Technically, this review is an early review, but I didn’t get it as an ARC—I got it through the Amazon First Readers program. Usually, the books they offer aren’t my cup of tea, but The Monstrous Misses Mai seemed intriguing, and I never say no to free Kindle books. I love a good story about witches, and though it was predictable at times, The Monstrous Misses Mai was an entertaining addition to the wide subgenre!
Los Angeles, the early ’50s. Cordelia Mai Yin is down on her luck. Disowned by her parents and out of work, she’s been finding it difficult to find a place to stay. The apartment she eventually finds is cramped and occupied with three other roommates, but they have more in common than just their middle names. They all have unfulfilled dreams—and they all need a way to pay the rent. Callum, a mysterious friend of their landlord, knows it too. He offers them the deal of a lifetime, in exchange for a small sacrifice. Now, Cordi has a stable income and the job of her dreams, but the spells binding her reality are quickly beginning to fade, and the girls are running out of sacrifices to appease them…
TW/CW: body horror (mild), murder, loss of loved ones, manipulation
WARNING: this review contains some spoilers!
I received a free copy of this book as part of the Amazon First Reads program!
In the grand scheme of things, I don’t blame these characters—mostly Cordi—for turning to witchcraft to find a way to pay the rent. You gotta do what you gotta do in this economy. And in the economy of L.A. in the ’50s too, I guess.
The Monstrous Misses Mai was such an entertaining novel! I love a good book about witches, but I would say that it’s slightly different than your typical witch novel in that none of the main characters know what they’re doing with their magic. They’re all but sucked into a magical pyramid scheme that requires greater and greater sacrifices as it drains them little by little. Magic always comes at a cost: we all know that from the get-go, and this novel is no exception. But not knowing what exactly would happen to the women of the Mai residence was what kept the tension up for this novel for me. Although I wanted more out of the eventual climax (more on that later), it was a great narrative tactic to keep the reader guessing—not necessarily about where the plot would go, but about how things would go wrong for the characters.
Van Hoang has excellent prose, and it especially served this novel when it came to describing both L.A. in the ’50s. Her descriptions are so vivid and colorful—there wasn’t a single image in this novel that I couldn’t visualize in almost cinematic detail. The way that Hoang described both the cramped loft that the Mai women share and the glitz and glamor of the fashion world that Cordi finds herself entangled in made the world feel so much more tangible, and the divide between the double lives that the characters lived felt so much more fleshed out and tense as a result. Having such a stark contrast made the creeping feeling of dread for the characters even more palpable—with the magic that they were dabbling, the glamorous lives that they were leading would no doubt catch up to them.
The Monstrous Misses Mai focuses on four women (Cordi, Tessa, Silly, and Audrey), but we’re reading entirely from Cordi’s perspective. Cordi was a compelling enough character, and her struggles—both financial and magical—fueled the plot and pacing in a steady way. However, I wish I could say the same for the other characters. Tessa was next in terms of the most fleshed-out character, but for most of the novel, she only felt like Cordi’s confidante, and not the magical accomplice that she was supposed to be. Silly and Audrey were barely characterized at all—Silly was only seen in sparing glimpses, and what we got of Audrey was entirely one-dimensional; Audrey was the token no-nonsense, “guys, maybe it’s a bad idea to be messing around with forbidden magic” character, and all the resolution gave her was an “I told you so” [strikes pose with hand on hip] moment and no development whatsoever. I feel like this novel could have worked better as a multi-POV novel; if we got into the heads of all four of the Mai women, we could have gotten individual ideas for their specific stakes, risks, and transformations.
Remember what I said about not knowing about the magic? It worked for most of the novel, but when it came to the ending, I found myself wanting more. The resolution felt so predictable—they’re finally too many spells deep to reverse their magic, leaving them in a worse situation than they were before. For a little while, I almost thought it was going to resolve in some kind of tired “oh, women and their vanity hahaha, you know how chicks are” ending, but luckily, it’s 2024, so not to worry about that; I do appreciate that the blame was placed squarely on Callum for being the one who instigated a magical pyramid scheme and nearly stole their souls. However, I feel like there wasn’t a whole lot that was original about Hoang’s take on this kind of story. I expected there to be something strange about what the magic cost them or how their transformations occurred, but all we get is their (very mild) bodily deterioration and some lost fingernails/hair loss. Which, yeah, the fingernails were pretty gross, but I found myself wanting a kind of unique magical toll that it took—something otherworldly that would ultimately expose them. It wasn’t bad, per se, but it wasn’t the most memorable take on this kind of story.
All in all, a story of witchcraft and deception with memorable prose but not-so memorable twists. 3.5 stars!
The Monstrous Misses Mai is a standalone, and Van Hoang’s adult debut. Hang is also the author of the Girl Giant and the Monkey King series (Girl Giant and the Monkey King and Girl Giant and the Jade War) and the forthcoming middle grade novel Hidden Tails.
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.
Happy St. Patrick’s Day! Despite appearances, you theoretically would not actually be able to pinch this week’s graphic for not wearing green, despite wearing mostly brown. Please give it up for Lucy Dacus and her green top.
Also, most of the songs this week are either bittersweet or just………flat-out sad, so…apologies in advance.
I knew it. I knew I’d fall into the Alex G trap eventually. My Car Seat Headrest-poisoned brain finally succumbed to another sad white guy with voice cracks and bedroom recording equipment. It was only a matter of time.
I genuinely can’t decide if “Sarah” is fully tragic, or if there’s some sweetness in there. The atmosphere that Alex G creates certainly leans toward the former; listening to this song is a blur from a car window, sticky with the humidity of the South as you drive past flat, dismal lawns and white-painted houses that have stood there so long that the paint has peeled and molded to brown in the corners. It dwells in a kind of dream-space where the narrator is hesitant to leave, knowing that the consequences will crash down upon them the minute they step foot into the less-green grass on the other side of the fence. Again, my mind has permanently been altered by listening to too many of the earlier, lo-fi Car Seat Headrest songs when I was at the tender, impressionable age of 14, but there’s an enchanting melancholy of the cheap distortion on the guitar and the synths that drift like ribbons underwater, each note trailing off like a thought unsaid. In a way, “Sarah” is a kind of love song, but with a love that’s overshadowed by the damning realization that you’re not the right person for the one you love. And yet, the narrator cannot extricate themselves from Sarah, wanting to cling to her desperately, but knowing that the more they stay, the more they’ll destroy her. It doesn’t feel like a self-hating, depreciating kind of awareness—it’s a crushing realization that the narrator really is, in some way, in a place where they’ll only drag the people they love down with them, against all of their wishes. That’s what makes it tragic to me; Alex G sings half of the song in a higher pitch that drives his voice to shattering cracks, and you can hear his voice break as he sings the line “she loves me like a dog.” The distorted howl of “did I make a mistake?” feels like it drifts up into a smoky, firework-scented sky as it dissipates into digital nothingness, an anguished thought birthed in the depths of introspection.
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
Man o’ War – Cory McCarthy – a painful and poignant journey of learning to love yourself and other people.
Two years ago, I doubt I would have listened to The Dreaming in full. I warmed up to Kate Bush’s earlier stuff more easily, but with the onset of the most recent season of Stranger Things, I was just kind of Kate Bush’d out, which, for a woman of her insane talent, it kind of embarrassing to say. I just couldn’t turn a corner without hearing “Running Up That Hill”—as objectively good a song as it is, the omnipresence of it turned me off. But two years, a listen to The Kick Inside, and more than a good word from my brother (the world has never seen a more fervent Kate Bush superfan), and I finally found myself here. I’m glad I listened to it now—even though my love for “Suspended in Gaffa” (still my favorite track) persisted through the summer of 2022, there was so much weirdness and artistry to the album that it was almost overwhelming—more than once it felt like that in a “mom, come pick me up, I’m scared” way (see: “Get Out of My House”), but overall, that was all apart of the package deal. Admittedly, I can’t fully get on board with all of it; as much as I love the lyrics to “Sat in Your Lap,” that song has irrationally annoyed me since I was a kid, and that quality hasn’t exactly faded—I wish it had, but it’s in the minority of songs that I actively skip on this album. After three albums, this almost feels like Bush’s Hunky Dory: the moment where she had honed her skills and image and officially started going absolutely bonkers.
One such aspect that Bush had nailed by the time that The Dreaming came around was channeling raw, untapped emotion; you can almost feel the bewildered, shaking tears slipping from her eyes as she is faced with something divine in “Suspended in Gaffa” and the feral release in the form of braying like a mule at the end of “Get Out of My House.” It’s overwhelming because it’s exactly what you’re supposed to feel—both of these songs are about separately intense and overpowering emotions, and I believe there’s very few musicians out there who can make that tidal wave translate from the music to the body. That’s already a feat, but given that she was 24 when she released this album…okay, I need to stop googling “how old was Kate Bush when she released [insert album],” because I inevitably get existential. Either way, it’s talent—and “Houdini,” the album’s grief-drenched penultimate track, is testament to that. Recounting the story of Houdini’s wife, Bess, who tried to contact him through seances with a code that the two had devised to ensure that it was him (“Rosabel, believe”); contact was allegedly made in 1929, but she lated believed the code to be the result of trickery from beyond the grave. It’s a deeply tragic story, and Kate Bush pulled no punches in drowning “Houdini” in sorrow. Soft piano dominates the piece, but when it isn’t demure and solemn, Bush lets out a mourner’s wail so convincing that I’d easily believe that she’s channeling Bess Houdini’s bereaved spirit as she bellows out “With your life/The only thing in my mind/We pull you from the water!” That image, of Houdini passing the key to his chains to Bess through a kiss, was what made it on the cover art—I thought it was a wedding ring for the longest time, but to be fair, only the round part is visible on her tongue, and the rest is concealed behind her lips.
Alright. That’s enough of the abject depression for now. Here. Sit down on the bench beside me. Here’s $20, go see a Big Thief.
I’d like to think that I’ve found out about all of these separate Big Thief songs independently, but in reality, all of the songs I end up listening to are the ones brought up by my fantastic brother’s equally fantastic girlfriend, so once again: thank you. If there was ever a song to describe this time of year—nearly spring, almost warm, and the grass is still brown but peppered with sprouts pushing through—it would be “Objects.” Each pluck on the guitar feels like worms and beetles gently crawling through crumbly earth, the shifting of tiny pebbles and dead leaf fragments as they bore tunnels through the ground. This was only recorded about eight years ago, but there’s already a stark difference in Adrianne Lenker’s voice; when I think of this song and earlier songs (see also: “Velvet Ring”), her voice sounds papery, thinner than thumbnails and soft enough to fold into simple origami. It’s gotten simultaneously more feathery, more feral, and richer with the years, but what I’ve heard of these first two Big Thief albums feel like time capsules in her vocal evolution. And like the springtime that “Objects” evokes, the lyrics are all about the spillover of love as it begins to blossom; like the same sprouts that push their way to the sunlight, the object of affection inspires the narrator to “[Leave] the familiar/Air is getting chillier/Stepping outside your skin.” It’s not just Lenker’s voice that feels understated—all of the instruments feel restrained and green, but it conveys that fizzy, bashful feeling of the beginnings of love.
I generally have Joe Talbot of IDLES to thank for a lot of things, namely the musical positivity he’s brought into my life, but I also have him to thank for finding this song. Recently, Talbot was featured on BBC’s CBeebies bedtime story segment, where, after reading the picture book Under the Love Umbrella, he listed off some songs to soothe children. This was one of them, and the minute I heard it, I understood completely.
This song is a very sparing one. In a sense, “Your Young Voice” is barely a song at all. It’s only two lines that repeat for almost three and a half minutes: “And it’s your young voice that’s keeping me holding on/To my dull life, to my dull life.” And yet, it tugs at the heartstrings more than some songs with a full verse-chorus structure of the same length. The lyrics are so simple, and yet, their repetition weaves together what a mountain of unnecessary stanzas do in any other piece; their repetition feels like a promise, a mantra—you get the sense that whoever’s young voice is keeping the narrator anchored, the only thing keeping them clinging to the end of their fraying rope. Repeated over these three and a half minutes, it feels like a prayer to remember why they’re enduring this life in the first place. King Creosote (a.k.a. Kenny Anderson…King Creosote is a fantastic stage name, if I’ve ever seen one) has a voice with a constant, shuddering waver that whispers over your ears like cold wind over the plains, and that waver is what cements that image of frailty and unconditional love for me. “Your Young Voice” is also simple in its composition—mostly acoustic guitar, with some piano that fades into the ending as Anderson’s voice dissipates into the fog, but this song is all about dredging the well of deep emotions from a place of emotions stripped bare: there’s no need for embellishment or flair. No matter if your interpretation of the young voice is a parent to a child or teenagers falling in deep (not the interpretation that would’ve come to mind first, but that’s how Sex Education took it, although they used a cover…not nearly as good as the original, in my opinion), this song is love, boiled down to its tearful essence.
When I was thinking about organizing this graphic, I was just loosely going off of looks, not necessarily what order the songs are in. That’s generally how the process goes. However, there are times where I end up shooting myself in the foot and then turning around and shooting the feet of everybody else who might happen upon this post. I mean…I guess “Houdini” or “Sarah” would been kind of an awful way to end this batch, but it looks like we’re bringing down the house with…Lucy Dacus ruminating on the complicated relationship between her and her mother. Real light stuff to go with your Sunday morning cup of coffee, huh? My bad, guys.
2019, the album where “My Mother & I” appears, is part cover album, part original material, each song released to coincide with a holiday—“La Vie en Rose” for Valentine’s Day, “Dancing in the Dark” for the shared birthday of her father and Bruce Springsteen, and “In The Air Tonight” for Halloween (Lucy, it’s a good cover, but…that’s the song you cover for Halloween? Out of all the objectively spookier songs that exist?), etc. “My Mother & I,” as you probably gathered, was released on Mother’s Day, and also to coincide with Taurus season—both Dacus and her mother are Tauruses, part of what the song anchors itself around (“The stars have a lot to say/About women born in the month of May”). It’s a beautiful song, but I find myself glad that I haven’t been able to connect to it fully; the relationship that Dacus describes with her mother, the distance and later connection emphasized by the fact that Dacus was adopted, is one that seems to be full of fractures, but scored by the love that ultimately tethers them. I’m so close to my own mother that it makes me thankful that, even if I had the aspiration to write music, the only feeling that would come up is gratitude because I have the honor of being her daughter. There’s a restrained kind of sorrow that hints at places where Dacus seems to have needed the guidance of her mother (“They called me an old soul/When I was too young to know/The difference between a soul and a ghost/I feared what was inside/Trapped in my body, kept from the other side/A spirit searching for a second life”). “My Mother & I” comes from a place of wistful rumination, but ultimately reaches for a sense of forgiveness and commonality—Dacus branches beyond the Taurus connection to a wholly human one—”We want love, warm and forever/We want to die in the presence of our loved ones/My mother and I.” It’s…ow. Yeah. I don’t know why I went into a Lucy Dacus song that I hadn’t heard and not thought “hmm, surely it won’t be emotionally crushing!” But in this case, the emotional core comes from a kind of forgiveness that has taken years to spread its roots, but has only grown stronger in the dirt with age. And it seems that the forgiveness is mutual, since she’s since performed this song with her mother on backing vocals:
I’ve been a huge fan of Melissa Albert ever since I fell in love with The Hazel Wood series way back when (2018? No way…I feel old…). I forget how or why it’s taken me so long to pick up her follow-up, Our Crooked Hearts, but it was worth the wait—this novel made me remember exactly what endeared me to Albert’s writing in the first place!
Ivy has found herself at the center of string of unexplainable events. An eviscerated rabbit in her driveway. Secrets buried in the backyard. And now, a nude woman in the middle of the road that Ivy and her boyfriend almost hit with their car. The more she digs into these strange happenings, the more they lead to her mother, who dabbled in forbidden magic when she was a teenager. Ivy, now the age that her mother was when she started tapping into the supernatural, wonders if this magic has come back with a vengeance—and if there’s a way to control it before it comes back for her mother.
TW/CW: animal death/abuse/torture, blood, gore
I don’t know why it took me this long to pick up Our Crooked Hearts and how I could’ve possibly gone three years without reading something of Melissa Albert’s, because wow. This one toes the line between magical realism and horror, but either way you took it, there’s no doubt that Albert is the master of YA magical realism!
Let’s start with Albert’s obvious strength: the lyrical nature of her prose. Though Our Crooked Hearts wasn’t steeped in fairytales like the Hazel Wood duology was, it was no less enchantingly written. Every line feels like its own fairytale, full to bursting with metaphors so unique I found myself highlighting up and down the page. Albert has the ability to weave magic into the smallest of things, from the small moments in the suburbs to the unexplainable events that litter the plot like strange trinkets found on the side of the road. The Hazel Wood was already luscious, but Our Crooked Hearts feels like a maturation of everything that makes Albert’s writing good: a recognition of the magic in everything, but also of the darkness behind the glitter.
The way that Albert writes magic itself was just as compelling! Though the magic system itself is not gone into depth, it’s understood to be the kind of magic that only awakens in the shadows, summoned by girls left to their own devices without any clue of the consequences. I understood some of the unexplained bits to be a byproduct of how little Dana, Fee, and Marion understood of what they were getting themselves into—they knew about as much as we do. Like the relationships running through this novel (more on that later), it is an undercurrent to every decision that they make, rooted in revenge but later a series of bandages to throw over every little breadcrumb they leave behind by accident. On that note, I loved that this wasn’t simply a revenge story—it started as such, but that revenge grew into something so monstrous that it was spread down through generations. Hmm, sure feels like a metaphor to me…
Our Crooked Hearts is written in a dual POV between timelines, following our protagonist, Ivy, and her mother, Dana; Ivy’s perspective finds her in a quiet suburb, while Dana’s perspective is set in Chicago in the ’90s. I loved how the two of them evolved in tandem—dual POVs aren’t especially difficult to pull off, but having them set in different timelines was such a wonderful move to not only elevate the story, but deepen the mother-daughter relationship at the heart of the novel. In terms of literary fiction, I feel like there’s a trend of multigenerational novels (somehow they’re all set in New York) where they hop between time periods and family members; sometimes they’re successful (see: Elizabeth Acevedo), but often, they miss the nuance of familial connection and just focus on being literary. This is far from literary fiction (complimentary), but what this novel does that a lot of others don’t is make the timelines feel distinct. Ivy and Dana have radically different personalities, and though their journeys of dabbling in forbidden magic are similar, their goals—and endpoints—were so different that I found myself fully invested in both of them.
Mother-daughter relationships are at the heart of Our Crooked Hearts, and the dual POV makes for such a fascinating examination of when such relationships become toxic, and the events building up to the toxicity once Dana began raising Ivy. Dana’s perspective was one of constantly being pulled along—by her friends, by authority figures, and by forbidden magic beyond her comprehension. The guilt that resulted from living a life predicated almost entirely on the decisions of other people tragically informed how Ivy grew up—picking up the pieces, and discovering the pieces of her mother along the way. Without spoiling the ending, I loved how it was resolved—there’s no immediate absolution of guilt once familial ties are brought up (unlike a certain recent Disney film beginning with E), but there’s an understanding to how and why things turned out the way they did. Ivy is still left to sift through the wreckage, but all that she thought was lost was not far beyond reach.
Also, one thing that Melissa Albert can always be counted on is top-tier music references. All she had to do was mention Dana putting Liz Phair on the jukebox, and I was already foaming at the mouth.
All in all, a horrific and lyrical observation on magic and teenage girlhood, mothers and daughters. 4 stars!
Our Crooked Hearts is a standalone, but Melissa Albert is also the author of The Hazel Wood duology (The Hazel Wood, The Night Country, and the companion novel Tales from the Hinterland) and The Bad Ones. She is also the founder of the Barnes & Noble Teen Blog.
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.
Don’t let the black color scheme full you—we’ve got a mostly joyful bunch, and if not joyful, at least upbeat. This week: what happened when I listened to Apple Music’s “Love” station on a whim, things that are wholly good and pure, and reflecting on the things that made middle school survivable.
The story of “After Hours” famously goes that Lou Reed wrote this song, but knew it was too pure and innocent for him to possibly sing, so he enlisted Mo Tucker, the Velvet Underground’s drummer, for the task. As much as I love Lou Reed, he did the world a great service by not singing this song—in his hands, there’s no doubt that it would’ve felt like some kind of melancholic “Perfect Day” prequel, but at least he was self-aware enough to realize it. And there’s nobody more fit to sing it than Tucker. Her voice is beautiful, but it’s the voice of someone who rarely sings, if at all, and sings softly when she does. But that’s exactly the kind of voice that “After Hours” calls for. It’s a bashful, rosy-cheeked song, the kind that shyly peers out from behind the curtain to watch the bustling city below. There’s an embarrassment to it, but not the kind that makes you wince—it’s a diary confession written as the last threads of light are fading from the sky, the last pure thoughts filtering out of your brain. It’s so simple, and yet that’s why it digs at such a unique place in my heart—it’s not quite universal, but it’s just the kind of special to nestle up against me like a drowsy cat. There’s practically no end to the influence that The Velvet Underground has had on rock music, but I feel like “After Hours” is overlooked in that aspect—without it, where would the glorious pantheon of wistful women and their acoustic guitars come from?
Bonus: because somewhere down the line we collectively recognized that this song is best performed by female drummers, here’s a performance by Meg White of the White Stripes:
All Born Screaming? Uh, yeah, I sure am. The squeal I let out at 7 A.M. when my mom shared this new single could probably be heard through my whole dorm. I’m just glad that my RA didn’t catch on. After a solid month of teasing, first with the ceremonial removal of the Daddy’s Home blonde wig, then with throwbacks to her performance of “Lithium” with the surviving members of Nirvana at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (to the people saying “oH, shE’s sO oFf-KeY” about this one: did you all just forget how Kurt Cobain sang, or what?) and her performance of “Krokodil” at Coachella in 2012, we finally have the St. Vincent rock album that we’ve always wanted. I’ve gone past the point of trying not to hype myself up for this one—somehow I feel like it’s not gonna be another MASSEDUCTION incident, because everything about this album— the aesthetic around it, and its collaborators (Dave Grohl on drums in this track, and Cate LeBon featuring on another)—feels like it’s going to rock. Annie Clark always seems to have a clever, cheeky album title up her sleeve, but All Born Screaming has to be one of the harder ones. And the album art…well, yeah. Let’s get the elephant out of the room—it’s great album art, but the timing was…not good, as it came just days after Aaron Bushnell self-immolated to call attention to the ongoing Palestinian genocide. (Rest in power. Chip in where you can.) But at the same time, there’s no way that Clark or her team could have predicted that kind of thing. I really don’t feel like she’s at fault here—it’s bad timing, sure, but none of us can be expected to foresee everything in the news.
Back to the song…I need to be stopped. Somebody needs to hold me back…or, at any rate, somebody should’ve held me back on the Thursday morning when “Broken Man” came out, because I listened to nothing but that song from approximately 7-11 A.M, and I had to go about three days before I could listen to it again. I’ve learned nothing. But now that I’ve ridden the initial high, I’m reveling in the new direction that St. Vincent has started to go towards with All Born Screaming. Most of the comparisons I’ve seen wind up somewhere in the neighborhood of Nine Inch Nails, P.J. Harvey, and Rage Against the Machine, and I can see all of those, especially with the former two—the industrial grind of Trent Reznor and the feral, growling vocals of P.J. Harvey are wound all over this track. Like the album art, it’s painted in the colors of ashes, still hot to the touch and rough between your fingertips. Clark has toed this line more often than not (see “Krokodil”), but we’ve gotten an album where she’s fully embraced her heavier side—one that she’s always had the capacity for, but somehow bottled up before throwing herself into All Born Screaming, the first album that she produced herself. It oscillates smoothly between hectic, metronome-ticking pop, uncomfortably sung from inside of a steel crate as she taunts the listener with her head peering out of the lid. It feels like a callback to the frenetic, pent-up energy of her self-titled record [slides Anthony Fantano glasses up the bridge of my nose], but with even more fury—every other lyric feels like a spit-laden taunt: “Who the hell do you think I am?/Like you’ve never seen a broken man?” With each verse that goes by, every word is spat with more intention, more vitriol, swerving between her silky, whisper-vocals to a full-on, sweat-drenched growl as the song closes. And this song’s breakdown is one of the most exciting of her songs in recent years; crashing in with Dave Grohl’s legendary drumming, you can’t describe this song with anything other than “fiery”: it’s a primal scream of a song, burning, biting fervor engulfed in flames. And I can’t help but get excited about the choreography in the music video—as flames dance across her neat, white button-up and slicked-back ponytail, her arms play a game of “the floor is lava” with her torso, jerkily twisting to avoid some point of contact. An eagle-eyed YouTube commenter compared it to her choreography for “Rattlesnake,” and…oh god, now I’m way too excited. Daddy’s Home is the best of her more recent work, if we’re going post-self-titled [slides glasses up even further] but…don’t do it. Don’t give me hope.
Hi. Gonna try and be calm about this one. As calm as I can be when I feel the raw, untamed power of my middle school Hellboy hyperfixation coursing through my veins. The deluxe edition of the Hellboy II soundtrack showing up on my Apple Music suggestions on an unsuspecting Sunday morning was certainly a kick in the pants that sent me hurtling back to 2017 at alarming speeds, and I have yet to reach terminal velocity.
I don’t know what prompted the release—last year would’ve been fine, given that Hellboy II turned 15 that July. Who knows. Just up and popped out of nowhere. But man, I am so glad that it did. Having this expanded edition just goes to show how many gaps were left out of the original soundtrack, even if many of them (including this song) are under a minute long. I’m convinced that there was some kind of rush in putting together the original soundtrack, since now we know that the random tidbits that didn’t seem to come from anywhere that were tacked onto the end of “Finale” were, in fact, two alternate versions of songs that were almost used in the troll market scene. Again: who knows how that happened. But now, the score feels as whole as ever—those short-and-sweet tidbits fill in the crucial gaps, the silly, almost jazzy flourishes to plump up some moments of witty banter (of which there are many), fleshed out a soundtrack that’s cemented itself in the nostalgia catalogue of my mind. “Red’s Ok,” in particular, is the wonderful variation on the tasteful electric guitar motif, shown just as we see Hellboy emerging from the wreckage of a car he’s just landed on top of, wielding the Good Samaritan in the film’s most honest-to-god movie poster moment. And we get the full, 7-minute long cut of “Where Fairies Dwell.” I was born in the right generation. Born too late to see the rockstars I like, born too early to explore space…but born just in time to be able to listen to “Fuck-Used”. Bless.
My good feelings towards Elfman himself have started to fade after the allegations that came out last year, and this doesn’t change that, but I can’t deny the talent that went into this soundtrack, as well as the countless others he’s crafted over the years. Admittedly, his work has become so entangled in my life that, even though I’m all for theoretically separating the art from the artist, the truth is often far more complicated than putting the allegations in one box and their art in the other. I don’t necessarily know if it’s a personal flaw that I can’t detach from people that easily (lord knows I haven’t been able to listen to Arcade Fire as often as I used to without feeling a little moral revulsion). It’s not like J.K. Rowling’s transphobia and other prejudices manifested out of thin air directly after she wrote Harry Potter. And yet, I’d be the world’s worst liar if I denied how dear this film is to me. 13-year-old me saw this and saw an image of found family, of freaks who banded together in a world that was bent on destroying them, of freaks showing affection and forgiveness towards the world and each other, and it stuck. It did something to me. It showed me a possibility of a future that I could live out. At least it’s just the soundtrack in this case, and not the film itself. That’s all safe. I don’t even want to entertain the notion of Guillermo del Toro having any metaphorical skeletons in his closet, because given what the guy’s house looks like, he definitely has some plastic ones lying around. But it seems like he’s the type to keep it to that.
So I’ll be excited for the middle schooler in me. When this came out, I painted my nails and listened to this as they dried, remembering that there was a part of me back then that should be cherished—the one that didn’t care what anybody thought, and the one that watched this movie at least once a month.
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
Hellboy II: The Art of the Movie – Guillermo del Toro – yeah, this was the obvious pick, but what else was I gonna do? Put in the movie novelization? Imagine swapping out “Dr. Manning, suck my ectoplasmic schwanzstucker” for “Manning, you’re a jerk.” Unconscionable.
It’s been almost a month since TANGK was released, and I find myself drawn to it over and over again, simply because it’s so IDLES in a way that I haven’t seen from them. Like I said when I talked about “A Gospel” back when the album was released, it’s a beast that’s half old and half new, but brimming with the same ethos of kindness with a hard-edged sound. While “A Gospel” and “Grace” were the album’s pinnacles of vulnerability, “POP POP POP” just seems like the place where Nigel Godrich went nuts—it feels like IDLES trying to make a Radiohead song, but never once does it feel like a blatant imitation. It has an angular, jerky smoothness to it, with the combination of synths that buzz like a hive of insects with Joe Talbot’s voice—the lyrics aren’t screamed like he tends to do, but with a dry, disaffected drawl that signals irony, but knowing IDLES, it’s a sign of bare sincerity just as any other bellow he lets out. On the inside, the lyrics are similar to most of the material on this album—a shield of kindness against a wave of hatred: “Strong like bull/Vulnerable (vulnerable)/Keep my people up/That’s my tool.”
But there’s something resolute about the way that “POP POP POP” is delivered—it’s almost like he’s drawing not from a place of repeating himself, but convincing himself of his mission. I’ve seen a fair amount of people in internet music circles roll their eyes at IDLES for acting like their lyrics are more radical than they are, which…I halfway understand. A lot of their subject matter in their music isn’t exactly new in terms of political fodder to spin into music. But is there really anything new, political or otherwise, that you can write a song about? I find myself thinking of Audre Lorde and her essay “Poetry is Not a Luxury,” where she states that “…there are no new ideas. There are only new ways of making them felt, of examining what our ideas really mean on Sunday morning at 7 AM…[while] making war, giving birth.” I get why people are put off by IDLES seemingly acting like their ideas are new (I’ve never gotten that impression, but that’s just me), but personally, that was never what was radical about them—it’s their approach to kindness. It’s unclear whether this is the exact criticism that may have spawned “POP POP POP,” but the final verse, chanted like a prayer as the hive of synths descends into a buzzy, Kid-A maelstrom, feels like Talbot convincing himself of the message that he and the band have always pioneered: “Imposter, imposter, living in my head/Am I the spider in your bed?/A dead canary and a thief for a king/A cheerleader valiant/But I will sing about love, love…” And as his voice gets overlaid, the final chant that rings out is the tagline for the later track “Grace” and this album’s tour: “love is the fing.” It feels like reassurance in a sea of self-doubt, a reminder of a message to be held dear, a mission statement lost in the mist but found again when it came time to look back and remember why they created it in the first place. And as with the ending of this song, what persists is four essential words: “love is the fing.” You look back into all of the mess that your creativity has taken you, and what you find at the center is the love that motivated you to create in the first place.
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
Kindling – Traci Chee – I just reviewed this one, so it’s pretty fresh in my mind, but the last, more distorted lyrics made me think of these characters and their struggles to grow out of their trauma and persist—”Imposter, imposter, living in my head/Am I the spider in your bed?/A dead canary and a thief for a king/A cheerleader valiant/But I will sing about love, love…”
The other day, I decided to listen to Apple Music’s Love station on a whim—I was drawing before bed, and I wanted something new to listen to. It ended up having mostly hits, some misses (one of the hits was “After Hours,” but I’m honestly concerned about the fact that there was…an Elliott Smith song on there? Not the weirdest Apple Music pick, but I don’t know if that screams “love”…), but it was the reason that I stumbled upon this song, which I am so grateful for. Scratch that—I’m grateful, but more than anything, I’m more surprised than anything that I’d never heard of her before then, given the company that she kept: she was first discovered by James Brown, and later collaborated with everybody from The Rolling Stones to Pink Floyd (she contributed backing vocals to Dark Side of the Moon, my god…). With all that, a musical based on her life, and a number one hit, you’d think we would be hearing more about her, but alas, nope. Whether or not that’s just another testament to how history treats Black women or the fact that she stepped away from the mainstream music industry after the ’70s is up in the air, but either way, I’m glad the Love station brought me to her.
I’ve always had a soft spot for that late ’50s-early ’60s soul. As much as I laud other artists for having intricately crafted lyrics, sometimes, it’s simplicity that wins out—and that was exactly what labels like Motown were the best at producing. Artists like The Temptations, the Ronettes, and others feel like they’ve distilled love—one of the most complex human emotions—down to its barest essentials. Every song becomes something so tender and universal that it feels like a warm blanket for the soul. Along with the rich vocals that often came with it, and you’ve got one of my favorite musical soft spots—I’ll take shreddy guitars any day, but sometimes, all I need is some wholesome love. That’s exactly how “Just One Look” feels—brimming with warmth, and the perfect tempo for slow-dancing in the kitchen. Only seconds into the song, and you can hear exactly why Troy’s fans gave her the nickname “Mama Soul”—soulful is the only adequate word to describe her rich, soaring voice. Combined with the air light touch on the piano keys, and I’ve got another comfort song in my collection—there’s something to be said for simplicity.
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
DC: The New Frontier, vol. 1 – Darwyn Cooke – the lyrics for this song are so universal that they could cover any kind of romance, so instead, I went for the time period; the late ’50s-early ’60s setting of The New Frontier is settled right in the same era.
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!
Happy Friday, bibliophiles, and more importantly, Happy International Women’s Day!
Here in the U.S., March is Women’s History Month! In the years since I’ve started making these posts, the amount of attacks on women—in terms of laws attacking our bodily autonomy (as well as the bodily autonomy of trans and nonbinary people) and worldwide violence—has only increased. And amidst all of this turmoil, all I can take from this is that now, more than ever, we need feminism. We need to educate people, we need to help people to become less ignorant about the litany of issues plaguing marginalized groups here in the states and elsewhere. That, to me, is the most insidious consequence of the book bans spreading across the country: you take away a child’s ability to learn about perspectives outside of their own, and you produce an ignorant generation that does not question authority. In the absence of sound authority figures, books, more than ever, are our most valuable teachers.
Another change from my lists in previous years is that since my reading tastes have expanded, I’ve added adult and nonfiction books to this list—all of which I believe are just as valuable to feminism as any other book I’ve included. Enjoy!
*NOTE: The Siren, The Song, and the Spy is book 2 in a series, but I feel it should be included on this list for the feminist themes included in this book in particular.
TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK! Have you read any of these books, and if so, what did you think of them? What are your favorite feminist books? Let me know in the comments!
Today’s song:
never thought I’d go through this whole album bc I was so Kate Bush’d out in 2022 but this one’s fantastic almost all the way through
That’s it for this list! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
And you may ask yourself…me? Doing ARC reviews again? Kind of. I did stop doing them in late high school because my schedule was getting too busy to stay on top of them, and now, I’m even busier than I was back then, so I doubt I’ll go back to Edelweiss. But I entered myself into a Goodreads giveaway for Kindling, and I was lucky enough to receive a physical ARC! I’m glad to say that Traci Chee’s latest fantasy novel doesn’t disappoint—innovative and heartbreaking in equal measure.
The war is over, but in the wreckage are kindlings. They are child soldiers, pawns imbued with unimaginable powers who fought and died on the front lines, all for a war effort they could not comprehend. Now, there is peace, but it is uneasy—the violence has not ceased, and those who were left stranded by the war have nowhere left to go. From the ashes, seven former kindlings have come out of the woodwork, ready to fight one last battle to ensure the safety of their country—and their futures.
I received this copy in a Goodreads giveaway. Thank you to HarperCollins publishing and Goodreads for this ARC!
TW/CW: graphic violence, child soldiers, blood, war themes, PTSD, loss of loved ones
Without a doubt, this is Traci Chee’s most experimental—and most tragic—book to date. It’s a book that manages to execute so many feats of acrobatics and lands every single one of them; in every way, Kindling is a success!
First off: the element that probably grabbed everyone straightaway. Not only does Kindling have seven POVs, all of them are written in second person. Both of those tricks are already a hefty load to take on, but to execute them both at the same time? That’s just madness. And yet Traci Chee pulls it off with flying colors. A lot of second-person fiction that I’ve read uses it as a way to draw the reader in, but after that, there’s nothing innovative about the story beyond a difficult POV to the story. But Chee utilizes it in such a unique way—it’s not just a clever trick, but a way to make us feel closer to these characters. You are the one witnessing these atrocities, war ravaging the land. You are the one watching your friends die. There’s an instant connection. And for the most part (with some exceptions), Chee manages to make all of the characters feel distinct while pulling off second person. Now that’s impressive.
I always love novels that explore the aftermath of war, or at least some kind of conflict; in a sea of both fantasy and sci-fi novels that have neat, happy endings in the wake of devastating wars, Chee really seems to understand the messiness of picking up the pieces after such a tragedy has ripped the world of Kindling apart. Everything happens after the war that changed the characters’ lives, and everything is still in chaos and turmoil. Aside from the “one last fight” trope, used as an homage to the inspirations for this novel (Seven Samurai and The Magnificent Seven), it gave a ripe opportunity to explore trauma—not just the inherent trauma that comes with being a child soldier, but the trauma of grappling with PTSD at a very young age, and the trauma of being deified by the war effort, in Amity’s case. Never at any point is Kindling an easy read—and that’s exactly the way it should be.
Kindling is squarely a found family novel, but Chee explores an aspect of it that is often overlooked—found families formed through trauma. Each of the characters, most of which are appropriately fleshed out, are given the individuality and arcs that they deserve, but all of them are informed by the war, and their status as ex-Kindlings is what binds them—and motivates them. They’re sticking together for survival, but the friendships that they form in the heart of hardship are what makes the core of this novel so emotional. There are so many tender moments shared between the characters, and they made the stakes of this novel so much more palpable—you felt, more than ever, that they really were children, and that they would never be the same after being used as pawns of war.
SPOILERS AHEAD
Tragically, Traci Chee also demonstrates in this novel the two most crushing ways of writing fictional deaths. Particularly with Emara and Amity, Chee is skilled at timing them just right to make the most impact on both the reader and the characters. Emara’s death was the most sudden, and it having it happen so quickly after building up that she might have been safe was a way to not just shake the characters, but up the stakes—if Emara wasn’t safe, then neither were the rest of them. Amity, on the other hand, was set up from the beginning to die from Kindling burnout (the result of overuse of her magical powers), but you got to know her so deeply and intimately that, even though you knew from the beginning that she was doomed, her death felt just as tragic as it would have been if it was completely unexpected, like Emara. What I’m trying to say is that this book destroyed me. Traci Chee knows how to do it a little too well.
All in all, a novel that balanced tenderness and tragedy in equal amounts, making for a poignant novel about war and the bonds that bind us. 4 stars!
Release date: February 27, 2024
Kindling is a standalone, but Traci Chee is also the author of the Sea of Ink and Gold trilogy (The Reader, The Speaker, and The Storyteller), We Are Not Free, and A Thousand Steps Into Night.
Today’s song:
That’s it for this week’s book review! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has treated you well.
This week: spring green for March, old dogs, and the consequences of the fact that at least 90% of my friends are gay and their music tastes rub off on me.
This just in: the sad girl kool-aid has never left my system, and it likely never will. Buckle up.
“What Are We Gonna Do Now” lives squarely in the liminal space of uncertainty, as the title implies. It feels like the tense opening to a film; I could just be stuck on this imagery of the line “and we’re still on call with the nurses,” but I can’t help but imagine an opening shot panning out from the slow spikes of a heart monitor, slowly letting out beeps as Indigo De Souza’s voice gently drips like an IV with that lingering, trailing question: “what are we gonna do now?” Almost everything is gradual about this song, as if the verses were frozen in time: a picture of a person standing on the street while snowflakes suspended in midair decorate the space around them. De Souza’s voice dips and dives into nooks and crannies that only a cat could fit into, army-crawling through the shadows as she describes the wear and tear of a relationship in the middle of turmoil—not necessarily on the verge of a fracture, but in the middle of the storm that they aim to push through together. Exhaustion and frustration tinges it (De Souza’s delivery of “and I’m never cooking up what you’re craving” remains one of my favorite parts of the whole song), but it’s never the kind so intense that would throw their love out the window—it’s the determination of trying to find out exactly how to fix things, and scrabbling around, searching for answers in desperation. Like the ebb and flow of love, the instrumentals swerve from a near standstill to a rousing, guitar-driven chorus and back to quiet again, but after the first verse, nothing is the same; it has the same kind of barely-contained chaos of songs like Wilco’s “Via Chicago” and Mitski’s “The Deal,” with a sense that the anxiety of making amends and grasping for solutions. As De Souza’s airy voice rises like she’s gasping for air after emerging from the ocean, trembling drums and tambourines slip in and out of time, ever so slightly off-kilter and teetering, like one sneeze would send them all into disarray. Unlike the former two songs, though, it never fully gives in, but the unraveling is always at the back of the song’s mind, like an overflow of fearful thoughts as they try to pick up the pieces, but a sense of deep-breathing control as De Souza picks themselves back up.
Full disclosure: I definitely ruined this album for myself. I knew it was going to be a good album, and it 100% is, but I’d already listened to about 3/4 of it, so there were no surprises left. All of the songs I remembered were already favorites, and the ones I hadn’t yet discovered weren’t as instantly classic as the others (sorry, “Derelict”). But that’s on me. Maybe on my parents for playing it so much in the car over the years, but mostly on me. Whoops.
That’s not to say that Odelay is a bad album at all—in fact, it’s quite the opposite. It makes me miss the old Beck, the one who didn’t scrub everything to an unnecessary polish, but instead made his music like a sculpture made from bits and bobs found in the junkyard—a bit of a tire here, an old, rusty car hood there, some nuts and bolts sprinkled on top for a finishing touch. It’s a collage, but not necessarily in the way that artists like De La Soul or The Beastie Boys make their collages: while their infinitely clever concoctions feel like they oil every sample into a unified organism of unlikely pieces, Beck’s method (for a while, at least) was to make every spare and found part stick out like sore thumbs, but so much so that all those sore thumbs eventually made a hand so absurd that it makes you think how does that even function as a hand? And yet it’s the perfect hand. There’s no other way that “Hotwax” would work without “I’m the enchanting wizard of rhythm.” In fact, the absurdity of all these samples make this mutant (no pun intended) record so memorable—nobody was doing it quite like Beck. Take this song, which starts out with a rasping scream, then descends into twangy and almost docile acoustic-guitar driven rock. It’s not the heat-waved calm that “Jack-Ass” (my favorite track on the album) exudes, but it’s got that same lazy drawl to it, every word curled at the edges like scraps of paper singed by a campfire. Odelay hadn’t yet reached critical mass of clever silliness that made ’90s-2000’s Beck so fun (that would be Midnite Vultures), but he had plenty of fun to spare—I always find myself laughing at the final lines that Beck sings as the track fades out like a car driving out of view, obscured by the wobbling lines of a heat wave: “Going back to Houston/Do the hot dog dance/Going back to Houston/To get me some pants.” You just can’t deliver the word “pants” with that much emphasis and have it not be funny. Them’s the rules. I apparently have the humor of a five-year-old, but evidently, so does Beck, and we’re all the better for it.
Whenever I go to write about The Shins, I always end up going straight for the purple prose. It’s like the way I get with Radiohead, except they invoke something akin to religious fervor in me. I’m too far gone. But there’s something about James Mercer and his perpetually rotating cast of characters that evokes the lyrical side of my writing. Perhaps it’s that part of me connecting to that part of him, because he’s certainly got songwriting chops for days.
“New Slang” has been lingering in my life for decades; I faintly associate it with a period sometime in elementary or middle school. I think it may have been at the end of a playlist I listened to frequently. The Shins are never all that far from my mind, but this was the perfect song to shuffle out of the blue, soft and smiling like an old dog with white patches threaded into the fur of its snout. And I ran right up to pet that dog—god, I missed this song. Hello, old friend. Mercer has long since mastered the art of the old heartstring-tugging acoustic song, and while its as hipstery as it gets, there’s a calmness to it, a serenity like no other. And yet, for all intents and purposes, it’s James Mercer’s equivalent of a pop-punk “I’m getting out of this town” song; the lyrics were inspired by his experiences separating from Albuquerque, New Mexico, where the first iterations of The Shins had tried to take root. Disillusioned by a scene that he described as “macho, really heavy, and aggressive,” Mercer and company branched outwards, where their lyrical folk could have more meaning. “New Slang” was Mercer’s way of “flipping off the whole city,” as he described it (“Gold teeth and a curse for this town”), but there’s something beautiful in how quietly this song shoots its bitter middle finger. It’s not the jerky angst of separation that pop-punk lends to the subject, but instead the moment of looking back into the sunset, knowing that everything you’ve left behind is in the dust with the approaching night. Perhaps that’s where that serenity I feel comes from—the serenity of knowing that what’s in the past is in the past, and that it has no control over your life anymore. It’s underfoot, only tire tracks in the dirt now. You can’t help but feel a wave of peace at the thought.
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
Trouble Girls – Julia Lynn Rubin – while Lux and Trixie’s reasons for ditching their town are more complicated, there’s no less of a feeling that they’re giving it the finger the whole way out.
Full disclosure: I hate the original version of this song. Hate it. It stinks of that kind of that faux-earnest, country-leaning pop that forced itself down everyone’s throats in the mid-2010’s like a contagion. If this weren’t obviously a breakup song, I know my music teacher would have made my 5th grade class sing this. I hate to relentlessly dog on a song, but also…Christ. This made me throw up in my mouth a little.
Phoebe Bridgers, on the other hand? A godsend. Leave it to her to make the original lyrics, some of which were actually good sound good, and not like they were being shoved down through the godforsaken Mumford & Sons strainer. I will give Manchester Orchestra (posers, they’re not even from Manchester…) some credit: “you’ve become my ceiling” is genuinely a beautiful lyric. But I just wish it wasn’t being delivered with that smarmy, offensive excuse for authenticity. Again: Phoebe Bridgers is our savior. She grounds this song enough to make the turmoil within it feel real. Never once did this song need belting, stadium-rock grandeur: it needed clarity, a sense of calm amidst the chaos, and a steady hand on an acoustic guitar. It’s got slightly more effects than Bridgers usually allots to a song of this tempo, but it hits the balance of flourish and that acoustic sincerity that she’s come to be known for. It’s a breakup song, but although some of those call for grandiose declarations of sorrow, some of them need time to sit in silence and wallow it in, and that’s exactly the treatment that Bridgers gave “The Gold.” I’ll just go ahead and pretend that she wrote it. Yup. Manchester Orchestra? Who is she?
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
Vinyl Moon – Mahogany L. Browne – similarly, this novel in verse deals with the fallout of a relationship built on mistrust.
Before I listened to the full song, I distinctly remember seeing a snippet of this song advertised somewhere on Instagram and thinking something along the lines of “god, this is pretentious.” And I stand by that. It’s still pretentious. But in context, it’s a good listen.
I’ve heard a decent amount of buzz surrounding The Last Dinner Party, usually falling in one of two camps: that they’re out to save rock and roll and bring it back to its glory days, or that they’re just…okay? The former argument, while I like it in concept, reeks of the kind of mentality that “modern music isn’t good anymore” because it’s not all Pink Floyd, which…okay, cool if you like Pink Floyd, but also…creative rock didn’t die as soon as Y2K hit? You just have to look a little harder now that rock isn’t the reigning influence on popular music anymore. In the modern day, we treat rock music like we often treat women: as something to be saved, when all along, it’s been doing just fine, thank you. I doubt we’ll ever go back to those days, and maybe we shouldn’t—there’s no way you can completely replicate a movement in its full, temporal context, and maybe that’s okay. I’m all for bringing back glam rock, but chances are, anything you try to resurrect is going to feel displaced in our modern day context. You can take inspiration from them, but personally, it’s a hard thing to recreate in all of its flesh and blood.
Which…seems like a good deal of what The Last Dinner Party are going for. Frontwoman Abigail Morris has regularly emphasized how much she and the band enjoy being pretentious (if having their debut album titled Prelude to Ecstasy wasn’t enough of an indication), and if that’s what’s bringing them joy, then all power to them! They’re talented musicians, for sure. Weirdly, the other two songs of theirs that I listened to just sounded like…any old indie pop song, which I kind of hate to say, but if you’re all about “saving rock n roll” and just putting out that, then I feel like you have to keep your mission consistent. But you certainly get that feel from “Caesar on a TV Screen.” As far as the structure goes, it feels slightly disjointed, but the more I watch the music video, I get what they’re going for—a song with a distinct, three-act structure, emulating the epic, Shakespearean twists and turns that inspired it. There’s loads of drama to spare, from the rush of strings in the third act to Morris’ impassioned howl of “everyone will like me!” at the song’s exiting flourish, like she’s brandishing a prop sword with every word. It’s dripping with that kind of theatrical, ’70s and ’80s drama—there’s Queen written all over it, and I can’t help but think that some of that drama was informed by Kate Bush. And…yeah, Freddie Mercury, Kate Bush, and David Bowie, the latter of whom the band have repeatedly cited as one of their primary influences, are probably some of the most colossal shoes to fill in terms of musical artistry. But there’s no doubt that The Last Dinner Party are a skilled bunch in their own right—and god, they look like they’re having the time of their lives. It’s exactly the kind of excess, maximalism, and drama that their band name implies.
Happy Thursday, bibliophiles! Happy Leap Day too, I suppose.
Already the end of February, huh? Good riddance honestly. Not that I had a bad month, but I’m just ready for all this gross, slushy weather to be over with.
Let’s begin, shall we?
GENERAL THOUGHTS:
February’s definitely still been busy, but now that I’m more used to my schedule and able to keep myself on track, it’s all good. Things are getting into gear with my classes, I’ve been able to make time to write and make art and hang out with friends, and the weather is starting to warm up. Key word is starting. We’ve had snow almost every Friday or weekend without fail for…probably a month or two? Colorado. The meteorological indecision never ends. But luckily, other than that first week, I’ve been able to blog somewhat steadily.
Reading has been similarly good—sadly, most of the books I’ve read for school so far haven’t been my favorites (apologies in advance to all the Jane Austen fans here), but other than that, there have been very few misses! I also shifted my focus to books by Black authors this month for Black History Month, and I’ve read both familiar and new-to-me authors and had tons of fun. I also ended up having two five-star reads in a month, so I’d call it good! I’m glad that I’ve been able to keep up my reading schedule, because there’s so many books I’m excited to read soon! A whole bunch of holds from Libby have been pouring in, all of which I’ve been eagerly anticipating…
Other than that, I’ve just been cranking out tons of writing, drawing here and there, watching Abbott Elementary, BEEF (absolutely SHAKESPEAREAN lemme tell you), The Bear (ngl I’m mostly just in it for the needle drops), and Constellation (WHAT IS GOING ON 😀), and being in a near-constant state of being on my toes since I never know when we’re gonna get dumped with snow.
Oh, and I think we have the best possible end to a month that I’ve had in several months…BABE. WAKE UP. NEW ST. VINCENT JUST DROPPED. WE’RE GETTING THE ALBUM, TODAY’S THE DAAAAAAAAAAAY
APRIL 29TH CANNOT COME SOON ENOUGH.
READING AND BLOGGING:
I read 17 books this month! Definitely more than I expected to read, but I’m about at the point in the year where I’m familiar enough with my schedule that I can squeeze in more time for reading. There were definitely a few stinkers in the mix, but I had not one but two five star reads this month, which was pretty incredible! My eternal thanks to Audre Lorde and R.F. Kuang.
I believe I heard about The Melancholy of Summer somewhere around the blogosphere when it first came out last May, and I figured it would be a good piece of fiction between several hefty fantasy reads. Louisa Onomé is a new-to-me author, and now that I’ve read her newest work, I don’t regret it—a coming-of-age story that pulls no punches.
Summer is alone. Waiting to turn 18 and gain her independence, she has been staying at friends’ houses after her parents were convicted of fraud and went on the run without warning. Left to her own devices, Summer has been able to keep her status a secret, but after her counselor discovers that she has been living alone, she’s sent to live with a cousin she barely knows. Struggling to balance her double life with a cousin who’s barely more independent than she is, Summer is faced with a myriad of difficult decisions for the future. But Summer is left with a burning desire to find out what really happened to her parents, and it will take her to places she didn’t bargain on going to.
First off: this isn’t about the book itself so much as the marketing. About the marketing…whose idea was it to tag this book as “sad girl summer”? How do you see a book tackling a myriad of sensitive topics, including but not limited to parental abandonment, homelessness, and familial betrayal and go “ah, yes, ✨sad girl summer✨” WHAT? I just wanna talk to whoever made that decision. Just a quick chat. WHY? And I thought trope marketing couldn’t get any worse…
All this is to say that I’m saying these things because it’s more than The Melancholy of Summer deserves. Situated on the older side of YA, it’s not just a coming-of-age story: it’s an unflinching portrayal of the topics I discussed earlier. There’s no sugarcoating or dancing around the reality of issues here. It’s a heartbreaking novel, but it’s not one that employs horrific events for shock value—they’re an authentic consequence of Summer’s circumstances. I haven’t read a lot of novels—especially not YA novels—that have dealt with these kinds of subjects, but I really respect the route that Onomé chose to go down in terms of portraying them. Although I can’t speak to their accuracy, it feels like an unapologetic respectful depiction of parental abandonment and homelessness, along with the emotional turmoil that brings.
Going off of that, Summer’s character felt just as authentic. She really feels like a teenager, and not in a forced way; it really should be a given for a YA novel, but you’d be surprised at how many authors miss the mark. Summer isn’t just a teenager—she’s a messy one, an emotional one, and sometimes a brazen and impulsive one, but never once did it feel like Onomé was forcing it down our throats that she’s 17. Summer’s yearning for independence felt all too real, especially given her circumstances; none of the pent-up anger that she expresses felt out of place, and none of her emotional outbursts were without reason. Summer felt, more than anything, just how someone with teenage, volatile emotions would feel having to grapple with circumstances out of her control, and that’s a large part of why The Melancholy of Summer was so successful for me.
That being said, although most of the plot points did feel appropriately and respectfully handled, much of the development (or lack thereof) with the character of Olu felt very rushed and unresolved. The plot point about her being groomed, as well as the plot of Summer trying to help her out at the venue, felt like it was tossed in as a slice of filler, and therefore felt half-baked at best. With how authentically Onomé portrayed a lot of the topics in the novel, it seemed uncharacteristic that something as serious as grooming was brushed over so quickly and resolved in a way that could only be described as unsatisfying. It was all but a footnote, and it seemed like it wanted to be a major plot point, but with how unceremoniously it was shoved into the middle of the novel, it felt poorly handled.
This was a symptom of a larger issue in The Melancholy of Summer overall; other than Summer, hardly any of the side characters get the development that they need. Save for Summer’s aunt, the side characters that we’re meant to care for almost as much as Summer were often one-note and tossed aside whenever the plot called for it. Tanya, Summer’s cousin and guardian, could have been a vital character to explore, and although we do get the sense that she still feels like a kid and doesn’t know any more than Summer does about navigating life, she shows hardly any growth throughout the course of the novel. The same can be said for Olu, Sid, and many of the other people that we meet. It was clear that Summer got the most attention, and yes, she’s the protagonist, but that doesn’t mean that the side characters had to be left in the dust.
All in all, a heartbreaking and authentically-written novel with a vibrant protagonist but a not-so-vibrant supporting cast. 3.5 stars!
The Melancholy of Summer is a standalone, but Louisa Onomé is also the author of Twice as Perfect, Like Home, and Pride and Joy.
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.
Took me this long to get to a blue period…it didn’t happened until almost three months in the year, but of course it’s the one that ends up having Faith No More and Kermit the Frog in the same breath. Duality of Madeline.
In an outcome that should be surprising to no one, Chelsea Wolfe’s new record, She Reaches Out To She Reaches Out To She, absolutely rocks. Dare I say it might be one of her best albums in years? Birth of Violence was a solid album, but I remember it having some lulls, but then again, I haven’t listen to it since its release in 2019. I haven’t listened to her entire discography, but I’ve never met a Chelsea Wolfe album I didn’t like, but there are some that nudge their way past the others to the tidal wave of goth revelry that she’s come to be known for. I’ve meant to review at least a handful of the excellent singles that came out of this album, but I remember specifically that “Whispers In The Echo Chamber” came out at a time when I got unexpectedly swamped…when there were a bunch of fantastic blue songs I wanted to talk about. Oopsie. No time like the present, amirite?
In terms of themes, Wolfe always has something poetic up her sleeve, whether she’s making the skeleton of her album out of Jungian analysis or Tarot. They’re all deeply personal, but She Reaches feels more intimately so; here, she grapples with separation of all kinds: from past relationships, from present systems, and from future pathways that her life could lead her down. But as she’s draining the gore of all the past messiness out of her system, she’s burning bridges and building her new phoenix of a self out of the charred remains. Back to “Whispers In The Echo Chamber,” where she declares “this world was not designed for us,” (GO OFF QUEEN), whispering like a mysterious necromancer into the ear of the magic-oblivious king. The album finishes on “Dusk” and its promises of “Watch[ing] this empire as it burns and dissipates/Haunted, on fire, on the wings that we create” (GO OFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF), with Wolfe finally detaching herself from this lowly, undeserving mortal plane, and giving a final, cold look to us mortals before disintegrating into a cloud of vampire bats. God, I love her. With such stacked competition, I was grasping for a real favorite on the album, but I cannot stop coming back to “House of Self-Undoing.” After the triumphant declaration of independence in “Whispers,” the second track finds Wolfe extricating herself from the turmoil that she sought to free herself from (“In the house of self-undoing/I saw your face”). Most of the heavier tracks on She Reaches are heavy in the way of Wolfe’s goth dark theatricality and billowing cloaks, but “House of Self-Undoing” is pure rock, grinding with percussion like speeding footsteps and guitars smoother than hotel bedsheets. There’s a nervous, frantic energy that claws its way out of every note, just as Wolfe’s lyrics point to, as the boldness of separation gives way to the physicality of fleeing the old and bursting into the new. It’s the journey of clawing up through the earth and spitting out the dirt in your mouth, before your caked fingernails break the surface to find the sunlight.
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
Gideon the Ninth (The Locked Tomb, #1) – Tamsyn Muir – as much of a disappointment Harrow the Ninth turned out to be, I can’t deny how fun this book was. The general underworld/undead imagery is already fitting enough, but the themes of separation from a past life are the icing on the cake.
The only proper way to describe “Midlife Crisis” is something along the lines of a feat of acrobatics. There’s so many twists, turns, and midair flips that this song executes one after the other that just makes you wonder about the mad scientist’s lab that it was surely cooked up in, because surely something bizarre and outside of human comprehension went into polishing this track to a shine. God, it just goes sohard.
Like Post, “Midlife Crisis,” over 30 years after its release, sounds like everything and nothing, but in this case, what a decent portion of the world of hard rock took from Mike Patton’s vocal acrobatics and spit out was…nu metal. Jesus. Urgh. I’ll dispense from my rant about why nu metal gets on my nerves since it’s more of a personal vendetta than one that has any kind of logical basis (listen, you try and do 50 push-ups at Tae Kwon Do while Linkin Park is blasting through the speakers), but they would’ve had nothing if not for this song. You can hear exactly where Korn got their Cookie Monster gibberish-vocals from on a single go-around on this song. What sets Mike Patton apart from them, however, is the range that he crams into these astounding four minutes; you’ve got said grimy Cookie Monster vocals, but just as quickly, he turns a corner into a soaring smoothness that makes you wonder if somebody slipped him the world’s most powerful cough drop in the time it took him to switch over. Going from those kinds of extremes so quickly and seemingly without breaking a sweat…if that’s not talent, I don’t know what is. And the scorn that this song radiates—”You’re perfect, yes, it’s true/But without me, you’re only you.” DAMN. Also, for the longest time, I thought that the line afterwards was “you’re menstruating hard” and not “your menstruating heart,” which…yeah, the actual line makes much more sense, but somehow, I feel like Patton seems like the type of guy to just say a line like “YOU’RE MENSTRUATING HARD 🗣🗣🗣🗣” with that delivery out of the blue. It was ’90s hard rock. Somehow, it works. Faith No More struck gold with this gift of a song, for sure.
…and I haven’t even gotten to the synth breakdown at 2:22. Good lord. Speaks for itself, really.
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
Invisible Things – Mat Johnson – scorn, grime and polish in equal measure, and a bunch of alien abductees recreating Trump-era American in a bubble city on Europa. Time to party, right?
I meant to talk more about Plastic Beach back in December when I first listened to it, but I can’t not come back to it, like most Gorillaz albums that I’ve listened to in full. (Maybe not Song Machine. Like…half of Song Machine. And not Cracker Island. Okay, the first three Gorillaz albums.) Besides being a sweeping showcase of both Albarn’s overflowing musical talent and the storytelling about a tech-invaded future and rampant consumerism, Plastic Beach, I think, is the first album that cemented their reputation for having a continuously stacked list of guest artists. I sincerely doubt that there will ever be another band to have Snoop Dogg, the surviving members of The Clash, and Lou Reed on the same album, and that’s not even because Lou Reed is no longer with us. The minute that I found out that there was a song that had both De La Soul and Gruff Rhys from Super Furry Animals on it, my soul just about left my body. There’s just no band quite like Gorillaz in the way they can unite and fuse genres and appeal to so many without selling their souls. I fully believe that Gorillaz are the people’s band. The arty people like them. The pretentious music nerds like them. The jocks like them. The alt people like them. I have a distinct memory of these two bros in my senior year chem class going through their Spotify, and then one of them declared “BRO, THIS IS OUR SONG,” and I fully expected something absolutely rancid, but no. It was “Dare.”DARE. Gorillaz is one of the few bands that have something for everybody, and not in the way that people say that they like “every genre” of music. Albarn’s many strengths in this part of his life hasn’t just been the varied influences that he brings to his music, but the way that he gives them a chance to have their say—Gorillaz is an amalgam of so many gems from so many places, and yet, save for some of their newer albums, hardly any of it doesn’t feel like them.
Onto “Sweepstakes.” This is one of the two Mos Def features on Plastic Beach (the other being “Stylo,” which was incredible live, by the way), and I’m frankly baffled that this one doesn’t get the attention that some of the other tracks on the album do. I’d risk it all to see this one live, especially if they actually bring out Mos Def and the Hypnotic Brass Ensemble onstage. In the video above, Mos Def comes out in…basically an Abraham Lincoln getup, if we count the beard, announcing prizes like a slick auctioneer, before launching into the truly charged, energy-pumped vibrations of this song. Energized is the only word you can ascribe to this song, really. From the beginning, the drum machine thrums a beat that hiccups so deliberately that you can’t help but start jumping. Bringing these three creative forces together on the song was the perfect recipe for a classic—Albarn’s penchant for engineering iconic dance beats, Mos Def’s commanding gravitas that he brings to each lyric, and the creeping, tidal force of the Brass Ensemble as the joyous, urgent burst of horns emerge from the curtain of synths like the chestburster clawing its way out of Kane’s body. It’s a song that begs to be heard, meant to be blasted down the streets in waves of confetti and marching feet—and that’s not just because of the brass that commands the latter half of the song. And for a song about mindless consumerism, exploitation and the duping of the working class by the rich (“‘Who’s the winner?’ Said the dealer/Every player, ‘Yeah, me'”), the infectious triumph is the most intentional thing about this track. Only fitting that The Hypnotic Brass Ensemble’s track “War” would be used for the Hunger Games movies only a few years after this. You’re a winner!
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
Prime Meridian – Silvia Moreno-Garcia – telling the working class that they can do anything they set their heart to while the ruling class ignores them completely and colonizes Mars, anyone? Sound familiar?
Guess I just can’t stop listening to XTC, huh? In case you were wondering (because you totally were, I’m sure), “The Ballad of Peter Pumpkinhead” continues to have me in an unbreakable chokehold, but this one is good competition.
’60s inspiration can be found in almost any XTC song you can pull out of a jar, even if you ignore The Dukes of Stratosphear, which were just them under another name marketed as a “lost find” of the ’60s (and then ended up outselling any of their XTC records…ouch). For me, “1000 Umbrellas” immediately screams The Beatles, specifically in 1967—somewhere between Sgt. Pepper and Magical Mystery Tour. It’s pure theatre; even if the album, Skylarking, wasn’t a vague concept album, it practically begs for some kind of dramatic performance. Can’t you just imagine a scene of an aerial view of a bunch of pedestrians holding umbrellas in the rain, and Andy Partridge right smack in the middle of them, lamenting the loss of love as the rain pours down on him? Maybe the umbrellas morph into those pastel, spinning teacup rides as Patridge sings “And one million teacups/I bet couldn’t hold all the wet/That fell out of my eyes/When you fell out with me?” I particularly love how the orchestral arrangements seem to rise and fall, tilting just barely out of neatness and into delirium as Partridge wails, stumbling right along with the beleaguered strings section. On the heels of “Ballet for a Rainy Day,” the rain turns from the kiss of spring to cold, damp misery (a word that he frequently drags out like a ridiculed prisoner in medieval times) and like the swells of the orchestra, Partridge moans and wails like an actor trudging across the stage, the spotlight following him as he holds his broken umbrella against the downpour. I swear that this song needs a broadway-style, “It’s Oh So Quiet” music video—the imagery is jus too vivid for it to go without it.
And then we’re right back to having a jolly old time with “Season Cycle.” Duality of Skylarking.
Yeah. Well. If you need me to pay for your insurance following this whiplash, I’ll fork it over. But this is more of a palate-cleanser, right? Guess I ought to keep you on your toes. Or maybe you just need a bit of a break from Mike Patton growling about your menstruating heart. Take a breather. Find the rainbow connection.
Honestly, this song came on here solely since I’ve been thinking about The Muppets lately, and how glad I am that I had such an absurd and clever slice of positivity in my childhood. There seriously will never be another creator quite like Jim Henson, but it’s worth it to take his felt-covered gospel to heart: to keep imagination and joy close to your heart, always, whether or not you have an equally whimsical puppet on your hand.
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
Any comforting book from your childhood – whatever made you feel good when you were younger should do the trick.
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 