intricate riff tossed in feels intentional, as though they were lined up like chess pieces, stationary but ready to attack at any second. Though the momentum skids into a sludgier, crunchy, slow-tempo area in places, there’s never a sense that either White or White (that’s not confusing at all, and again, Jack White specifically did not have to make it even more so…really, dude, why) have let the reins go free, still holding a tight grip on a timelessly tight song.
Black? Burgundy? We’ve got an interesting musical color scheme here…surely I won’t be piling both of these songs on my “songs with color names in the title” playlist that I made because I got bored…nuh uh…
My tendency to give mediocre to bad things “just one more chance” hasn’t led me anywhere 95% of the time. It applies to way too many parts of my life. But sometimes, there’s that 5% off-chance that an artist will prove me wrong, dredging up an occasional offering of brightness, and that’s what I’ve found here. Hopefully, this won’t be the reason that I keep doing it with music, but…
Most of what I know of Warpaint boils down to two songs. I’ve loved their cover of David Bowie’s “Ashes to Ashes,” which my dad turned me onto shortly after Bowie passed away, and when we still had the radio in my mom’s car, “New Song” was on heavy rotation on the indie station. I tried to listen to their 2014 self-titled album a few years back, and though the details of the music itself are fuzzy, the disappointment I felt was distinct—nothing about it really did anything for me like I thought at least one song would. And yet, when I saw this appear on an Apple Music playlist the other day, I had a morbid curiosity to see if there was anything of worth in this song—lo and behold, there was. Bare and quiet, it ambles along gently, with Stella Mozgawa’s subtly syncopated drums. Emily Kokal seems content to let her vocals fade into the soft, unseen corners of the song’s musical landscape, making for an atmosphere that seems to drift like fog around your hear, constantly evaporating and reforming itself, ever-changing. It may not be enough to give the band as a whole another chance, but “Burgundy” is a song that I’ll surely keep in my back pocket.
I suppose we’re ending on a weighty one, aren’t we?
Jane’s Addiction is one of those bands that’s been ever-present in my life, but they only land with me every few songs. It took me a long time for this one to grow on me, as most of their songs do, but upon listening to it again, I was first struck by just how fantastic this violin is—I never knew his name before this song, but can we appreciate Charlie Bisharat for a moment? Against the rolling-wave, cyclical feel of the song (more on that later), his playing is fiercely frenetic, all at once jagged and rich with vibrancy, brighter than the red on the borders of the album cover for Ritual De Lo Habitual. Even when the other instruments take center stage, Bisharat’s playing shines through, translating itself into the lyrics themselves—I love how sharp and stinging the notes become after the line “When I was a boy/My big brother held onto my hand/And he made me slap my own face”? I’m a sucker for instances where the instruments become just as much a part of the lyrics as the lyrics themselves.
Lyrically, on a surface-level listen, it would be easy to take this song cynically—there’s images aplenty of human animals eating and clawing at each other to reach the top, the constant motif of getting slapped in the face. But the slap in the face is key here—all of that dog-eat-dog cynicism is flipped to the chorus of “a sensation not unlike slapping yourself in the face.” All you’re doing with that violently competitive mentality is screwing yourself over. It’s easy to miss, but it’s an important distinction to make—I could go on for ages about how capitalism has infected so many of us, especially in the U.S., with this mentality, but beyond the song, I like to take it as proof that working against each other is what will drive us into the ground. It’s become a little too relevant in the past few years, but even though “Of Course” has a somewhat universal message, it’s one that resonates a lot with these troubled times. Biting at each other’s heels is never getting us anywhere, and it never has. Jane’s Addiction may be generally hit-or-miss for me, but they struck gold when they put this out into the world.
Since this post consists entirely of songs, consider all of them to be today’s song.
That’s it for this week’s Sunday Songs! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
I was a huge fan of K. Eason’s Thorne Chronicles when I first read them, so you can imagine my excitement when I found out that she was starting a companion series set in the same universe! (I didn’t find out until a few weeks ago, but that’s beside the point.) I jumped on the chance to put it on hold at the library, and I finally got to read it recently; however, I found Nightwatch on the Hinterlands to be an entirely different type of story than Rory Thorne, which, in this case, was its downfall.
For my double review of How Rory Thorne Destroyed the Multiverse and How the Multiverse Got Its Revenge, click here!
It’s been decades since any of the riev—battle-mechas designed for the war effort—have done any harm to civilians. For years, they’ve been decommissioned or redesigned for labor purposes. So when Lieutenant Iari arrives at the scene of a crime and realizes that a riev may have been the perpetrator, she knows that the mystery will lead down a trail that she never anticipated treading. Along with Gaer, an ambassador-turned-spy, Iari must play a dangerous game amongst her planet’s criminal underbelly, one that may lead to something greater than a simple murder.
TW/CW: murder, blood, descriptions of injury, xenophobia (fictional—cast is almost exclusively aliens)
I was a massive fan of the Thorne Chronicles, but after reading Nightwatch on the Hinterlands, I’m sorely disappointed in the direction that K. Eason decided to go with this series—my most common thought while reading this novel was why include this?
As a starting point: why these characters? I liked Iari well enough in How the Multiverse Got Its Revenge, and she does have the potential to have an interesting story, but I didn’t get enough information in Multiverse to really care about her. I didn’t remember much about Gaer either, and he was a well-written and likable character, at the very least, but there wasn’t much that carried over from the previous books to make me care enough about him. These characters were virtually all that carried over from the Thorne Chronicles into this new series (The Weep), and that was where my disinterest began.
In concept, I like Eason’s decision to set Nightwatch in the seedy, criminal underbelly of the world that was touched on in the Thorne Chronicles. It’s a classic sci-fi setting, and with how rich Eason’s established world already was, it would be easy to make something compelling out of it. However, the Thorne Chronicles were far more centered around the human characters, and the aliens were more of a sideplot, mostly just appearing in Multiverse. Nightwatch, however, was entirely centered around the alien characters; normally, this is something I’d be 100% on board with, but without the context that could’ve been given in either Multiverse or in…y’know, some part of this book, I was left in the dark for any of the conventions of this part of Eason’s established world. I somehow understand that not giving glimpses of the other characters (Rory, Messer Rupert, etc.) would’ve been easy fan service, but other than Iari, if I hadn’t known that this was a companion book, I wouldn’t have seen the connection at all.
And on the subject of context…we needed so much more of it. So much more. Even though 90% of these alien species weren’t even talked about in the Thorne Chronicles, Eason wrote Nightwatch in a way that automatically assumes that readers know every single cultural aspect of every single alien species (of which there are many), as well as the context of the various wars that have gone on before the events of Nightwatch, in a very short timespan. I’m all for science fiction novels that don’t dump every single bit of exposition and worldbuilding into the story in one, unceremonious pile at the beginning, but this felt like the other extreme—wanting to avoid that so much that the reader is left without a single clue of what’s going on. I understand the concern that this writing style grew out of, but there really could’ve been a much more comprehensible happy medium in terms of worldbuilding. Beyond that, it’s clear to see how much time Eason put into creating these alien races and cultures, and that’s something I’ll always admire, but the effect of that got dwarfed by the alienating (no pun intended) fashion that she (did not properly) integrated them.
Like the approach to worldbuilding, Eason’s writing style in this novel is a double-edged sword. It’s a wildly different style from the endearingly irreverent but simultaneously observant voice that she used in the Thorne Chronicles. In contrast, Nightwatch had the distant feel of a hardboiled noir in space, quick and to the point, except for when information was delivered. On the one hand, it’s proof that Eason can be very versatile in terms of voice across her novels. On the other, this didn’t feel quite as genuine as the Thorne Chronicles—it made sense for the story, but the characters less likable, and the plot felt rushed, like constant running in circles from A to B without much context as to why or how. It suited the style of Nightwatch to a point, but it ended up being a detriment to both the pacing and my general enjoyment.
While I was reading, I was debating whether or not I wanted to stick it out for the rest of the series; I really wanted to give K. Eason the benefit of the doubt after how much I adored the Thorne Chronicles, but I don’t think I’ll be continuing The Weep after how unpleasant my experience with Nightwatch was. Obvious points go to the extensive worldbuilding and the clear time and care put into crafting this aspect of the world, but most of the other elements—the writing style, the way we got (or didn’t get) pieces of worldbuilding, and not much to make me care for the characters—brought my enjoyment down immensely. 2 stars.
Nightwatch on the Hinterlands is the first book in the Weep series, succeeded by Nightwatch Over Windscar. This series is a companion to the Thorne Chronicles, which consists of How Rory Thorne Destroyed the Multiverse and How the Multiverse Got Its Revenge. K. Eason is also the author of several other novels, including the On the Bones of Gods series (Enemy, Outlaw, and Ally).
Today’s song:
BACK ON THE PETER GABRIEL TRAIN FELLAS CHOO CHOO
That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has treated you well.
It’s finally starting to feel like spring again. The birds are singing, the grass looks much less dead, the sky is bright and decidedly un-cloudy, and Those Dudes™️ are still wearing nothing but tank tops, shorts, and flip flops in 30 degree weather. Which, I should clarify, is an outfit choice that has not changed from a few weeks ago, when it was cold enough for ice to form in my water bottle. I wish I was kidding.
But we are filled with springtime warmth and joy this week! The sun is shining! For once! Joyous whimsy prevails!
Like a many other music nerds out there, I celebrated last Friday (March 3) by listening to De La Soul’s 3 Feet High and Rising, finally back on streaming, along with their other first 5 albums, after decades of legal troubles. I’d been hearing tracks like “The Magic Number” and “Me Myself and I” from early childhood, and I got worried that I’d hyped myself up far too much, but this album is as groundbreaking is as everybody says it is. Despite the years of misinterpretation and the record label’s hippie branding of the group (and “Me Myself and I” becoming their equivalent of “Creep,” so much so that all of their non-televised performances of it are always introduced by them telling the crowd to chant “we hate this song!”), it’s been taken all the way to the Library of Congress as a pivotal piece of music history. I’m not up to date on my hip-hop history, but even without that context, it’s easy to see what a sea change this was for a genre—it’s the work of three friends, barely out of high school, with the goal of having fun and playing with samples. And it’s a masterpiece.
This spirit is something that the delightfully goofy “A Little Bit of Soap” embodies. It’s not even a minute long (part of which is still taken up by a piece of the game show skit that continues through the album), it samples an obscure 60’s pop song of the same name, and the lyrics are just about B.O. And it’s GREAT. It proves that those middle school boys who barely showered and used AXE body spray to cover up the shame have existed since time immemorial. There’s something to be said about shorter songs like this, ones that clearly exist just for fun—creativity, for me at least, is primarily to amuse myself before it turns into something else. And that seems like exactly what Posdnuos, Trugoy, and Maseo were trying to do—having fun with each other, and making something innovative in the process. Happiness and genuine joy and fun should never be dismissed as low art just because it’s not “deep”—that mentality is the enemy of creativity.
And it’s been a month now since we’ve lost Trugoy the Dove. One the one hand, it’s deeply tragic that he never got to live to see his music return to the world, but I’m comforted by the fact that he at least could rest easier knowing that the years of legal battles had come to an end, and that De La Soul would finally be able to reach the wider audience that it always deserved. You will be missed. 💗
When Bret said “Then ************ Granny Smith ******** ******** ** an avocado ********mango ********” ? Man, I felt that. I really did. “He’s gonna wake up in a smoothie”? Never before has such an assertive display of power and dominance been made in music history. Bret McKenzie is the ultimate alpha male. Sigma, even. Take notes. Fear him. It’s gonna get vicious and malicious. (He wants his Red Delicious.)
I already talked about this song briefly in my review for Cracker Island,but I can’t praise this song enough. Never in my very brief years of Earth would I predict that I would have a song with looped chicken clucking sound effects on repeat, but life is full of surprises, and Gorillaz is here to deliver. I thought the days of Gorillaz collaborating with Del the Funky Homo Sapien (as Del the Ghost Rapper) were gone before my time, and whether or not this is a nostalgia grab, the 20+ years of waiting has paid off. Just like every track they made together on Gorillaz, Albarn and Del have created another pop masterpiece, just under two minutes but packing a punch than most of Cracker Island itself. Some songs are too long or too short for their own good, but like “A Little Bit of Soap,” “Captain Chicken” is the perfect, short-and-sweet time capsule of two exceptional musicians sounding like they’re both having the time of their lives. This is the fun, pure Gorillaz spark that most of Cracker Island was missing for me, but this song is out now, and I don’t think it’s a reach to say that we’re all grateful for this little gem.
I’ve got a confession—I love all of the Beatles in their own way to some extent, but I’d put John Lennon as my least favorite, as much as I love his voice. Probably heresy, and who wouldn’t love his message of peace, but after watching Get Back recently, he just seemed kind of insufferable? There’s no denying his musical genius, but every joke he made there just felt more like trying to be funny than actually being funny. And I haven’t even gotten to the wife-beating aspect. Yech. Don’t go deep-diving into 50% of singers from the 50’s to the 90’s, kids. Disappointment awaits.
None of that is excused, but it’s songs like this that make me go back on the obvious musical prowess of people like John Lennon. I think Rubber Soul is the only Beatles album left on my list that I want to listen to, and it’s songs like “Girl” that make me want to listen to it. In this day and age, it’s hard to see how groundbreaking it was, but at the time, it was rare for a pop band as big as they were in 1966 to make a love song quite like this. It’s not the (undoubtedly catchy) sunshine and rainbows of their first few albums; it’s more than a little folksy, and it starts to dig into a melancholia that the genre had barely touched with a ten-foot pole at that point. Every detail makes it such a strange, wonderful pop song—John Lennon’s hissing inhalations in the chorus, the eerily beautiful harmonies of Lennon, McCartney and Harrison (which I can never praise enough), and the guitar work, which was apparently played with the capo extra high on the neck to make the sound resemble a bouzouki. From what I’ve heard, Rubber Soul served as the Beatles’ gateway into their truly innovative work, delving into pure psychedelia on Revolver, which came out later that same year, and to this day, “Girl” and many of the album’s other track are a time capsule to the Beatles just before they leapt off the precipice and into the musical unknown.
Nothing like the realization that Amy Adams was in this movie hitting you like a train directly on the heels of ugly crying to Arrival, amirite? That’s some whiplash. Needless to say, that’s some impressive range.
And if you take one thing away from both this song and this post, it’s that Bret McKenzie did NOT have to go that hard with the Muppets soundtrack. I’m just picturing the guy just coming into the studio with a notepad, eyes glowing red and levitating, and laying the lyrics to this and/or “Man Or Muppet” down on the table, and everybody just refusing to question it. I can still remember having this as the first song on a scratchy CD, and only ending up hearing it and “Eight Days a Week” because it conked out on me after track 2. I have many fond memories of sunny afternoons listening to this song while organizing the Calico Critters house that I got for my birthday that year. The voice of a generation. What can I say? Life’s a fillet of fish.
Since this post consists of all songs, consider all of them to be today’s song.
That’s it for this week’s Sunday Songs! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
Happy Wednesday, bibliophiles, and more importantly, Happy International Women’s Day!
Aside from that, the month of March in the U.S. is Women’s History Month! These past few years have been tumultuous for women here in the U.S. and elsewhere, with the attacks on bodily autonomy being some of the most violent in recent years. But despite it all, we cannot lose hope—by lifting each other up, we can foster an environment that respects women as equals. And as I’ve always said, literature is resistance: it isn’t just real-life heroes that can inspire us to incite change—fictional heroines can have just the same effect. So for the occasion, I’ve gathered even more feminist YA book recommendations.
An intersectional story that weaves together the lives of four girls in their senior year of high school—one of which will become the president of the United States.
Samira Ahmed always ends up showing up on these lists, and for good reason—she’s never missed with any of her raw and fiercely feminist novels, and Hollow Fires is no exception.
Though this book was far from perfect, I think it’s still worth it to put on this list; the writing and romance weren’t great, but Follow Your Arrow has plenty of timely discussions around bisexuality and how we treat queer women.
Although this list was intended to be just for YA and fiction, I’d be remiss if I made a post about feminism and didn’t include this book. The Trouble With White Women presents a view on feminism that is necessary for moving past simply white feminism, and presents the feminist movement through those on the margins, such as Frances Harper, Pauli Murray, and Alexandria Ocasio Cortez. It’s seriously one of the best nonfiction books I’ve read in ages—on any subject matter.
TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK! What did you think of the books on this list? What are your favorite feminist YA books? Let me know in the comments!
Today’s song:
Most of the Warpaint I’ve heard hasn’t done much for me (aside from their great cover of “Ashes to Ashes”), but I love the quietness of this one!
That’s it for this list of recommendations! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
I forget what triggered it, but a few years back, I piled a bunch of N.K. Jemisin’s books onto my TBR. I just finished up the Great Cities duology recently and enjoyed it (though The World We MakeI enjoyed less so), but I was still excited to read the Broken Earth series from all of the praise it’s been given. I’m usually wary of overly long fantasy books, but The Fifth Season defied all of my expectations and delivered one of the most well-crafted fantasies I’ve read in recent years.
In the land of the Stillness, natural disasters are an inevitable part of life. Every so often, the land goes through cycles of extreme weather, where the earth tears itself apart and the land is blanketed in ash and darkness.
This Fifth Season has arrived once more, and with it comes a world in chaos. Amidst the chaos is Essun, a woman on the run after witnessing her husband murder her young son. Her last hope is her daughter, whose whereabouts are unknown. But in a land filled with unknown disasters and people willing to turn on the orogenes—those with the power to control the earth—Essun must overcome unimaginable hurdles to find her daughter and bring her to safety.
TW/CW: murder, infanticide, abuse, mentions of genocide, slavery, implied rape (child), descriptions of injury/blood, sexual coercion, kidnapping, human experimentation
This is my own bias here, but as a principle, I’m automatically weary of overly long fantasy books; that length usually means something along the lines of either a) excessive, infodumped worldbuilding , b) long stretches of the story without much plot, or c) a combination of both. But The Fifth Season proved me SO wrong on that front—Jemisin dodged both of those traps effortlessly, resulting in one of the most inventive fantasy books I’ve read in years.
My first exposure to N.K. Jemisin was through the Great Cities duology, and I was surprised at how starkly different the writing styles were; The City We Became was witty, but rather ham-fisted more often than not, which somewhat suited the story she was telling. The writing of The Fifth Season was a much better fit for the story’s tone: it hit the balance of being to-the-point and fantastical, a style which, given some of the very dark themes that this novel explores, gives it the respect that it deserves. After finishing this novel, I’m more inclined to this style, but above all, reading the two is proof of her versatility of a writer—Jemisin can bridge the tonal gap and make it look ridiculously easy.
About the worldbuilding—The Fifth Season boasts some of the most detailed and compelling worldbuilding that I’ve seen in a fantasy series, but compelling is the part that I want to emphasize. It’s one thing to flesh out your world, but if the detail you give it is arbitrary and irrelevant to the story you’re trying to tell, it becomes redundant. But Jemisin gives the world of the Stillness a rich, believable history, and considers every consequence imaginable of the constraints in her world. Every ramification of the concepts in her world are considered, and they’re shown in organic ways, from the (gruesome) depictions of how the humans have systemically oppressed the orogenes (also a very sharp social commentary) to the biological consequences of a world constantly gripped by extreme natural disasters. Jemisin left no stones unturned, and it paid off in such an enjoyable way.
And if there’s one thing that N.K. Jemisin can do exceptionally well, it’s make me despise a character with every cell of my being. Her protagonists are compelling, but she’s so skilled at making characters that absolutely make your skin crawl. Both Schaffa and Alabaster were case studies in manipulation, and so many of their scenes, especially when they interacted with Damaya and Syenite, respectively, it was genuinely hard to read, but still so authentic to how authority figures often manipulate those below them, especially if they’re young women. Bottom line: they both sucked, but N.K. Jemisin did a disturbingly good job of making them suck so realistically.
I debated on whether or not to discuss this last part, but it’s really best to go in blind—even if I put a spoiler warning and discussed it, I don’t think I could get across how mind-blowingly well-crafted the main twist with the different POVs was. It’s…AGH. IT WAS JUST SO WELL-DONE. I CAN’T SPEAK COHERENTLY ABOUT IT. Again, even if the worldbuilding is confusing. GO INTO THIS BOOK BLIND. YOU WON’T REGRET IT. IT’S AMAZING. TRUST ME. And a sidetone—props to N.K. Jemisin for seamlessly pulling off a 2nd person POV, and, once again, making it look easy.
All in all, a fantasy novel that defied my expectations on nearly every front, resulting in one of the most enjoyable reads I’ve had all year. 4.25 stars!
The Fifth Season is the first book in the Broken Earth trilogy, followed by The Obelisk Gate (book 2) and The Stone Sky (book 3). Jemisin is also the author of The Great Cities series(The City We Became and The World We Make), the Far Sector series for DC Comics, and many other books.
Today’s song:
this song is delightful, and it’s also proof that the middle school boys who used axe body spray instead of showering have always existed in some form or another
That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
I’m not sure if putting Fiona Apple and Radiohead one after the other is the best way to start off the month (and I know I’ll never beat the manipulator music allegations), but that’s how it’s gonna be, so I’m sorry. You’re listening to (reading from?) the same person who broke into tears after seeing The Smile live, so keep that in mind for all future posts.
I wish I could say that I didn’t steal this from both my brother (DUDE SORRY I HAD NO IDEA YOU WERE PUTTING IT IN YOUR POST THIS WEEK TOO HAHAHA) and the second-to-last episode of Only Murders in the Building, but I HAVE HEARD IT BEFORE!! AND LIKED IT VERY MUCH!! It’s one of those songs that I have a very vividly mundane memory of; it was back when we used the radio in my mom’s car, and we were on the 90’s station. The grass looked unusually green in my memory, like some kind of saturated filter. It must’ve been summertime, but I guess my brain decided that the memory was worth turning up the brightness on. My mom made a remark about remembering the exact length of this song: 5 minutes and 42 seconds.
And 5 minutes and 42 seconds of pure artistry is what “Criminal” certainly is. There’s times that I feel like a fraud for liking a band’s most popular song, but sometimes, songs are that way for a reason—it’s a good song. Apple’s voice is immediately hypnotic, rich and sultry like silken fabric and smoky perfume. All at once sleek and eerie, it never loses a note of momentum in its nearly 6-minute duration, crawling along with the juxtaposition of an airy, resonant flute section and pounding piano notes. But behind Apple’s vocals is the creeping sense that something is inches away from going wrong (the…incredible discomfort of the video only adds to that, especially knowing how young she was when it was filmed…ick), but the music toes that line without falling over the edge. I’m almost afraid to get into the rest of Fiona Apple’s discography, in no small part due to the fact that she once held the Guinness Book of World Records for the longest album title (respect for that, though, but…whew), but this song will always remaining hauntingly alluring.
Yeah…right after “Criminal,” the vibes are…not the best, I’ll admit. Probably too late to break out the candles and the nice tablecloth to set the mood. This song knocked over the candle and set the tablecloth on fire. Chaos reigns.
There’s a reason why OK Computer has been one of my favorite albums for years now—for the first time, it was explosive proof of the range that Radiohead was capable of, and the results were often chilling. Songs like “Karma Police” and “Paranoid Android” will always be plenty sinister, but this is just spine-chilling. And yet, once it came on shuffle recently, I couldn’t stop listening. The way this whole album and this song were crafted will never cease to astound me: the distortion at the edges of Thom Yorke’s already creaking voice, the croaking, industrial echoes that form the fabric of the background, the way that the guitars have been destroyed to the point of no return, the screeching from both the electronics and Thom Yorke himself at the very end. It’s the musical version of an abandoned, crumbling shack in the middle of nowhere, complete with rusty nails falling off their hinges, a constant scratching at the walls, and wooden planks hanging on by a single fiber. I know that’s a terrible sell for the song, but if there’s one thing that Radiohead are the masters of, it’s building atmosphere. It may not be a nice, comfy atmosphere, but it sure is an atmosphere.
See? I told you that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. In the middle? Semantics. But either way, who’s more worthy of carrying that light than Ray Davies and company?
I’m frequently ashamed of how often I forget that this song exists, but then I feel silly for feeling ashamed, because nothing matches the feeling of remembering a great song after not listening to it for ages. Especially when it’s a song as delightfully sixties as this. Apart from the stylishly scratches edges of Davies’ voice, “jangly” is the most fitting word I can think of to describe it, and I love me some good jangly guitars—sometimes I find myself missing how guitars sounded in the sixties and seventies, but it’s not like you can’t replicate it. But knowing that this was some of the first of its kind to sound like this, it’s easy to see how much the Kinks have permeated into all kinds of branches of rock—the earliest forms of punk and even metal have taken some notes from them. You can’t deny the power of a 2-minute sixties song.
Back to the British Invasion, and back to one of my favorite albums of all time. See? I can be coherent!
Again, sometimes it’s good to let songs sit. This one happens to be my favorite Beatles song, off of my favorite Beatles album, and one of my favorite songs in general. I know it’s been said to death, but there’s something special about the hidden, secret-weapon power of George Harrison. Most every Beatles song is filled with magic, but there’s something instantly transporting about this song; the instrumentation, up until the solo famously contributed by Eric Clapton, it lets Harrison’s air-light voice soar to unseen heights, wailing—weeping, I should say—along with Clapton’s…weeping guitar. Gently weeping. Sorry. Every time I listen, it’s like being gently scooped up by a giant, benevolent hand, lifted in the air, and left to watch the clouds pass by for 5 minutes. The collective efforts of the Beatles can never be understated: despite their (many) quarrels, their genius put together contributed to a musical movement that really did change the landscape of rock music and beyond forever. And yet, sometimes, it’s more personal songs like these that leave an imprint—I know George Harrison certainly did. And a happy belated birthday to you, too.
There’s something about The New Pornographers that I will never quite be able to put my finger on. Apart from their consistently and delightfully random-word-generator-sounding titles, their lyrics have always felt oddly off-kilter to me. Something about the particular word choices they use, hidden in exceedingly tight and steady indie rock beats. And I love them for that. It’s something that’s never really gone away through any of their discography—again, I don’t claim to be the ultimate New Pornographers historian (that would be a very…suspect title to have), but it seems like they’ve stayed true to that part of themselves, which, in a world where even some indie musicians are often forced to conform to a more palatable sound, is something I will never stop admiring.
As for “Angelcover” itself, it’s a song that took longer to grow on me than the previous single, “Really Really Light,” but is nonetheless a compelling addition to the forthcoming Continue as a Guest. A.C. Newman’s echoing vocals in the verses contrast with Neko Cases’s soaring notes as perfectly as they always have, and every instrument meshes in perfect harmony, from the foundational pianos to the ringing flute notes that accent the song throughout. And as always, the lyrics remain indescribably off-kilter, but in the best way possible: “angels on the bed/with their unplugged electric.” Does it get more indie than that?
Since this post consists entirely of songs, consider all of them to be today’s song.
That’s it for this week’s Sunday Songs! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
The Bookish Mutant 