Finally summer! Finally, more time to read…and most of what I’ve read this month has been good, I’d say.
Let’s begin, shall we?
GENERAL THOUGHTS:
Save for the first week of the month, May has been the first month where I’ve been able to relax somewhat! Finals were over and I’d moved out of my dorm before I knew it. Straight A’s and finally being free of my STEM requirements isn’t too shabby, I’d say! I’m so proud of what I’ve accomplished this year—and I’m so glad that I can have some downtime. And I’ve made good use of it so far—May has been my best month in terms of amount of books read (although the quality of…some of said books is another story), and I’ve definitely benefitted from the time spent reading! I’ve also been trying to focus more on art this summer, and consciously taking a slice out of each day to draw has been an adventure so far. I had a solid week where I had three or four blog posts all on the back burner simultaneously, so I unintentionally made a loose schedule for blogging every day as well, so I’m getting some writing in while I recover from writing two short stories and a 20,000 word novella all in one semester. I’ve also been pruning my Goodreads TBR…I’ve managed to cut it down from around 770 to around 720, so I’d say that’s been a success?
Other than that, I’ve just been cleaning things out of the dorm and bringing them back to my house, sleeping, watching Abbott Elementary (THEY FINALLY DID IT!!! THEY FINALLY LET THEM KISS!!!), Taskmaster, and Hacks (we love Jean Smart in this house), and relishing in the warm weather and the beginning of summer. I feel like every time I’m in the car with my family, I just pass the hills and feel the need to comment on how much I love that shade of green that summertime brings. But it’s so beautiful. Every single time. It never gets old. Thank you, shades of summer green.
READING AND BLOGGING:
I read 19 books this month! I’ve been oscillating between both ends of the spectrum this month, for sure—I read one of the worst books I’ve read this year, but also two of the very best. Somehow, it’s pretty evenly split as far as ratings go when I’ve lined them all up that way, but it’s been up and down all month, but on a track towards betterment midway through. I focused on AAPI books for May, and I found some fantastic books as a result from both familiar and new-to-me authors!
2024 has proven to be momentous for my inner middle schooler. A new St. Vincent album, and the Apple TV+ adaptation of The Search for WondLa…exists. I may revert to my middle school self if everything else about the show is as terrible as the “reimagined” character designs. But that’s not what I’m reviewing today.
Those of you who have stuck around on this blog may remember me enthusiastically reviewing Daddy’s Home on the heels of surviving the hell that was junior year during COVID. Those who have stuck around longer still remember my middle-school rant about MASSEDUCTION. (I’d rather you…not remember the specifics of the latter, but I still count that album as her lowest point.) Her self-titled record was as much of a friend as an album can be when I was 12, struggling to reconcile being unapologetically myself and wanting the acceptance of my peers. Marry Me was the first album I ever bought with my own money, and Actor, Strange Mercy, and Love This Giant all saw me through high school. All that is to say that St. Vincent has been there for me in the best of times and the worst of times. So naturally, I did scream when I found out about All Born Screaming—not just a new album, but a supposed return to her harder sensibilities—was coming out this year. And while it wasn’t fully the rock album that was marketed—or as musically cohesive as she tends to be—All Born Screaming is, without a doubt, some of her best work in years.
As I’ve been excited about this album for months—and writing more about music than I have in past years—I’ve already reviewed 3/10 of the tracks from All Born Screaming, so I’ll link to each separate installment of Sunday Songs that I reviewed them in, so as not to sound like a feral, sobbing, broken record.
Let’s begin, shall we?
ALL BORN SCREAMING – ST. VINCENT
Release date: April 26, 2024 (Total Pleasure)
TRACK 1: “Hell Is Near” – 8/10
St. Vincent tying the aesthetic and merch in with images of marigolds is pure evil. Diabolical. Diabolical of them to pair one of my favorite artists of all time with my favorite flower…holding out until she announces a date near me until I buy that one marigold shirt, because it’s an inevitability. It’s only a matter of time.
“Hell Is Near” is an opener that creeps through the shadows on feet that you can barely see coming. With a thumping bass that thrums like a heartbeat witnessing horrors in the dark, it feels like the slithering transition between eras and personas, especially with the allusion to “The Nowhere Inn” (“Snubbed out smoke in a pack from the Nowhere Inn”). I can almost see Clark crawling out of some kind of giant shadow box as the song progresses, the heartbeat bass echoing off of every wall as her hands emerge from the darkness. I can’t help but think of the chord progression of “Prince Johnny”—this album is the most similar to the self-titled record since the record itself, and it’s clear that she’s cobbling this current aesthetic upon shadowier corners of that era, with guitar riffs that seem to interlock like strands of DNA. It’s a slow trickle of an opener, and as it dissolves into a flurry of high piano notes and fluttering synth, it leaves you guessing—where could she possibly be taking us to next?
TRACK 2: “Reckless” – 8.5/10
“Reckless” almost feels more like an opener than “Hell Is Near” does, even though the latter does a fantastic job of being an opener. After “Hell Is Near” dissolves, we return to sparse wasteland that the first track set up, but with a significantly darker tone—both speak of leaving the past behind, but “Reckless” turns “Hell Is Near”‘s willingness to move on to dwelling on it.
If there’s one thing about new music that I always live for, it’s those moments where you hear a lyric for the first time and physically have to stop in your tracks just to process how beautiful it is. Last year, I had that moment with Wilco’s stunning “Sunlight Ends”—”you dance/like the dust in the light” made all time stop around me. Jeff Tweedy just does that. And so does Annie Clark—it’s hard to think of a line on All Born Screaming more hard-hitting than this: “I’ve been mourning you since the day I met you.” Even if it precedes “Flea” and its tale of a love so predatory that it becomes parasitic, this feels like the fallout; it feels like a reconciliation, or just a realization of a feeling of destroying everything you touch, knowing that your actions will eventually drive away everyone that you will ever love. Whatever the narrator did has become so thoughtless and violent that it’s left them with nothing but “the smell of your hair on the curtains, babe,” and all that is left of them is a memory that they cling to with all that they can, knowing that what they did was enough to send them running for good. The sparkling synths that burst like faulty wiring at 2:38, around 2/3 of the way through, feel like the memory of the outburst that left them isolated, longing for something more, as Clark stares out the window like a widow remembering how her lover was slain in the war. This, unlike “Hell Is Near,” felt like a more certain sign of things to come—the wires have been cut, the dishes are shattered on the floor, and your heels are burnt and bleeding from stepping on them both.
All Born Screaming was what Clark called “post-plague pop,” and nothing exemplifies the “pop” aspect more than this song. Like the spandex she wore on the MASSEDUCTION tour, the skittering synths clamp the beat down enough so that it hardly even has room to squirm. There’s threads of Björk’s electronic catwalk-strutters and the obvious (to me, at least) nod to Peter Gabriel with the last utterance of “big time nothing” being cut off to a chorus of “big time”; a very fitting nod, since these two Big Times deal with the same Big Time in question: the allure—and detriment—of being under the magnifying glass of fame. Gabriel’s “Big Time” was his view on what fame turned people into—and what he feared that, as his own fame grew, he might become. (Of course he wasn’t going to, though. He’s too humble of a guy.) And even though Daddy’s Home was the first album post-MASSEDUCTION to deal with the litany of events Clark experienced, this one seems to address the scrutiny she felt under the microscope of paparazzi while she dated Cara Delevigne; she was already renowned in indie circles, but she’d never been exposed to that kind of relentless tabloid predation before, and, understandably, it’s done a number on her mental health.
Each lyric is a rapid-fire command, as though being dictated to a model while she’s spinning around for the camera: “Don’t blink, don’t wait/Don’t walk, you’re late/Don’t fall from grace, behave/Don’t trip, sashay.” Every misstep is tabloid fodder, and every move she makes is under heavy surveillance. The dead-eyed delivery of each spit lyric cements the soullessness of it all, other than an occasional vocal dip (“Don’t feel so sick”) where it turns from dead to sinister, a pseudo-coo that seems to come with a promise through red lips and an emotionless pat on the shoulder. It’s pop, but the kind of pop that’s delivered with Clark’s keen (and weary) observations on being in the celebrity spotlight—this is the natural evolution of “Los Ageless,” especially my favorite lyric from it: “girls in cages playing their guitars.” You can entertain, but you can’t move.
TRACK 6: “Violent Times” – 8.5/10
When the starts the All Born Screaming tour, she just has to transition this with “Marrow.” Or any track from Actor, come to think of it. “Violent Times” feels like a version of Actor that leans more into the boldness than the flighty, hiding-under-the-bed sensibilities. With a brass section powerful enough to flatten a forest, the dial is turned from observational pop back to the in-your-face force of “Broken Man,” but instead of the latter’s formal urges, it’s a leather jacket-clad beckoning back to a lover, sunglasses tilted down the nose and not a smear of lipstick out of place. As the brass blasts and the papery drumbeat thrums, Clark sultrily sings of the never-ending glow of kindness in the darkest hour—”I forgot people be so kind in these violent times.” Even though it’s made for Clark’s signature, birdlike dance moves, slick and smoky, it touches at some of the album’s tenderest moments. In the chaos of the modern world, it becomes more difficult day by day to remember that there’s still good left in it. But as Clark reminds us, what’s preserved from history’s great tragedies is always the innate, human quality of love: “When in the ashes of Pompeii/Lovers discovered in an embrace/For all eternity.” The subject matter and the musical atmosphere seem eons away, but in Clark’s hands, they’re all but twins, molded from the same warm clay into one of the most iconic tracks of the year.
TRACK 7: “The Power’s Out” – 9/10
Speaking of nods to other artists…
This one is the most obvious out of the many tributes to her musical inspirations, but for me, it’s the most emotional and poignant. “The Power’s Out” is, in essence, a four and a half minute long tribute to the iconic opener from David Bowie’s The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, “Five Years”—in my opinion, one of the greatest album openers of all time, given the artistry, fly-on-the-wall observations, and the overwhelm of emotion. The nods are practically everywhere. My brother pointed out how the drumbeat is almost identical, albeit with one beat more and significantly digitized. The parallels are everywhere:
“Came the message on the station/’The power’s out across the nation/And, Ladies and gentleman, it seems we got a problem’/The man on my screen said, just as somebody shot him.” (Clark)
“News guy wept and told us/Earth was really dying/Cried so much his face was wet/Then I knew he was not lying.”(Bowie)
–
“It was pouring like a movie/Every stranger looked like they knew me.” (Clark)
“And it was cold and it rained, so I felt like an actor.” (Bowie)
–
“And ‘Ladies and gentleman, do remember me smiling’/The queer on the train said as she jumped off the platform/And some blind folks held the police, crying/I swear to you I would not lie.” (Clark)
“A cop knelt and kissed the feet of a priest/And a queer threw up at the sight of that.” (Bowie)
I’ve got a whole Charlie Kelly conspiracy cork board laid out in my head. It’s all blatantly intentional, and it’s beautiful to me, coming from someone who has said that “there’s nobody who I would put above Bowie.” But what separates “Five Years” and “The Power’s Out” for me is the grounding. “Five Years” was the grand sweep of the beginning of his famous concept album, where Ziggy Stardust comes to Earth in its final five years to teach humanity the power of love and music before their time is expired. It’s more emotional than “The Power’s Out” for me (because, like Clark, there’s nobody I would put above Bowie…but she’s very close), but even with the barrage of anguish that Bowie pours out at the song’s climactic, chaotic flurry of an ending, you still know it’s part of something fictional. With “The Power’s Out,” there’s no pretense of total annihilation or alien saviors—it’s the horror of reality, the horror of contending with modern life. The world isn’t ending, but the disarray of the city and the fear being grown and harvested in barrels makes every day seem like a catastrophe. We’re assaulted with hate and fear from all corners of the world, now more than ever, and no one is exempt. With all of the horrific events flooding us, all we can do is try to move through it as best we can, yet still be expected to return to it and live through it all over again; all of the chaos, fear, and violence Clark describes is wrapped up in a whispery confession in the final line, as though to a partner: “That’s why I never came home.” It’s a beautiful conversation with Bowie, one that grounds its inspiration in the maelstrom of dystopian chaos that is 21st century living.
Why does the thumbnail for this video look like I’m at a parent-teacher conference and St. Vincent’s about to pull up my math grade and tell me that my test scores have been slipping 😭
There have been various moments on this album that have made me go “huh?”—unexpected musical turns left and right. It’s an album that, if nothing else, has kept me on my toes. But this was the first on the album that was not a good “huh.” Most of the early reviews of the album called it the emotional centerpiece, so I was expecting something in line with “I Prefer Your Love,”“Live In The Dream,” or even “Slow Disco”—St. Vincent knows how to bring things down to Earth from the grandeur that she paints. But “So Many Planets” is just a jumble of confusing decisions. Here’s the thing: the lyrics are vulnerably beautiful, but the tonal dissonance between said lyrics and the music makes the aftertaste one that I don’t like all the way. It’s got this odd, synthy, bounce, and her delivery is oddly stiff and angular. Usually, Clark is one to mesh two oddly contrasting elements and make them work (see: “Violent Times”), but here, it just feels so tonally distant that it falls flat. Separately, these aspects are commendable, but they weren’t meant to be together. This is the low point of the album, without a doubt, but in the grand scheme of things, if this is the worst song, then it’s a fantastic album.
TRACK 10: “All Born Screaming” (fear. Cate Le Bon) – 7/10
All Born Screaming, as wonderful as it is, doesn’t stick the landing so well…until it does. Combined with “So Many Planets,” “All Born Screaming” is another tonally dissonant, pseudo-reggae ball of confusion that sits strangely in my mouth. It seems like the kind of thing to be paired with the kind of perky dance that Clark often did with her backup dancers on the Daddy’s Home tour, and for a song that’s meant to be the album’s closing thesis and its title track, it…doesn’t work. Most of my thoughts on this song parallel my thoughts on “So Many Planets.”
But.
About halfway through, the freakout starts. Distorted voices bubble through the wire, guitars whine and screech, and an accelerated, anxious heartbeat propels “All Born Screaming” into its final form. Joined by the cavernous voice of Cate Le Bon, Clark turns the album’s title into a clarion call, howling out to the masses: an affirmation that despite it all, we are still here. We were all born screaming, and we will continue to scream until our last breath. We are here, and we won’t go away. We went into the woods that Clark spoke of, scarred by brambles and wild animals, but in one piece, stronger for having pushed through the journey. In the background, the electronics accelerate like sleek cars down a racetrack, setting off sparks. This takes up half of “All Born Screaming”‘s nearly 7-minute length, but even if the first part had been cut away, it would still be one of the most poignant moments on the entire album. I almost get choked up at the sudden drop-off of the electronics and the shift to just the chorus of Clark and Le Bon. It gets to you. Gets you right through the ribs…I just wish the whole song got the memo.
It’s an ode to growth in all of its ugliness, knowing that whatever you have survived, you can and will survive it again.
going insane trying to choose just one photo from this photoshoot to use bc THEY’RE ALL SO GOOOOOOOOOOD
I averaged out the ratings for each track, and it came out at an 8.5! All Born Screaming, even if it does lean in a musically scatterbrained direction, is some of St. Vincent’s most vulnerable work to date. Self-produced and deeply personal, it seems to map her heart in ways that haven’t been done in her previous albums. All of that shows—it’s a bold, furious, and boundlessly creative ode to surviving—of crawling free of the darkness and finding your way home to the guiding light of love. The journey may turn you feral, but once you’re free of all of the vile parts, you’re free—to scream. And there is no one’s primal scream I’d rather hear more than that of Annie Clark.
Since this post consists entirely of songs, consider all of them to be today’s song.
That’s it for this album review! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!
Unfortunately, I probably won’t be able to write up a book review or a Sunday Songs post this week, as I’m days away from finals. I started this post in advance, as I do with all of my wrap-ups, so that’s why I managed to put it out today. But from today on, I’ll be (mostly) radio silent for the next week or so. Wish me luck…
Let’s begin, shall we?
GENERAL THOUGHTS:
April’s been its fair share of crazy, what with job interviews, preparing for finals, and wrapping up my sophomore year of college. (How’d that happen??) It’s definitely taken a toll on my reading and blogging, but I’ve still had some free time in between. Said free time has been surprisingly fruitful this month—I finished up the 20,000 word novella that I had to write for one of my classes, and I had a solid weekend where I was able to brainstorm quite a bit for my main sci-fi trilogy. I’d still be doing said brainstorming if not for…y’know, studying for an astronomy final, but once I’m free of that, I’ll be back to making my outline even more excessively long. I’m almost there…
As I said, I had less time to read than I have in the past few months, but strangely, as far as ratings go, it’s been my most positive month. I say “strangely” because I felt like I was in a stint of good, but not great books for at least the first third of April. However, it picked up significantly, partially aided from a particularly lucky haul from Barnes & Noble with a dear friend of mine.
Other than that, I’ve just been watching The Bear, Taskmaster, and Ripley (how and why is Andrew Scott so good at being SO devious), writing when I can, and preparing for the end of the semester.
Oh, and remember how (hesitantly) excited I was about the fact that The Search for WondLa was being adapted into a TV show? We’ve just gotten the first look, and…
…not to be dramatic, but this is my villain origin story. This is my Joker arc. I’m beyond livid. They drained it. They drained it of the artistry and creativity. And the love. They made Muthr into one of those Playmobil people. Why is Otto furry and squishy? Why does Rovender have those front-facing predator eyes? Where are Eva Nine’s signature braids? Where’s the soul?
Yeah! I’m fine. They just turned my childhood into a sad, lifeless husk of a 3D animated TV show…
READING AND BLOGGING:
I read 15 books this month! Somehow, I feel like I was in a slump of good but not remarkable books for at least a third of the month, but somehow, I got through a whole month with no 2 or 1 star reads? That’s a new one for me.
imagine making Poor Things (2023) and failing to get across in two and a half hours what this song does in just under four minutes………couldn’t be me
xtc my beloved
as much as we praise Björk, I feel like she doesn’t get enough credit for how deeply romantic she can be…good god I feel so sappy and squishy listening to this song, it feels so good
david bowie make a song from the ’90s that isn’t criminally underrated challenge (impossible)
Today’s song:
hey, if we’re talking about keeping my inner middle schooler happy, at least this album was fantastic
That’s it for this month in blogging! 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: holding back on my thoughts on my most anticipated album of the year and a movie that makes me angrier than I’d like to admit, but just for the sake of showcasing the songs I meant to showcase, I kept that short.
Sometime when I’m out of the finals woods, mark my words: there will be a review of All Born Screaming, because, predictably, I have Thoughts. But, in the interest of not making myself sound like a broken record a few weeks in the future, I’ll keep it snappy. All Born Screaming is a great album, but…not in the way that I expected it to be. What it isn’t, however, is the hard rock album that it was advertised as. It’s much less cohesive than I’ve come to expect from St. Vincent, but for the most part, the individual songs that were thrown into this unexpected stew are good—we’ve got the world’s most perfect pairing for “Marrow” (Annie I am BEGGING you to play these two back to back live), “Five Years” 2: Electric Boogaloo, and tons of other elements that hit you from beyond left field. It’s a mess, but I’m starting to feel like that’s almost the point: All Born Screaming is the musical form of a mental breakdown, and it certainly sounds like it. I swear that’s a compliment. Mostly. Some of it’s dissonant in a way that doesn’t seem all the way intentional. But that’s a discussion for when I break down the whole album.
For now, I’m shifting the focus to my favorite of the new tracks. “Sweetest Fruit” is, like the title suggests, genuinely delicious to listen to. The main synth line that anchors it balloons and blossoms like polyps, or a sped-up version of said sweet fruit ripening on the branch. In a quieter, science fiction world, that sound feels like an alarm, a reminder—maybe that the laundry’s done, or that your spaceship is alerting you to the fact that you’re close to docking at the planet of your choice. But unlike MASSEDUCTION, where such synths were the stiff, Barbie pink foundation upon which all the tracks were built, it’s woven through with lightning strikes of her signature shredding, jaggedly slicing into the synth-pop frame just when you start to feel relaxed. Now, for my token mention of St. Vincent’s godly self-titled record: All Born Screaming is far less organized than it, but sonically, this is the closest it’s been in a decade; it’s not fully glossy pop like MASSEDUCTION, but there’s plenty of dystopian franticness undercutting what would otherwise be neat. And the synthy, shiny feel is the perfect medium for, at least, part of what “Sweetest Fruit” was meant to do: for Clark, it partially functioned as a tribute to the late SOPHIE, who Clark has said that she “admired from afar” for quite some time. Most of the mention of her is reserved to the first verse and doesn’t continue, but some took it as capitalizing on her death; if the whole song was about it, I could almost see it, but it’s simply a retelling of a too-soon death; in 2021, SOPHIE fell to her death while watching the moon on the roof. I don’t mean to rush to defend everything that she does (because the album cover hasn’t stopped being tone-deaf, and I’m incredibly disappointed that she didn’t at least acknowledge that), but this seems like a stretch. It isn’t like this is anything new for Clark—what was “The Melting of the Sun” if not an extended tribute to the women who she loved and who inspired her, dead and alive? I remember hearing, back when MASSEDUCTION was released, that she’d scrapped several songs that were tributes to David Bowie; I can see why that would have felt like capitalization as well, since MASSEDUCTION was released a year after his death, but there’s something to be said for connecting artists across music, whether the other hears it or not—we are all indebted to so many people for the styles we create, as much as they are our own. And if there were any track to eulogize SOPHIE, it would have to be “Sweetest Fruit,” coated with the same, shining gloss with which SOPHIE made a name for herself.
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
Drunk on All Your Strange New Words – Eddie Robson – in terms of how I visualized both the look of the Logi and the sensation of hearing their language in your head, it aligns neatly with the globular, polyp-y synths throughout this song.
This song does in less than four minutes what Poor Things failed to do in two and a half hours. I’m not saying that I could do better than an award-winning director, but at this point…skill issue. Lisa Germano did all that without the gratuitous shots of Emma Stone’s feet as her character learns how to masturbate…at the mental age of a toddler.
Can you tell I had beef with Poor Things?
Now that I’ve got that off my chest, let’s shift the focus to a tale of feminine identity that’s actually worthy of praise. I haven’t listened to Lisa Germano’s debut, the ironically-titled Happiness, in full, but its clear from the start that she came here to make unsettling music, and that’s exactly what she made a career out of, as criminally underrated as she continues to be. Happiness, though steeped in solemn, eyes-averted confessions (see: the hauntingly beautiful “The Darkest Night Of All,”which I talked about back in October), hasn’t yet gone off the deep end in terms of said unsettling quality just yet—it would be another few years before we got into the “mom, come pick me up, I’m scared” atmosphere that came to dominate her sound. Yet “The Dresses Song” unsettles in its flatness and complacency. Not quite at the shivering, clenched waver that I’ve come to love in her voice, Germano instead sings much of “The Dresses Song” in a flat affect, dull and sucked dry of emotion. Amidst the bounce of tapestry-weaving bass, clinking tambourines, and the kind of folksy violins that would suggest somebody’s about to break out into a jig, Germano seems to sit cross-legged as everything happens around her, but never to her: “You make me think about nothing/It feels so good like that/You look at me so fragile.” Germano sings of the powerlessness of slipping into a loss of autonomy; like the doll’s head on the album cover, she sings as though she’s being dragged through the dirt by a child, dressed up and posed for tea parties at will, outwardly welcoming but inwardly dreading the surveillance of her body. Every repetition of “you make me wanna wear dresses” is uttered as a twist of the knife, convincing herself that oh, it’s not so bad, and yet her hollow, bird-bones voice strips the illusion bare—the illusion that, like in the music video, that’s she’s okay with being paraded around in costume like a child. “The Dresses Song” comes from a place of the darkest kind of complacency—the period where you’re stuck at the bottom of an empty well, but you’ve convinced yourself that the polluted water trickling down goes down just fine—at least it’s something to drink.
Isn’t it so lovely to grow up where every inch of your body is policed just because of your gender? Surely that won’t have mental repercussions further down the line. Surely, one Yorgos Lanthimos would at least somewhat understand that and realize that a) discovering one’s sexuality isn’t the be-all, end-all of what makes a liberated woman, and b) that said depiction of sexual exploitation was so constant and gratuitous that it became exploitative in and of itself. Surely.
I’m honestly surprised that Noah Hawley hasn’t come across Melody’s Echo Chamber (that we know of), because…come on. This was made for Legion. It’s not even psychedelic inspiration anymore—it’s purely psychedelic in a way that’s not just trying to recreate a sound from the sixties.
Like Tame Impala, it just seems like the next generation of psych-rock. So it was not a surprise in the slightest when I found out that Melody’s Echo Chamber’s self titled record (pushes glasses up bridge of nose) was produced by Kevin Parker himself. (Did you know that Tame Impala was just one guy? It’s just one guy. Can you believe it? I bet you didn’t know that. It’s just one—[gets pulled offstage by a comically large cane]) “Some Time Alone, Alone” has distortion so thick that you practically have to wade through it with a hazmat suit—it’s hard to describe the atmosphere that Melody Prochet and Kevin Parker have created with any words other than thick. It’s like sticking your arm into rainforest greenery, endlessly pushing aside massive fronds just to find the pulse of light gleaming at the heart of the glen. Every riff and rhythm circles into each other like a diagram of an atom, forever orbiting the warm nucleus—Prochet’s voice, which has the feel of Nina Persson if she happened to stumble upon the blue drugs from Legion, suspended in the ether. It’s gone beyond sounding like the ’60s into something truly representative of how the genre has evolved: it sounds so modern, but never in a polished way. It’s a child nurtured by the ’60s, for sure, but there was no place it could have gestated other than a 21st-century test tube.
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
The Shamshine Blind – Paz Pardo – lost in a tangled conspiracy—and the confines of your mind, brought on by artificially-induced emotions.
Nothing I could say could complicate this song or shed new light on it, really, and certainly not when we’re living it, and have been living it on and off at least since the ’80s. Probably further. XTC always seemed to be attuned to the needle of the social climate, and save for a handful of outdated political references here and there, they’ve stood steadfast against the battering of the waters of time. “Ain’t democracy wonderful?/Them Russians can’t win!/Ain’t democracy wonderful?/Lets us vote someone like that in.” Certainly feels like King Conscience and Queen Caring have been rolling in their graves for quite some time…ah, no, surely, we don’t need to put our heads together and solve pressing issues like gun violence, climate change, genocide, and a nation bent on killing its queer children, no way! We’ve got to call the national guard on the student protestors using their right to free speech to call attention to the horrific Palestinian genocide that our tax dollars have basically been funding! Ain’t democracy wonderful?
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
1984 – George Orwell – you could really slot this one in with any given dystopia, but this novel was the blueprint—and the dirge-like feel of “Here Comes President Kill Again” certainly fits in.
If there’s anybody who’s intimately familiar with strange phenomena, in whichever meaning you take the phrase, it’s Kate Bush. How else does one write the most horrifying song about being turned into a kite against your will and make it so groovy?
Most of my enjoyment of The Kick Inside remains dominated by “Them Heavy People,”“Wuthering Heights,” and the aforementioned “Kite,” but ever so often, another track rises back from the ether, summoned by the erratic will of my shuffle. It’s easy to lump “Strange Phenomena” into that very specific breed of early Kate Bush where it’s all swinging-from-the-curtains theatre, and…yeah, rediscovery didn’t erase that quality (see: the video linked above), but it made me remember why Kate Bush (mostly) gets it right. Centered around the concept of what Bush described as “how coincidences cluster together,” it has the starry eyes of an ingenue as piano notes rise and fall propelled by wind from a fan, made to make her hair billow. (Apparently it’s not centered around getting your period, despite the opening: “Soon it will be the phase of the moon/When people tune in/Every girl knows about the punctual blues.” The only thing convincing me of anything else than the period reading of that line is the “punctual” part. Punctual my ass.) “We can all recall instances,” she said to Music Talk in 1978, “when we have been thinking about a particular person and then have met a mutual friend who—totally unprompted—will begin talking about that person.” It’s an unabashed celebration of whatever it is, that unknowable part of the brain or simply a truth of the unknowable universe, reveling in the love that we can glean from ordinary things. I can’t think of a much happier outlook to life that Bush’s declaration that “we are surrounded by strange phenomena,” whether or not you believe that something is pulling the strings to bring them together. For once, the theatre doesn’t come off as silly or overly self-important—it feels like a calculated response to the joyous puddles that we leap through as we move through this life.
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
Shadow Speaker – Nnedi Okorafor – strange phenomena aplenty, whether it’s friends in unexpected places or the mutation of the Earth itself.
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!
Affirmation of the week: I have listened to this song a healthy amount of times. At least I didn’t pull the “listen but nothing but this song for almost four hours straight” stunt that I did with “Broken Man.” See? I’m better now. I’m savoring this one, and by “savoring,” I mean “listening to it slightly less, but still putting it on repeat for at least half an hour when it comes on shuffle.” What new St. Vincent does to an mf.
“Broken Man” is shining proof that All Born Screaming has a good chance of being my album of the year, but somehow, Annie Clark outdid herself even more with this latest single. I’m glad that “Broken Man” and “Flea” are tracks three and four on the album, respectively; even past the fact that they fit so slickly together, I like the idea that the title and closing tracks are a secret—she’s got something insane up her sleeve. I can just tell. After “Broken Man”‘s torrent of fury, vengeance, and Dave Grohl’s drumming, “Flea” makes the transition into the outright bloody—not bloody in the sense of the trail of destruction that “Broken Man” left, but in the sense of parasitism. Clark described the upcoming All Born Screaming as being bred in “That kind of isolation [that] breeds paranoia and loneliness…loneliness can breed violence.” Now I can see exactly where the whole “post-plague pop” label she stuck on it comes from. “Flea” slinks along on tiny, pointed legs, thrumming with a racing heartbeat and an insatiable thirst for blood; the repetition of “Once I’m in, you can’t get rid of me” is sung lower and raspier, a threat paired with a predatory lick of the lips. The kind of loneliness and violence Clark described seems to be exactly where this kind of sinister lust comes from—being isolated for so long could easily make love turn to lust, and lust consequently to hunger, so drained of human touch that what was once affection has become leeching for nutrients at the other person’s expense. And everything about “Flea” sounds frighteningly hungry, down to the parched-throat rasp with which Clark delivers the verses. When she ends verse two with a dried-out confession of “I look at you, and all I see is meat,” followed by a faint belch in the background, I suddenly got the feeling that I was being watched by something waiting to tear me limb from limb and suck me dry. It’s intense, but it’s the kind of intoxicating thrill ride that I’ve taken with Clark for nearly ten years. And the chorus finds the narrator covered in someone else’s blood, begging for just one more bite; the desperation sloughs off like a second skin, every blood-soaked belt starved and howling. It’s a kind of visceral musicianship that I haven’t seen from St. Vincent in years; although Daddy’s Home was certainly raw, it was the kind of raw you get from getting someone enough wine to spill about their childhood trauma and laugh it off. All Born Screaming is about as raw as flesh itself—it’s all the clearer that Clark has no intention of pulling punches, and that’s exactly what makes a St. Vincent song so iconic. “Rattlesnake” and “Severed Crossed Fingers” don’t illicit waves of emotion in me for nothing—they’re hearts laid bare in the street. In other words: Clark is at her best when she’s herself. Should be a given, but it’s more evident in some albums than others.
Aaaaaaaaaand, that’s one more album on the Sisyphean Album Bucket List. Between the “Wolf Like Me” (the best song there is about werewolves after this), the deeply moving “Province” with its David Bowie feature (YOU HEARD ME!!), and this, I now know that Return to Cookie Mountain has to make its way into the rotation. I have Chelsea Wolfe to thank for this one; at her fantastic show at the Gothic Theater in March, she played this before the show—I wouldn’t be surprised if she was a fan before, but I suspect that it’s a kind of thank you to the fantastic Dave Sitek, who produced her truly fantastic new album, She Reaches Out To She Reaches Out To She. Also, with a title like Return to Cookie Mountain, I feel like I just have to listen.
What “Tonight” made me realize about TV on the Radio is how effectively—and quickly—they can craft an atmosphere. Some of the most layered ones I can think of are from their early career, namely the first version of “Staring at the Sun” that appeared on their debut EP, Young Liars. Instead of the shorter version that made the cut for Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes, this one has a thirty second intro (that feels longer, honestly) that consists of just the a cappella vocals of the band, interspersed with an excerpt from a Spanish-speaking radio station. Even though the chatter on the radio station seems cheerful and singsong, the drawn-out gives it a prolonged air of foreboding and sorrow to come, like the next thing we hear will be the somber announcement of someone’s death. Thankfully, that doesn’t happen, but the first lyrics we hear on the heels of that are “Cross the street from your storefront cemetery,” which, bam. That’s how you start a song. When it comes to both of those aspects, “Tonight” operates in a similar way, creating an atmosphere that’s haunting before the instruments even kick in. With the whine of a distant siren and the ever-so-slightly distorted collision of wind chimes, “Tonight” instantly transports you to a place of brown grass and barren vastness, pockmarked by dead trees strung with glass bottles and the faint sounds of the road in the distance. The music seems to lumber with every step, a beleaguered creature that lurches with every step, as if its limbs are tied down with the wind chimes you hear tinkling throughout the song. Hollow whistles harmonize with a moaning clarinet and Tunde Adebimpe’s clarion call of a voice, all at once ragged and brimming with vitality. A fair amount of the buzz surrounding TV on the Radio when they got their start were vocals comparisons of his to Peter Gabriel, and it’s an apt one—they have a similar quality of being roughly visceral, but booming with emotion. Dave Sitek is also credited with “magic” on this song, which I cannot find a musical definition for the life of me, but if there’s anything that you would credit the man for, it’s that. He has the touch.
I often get so caught up in the atmosphere that I only mine the lyrics later, but the lyrics in “Tonight” pop out so prominently on the first listen; as the wind chimes huddle for warmth, Tunde Adebimpe’s voice cuts through them like a steak knife through fabric—”My mind is like an orchard/Clustered in frozen portraits.” How does this man do it? Every single line in this song is a literary gem in and of itself, and it’s not just because of the repeated references to Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Telltale Heart”—like heartbeats rumbling through flimsy floorboards, the lyrics never fail to send chills up my spine: “Her rusty heart starts to whine/In its tell tale time.” My rusty heart sure does whine whenever those lyrics wash over me. And like the sparse nature of the atmosphere, the lyrics tell of a spare mental space, one so full of sorrow and unpleasant memories that, like the telltale heart, cannot be pushed from the mind. The song still haunts me in a largely melancholy way, but it has an uplifting sentiment at its heart. I can’t help but think of Soundgarden’s “The Day I Tried to Live” and its similar atmosphere of doom, but its lyrical heart being the fact that despite all of the horrible things crashing down around you, there will always be something left to live for, so all you can do is push through. Adebimpe’s sentiment feels like wading through a slurry of unpleasantness that never seems to end (“Blossoms that bloom so fine, just to drop from the vine/I’ve seen them all tonight), but he makes the light at the end of the tunnel shine as bright as it can: “The time that you’ve been afforded/May go unsolved, unrewarded/Some nameless you cannot know, may be coming to show you/Unbridled love and light.” No matter how much you have to push down and wade through, never doubt that good things are coming. It’s something I struggle to hold to heart, but I’ve added this song as an unexpected guiding light. I can never know the future. It scares me. But there is certainty in the love lingering beyond my current time. There is always love.
Contrary to my graphic, this is not, in fact, that well-intentioned but ultimately regrettable black square everybody posted back in 2020. My text box accidentally cut out the 2 on Black Metal 2, the only thing distinguishing it from the cover of Black Metal, which is…also just a black square. Gotta admire Dean Blunt for committing to the bit.
I stumbled across this song thanks to Arlo Parks, who chose Black Metal 2 as one of her picks on her episode of Amoeba Records’ series What’s In My Bag?, where she also talks about my bloody valentine and happens to be wearing one of the coolest Radiohead shirts I’ve ever seen. The songs she discusses there—“VIGIL” and “the rot”—serve as bookends, the opener and closer of Black Metal 2, respectively. Both of them have the atmosphere of a massive curtain thrown over your eyes—you’re immediately thrown somewhere else in a space that Blunt has created; no time is wasted in transporting you into his world. While “VIGIL” has the tidal-wave mounting tension of strings to prop it up, “the rot” is the last, gentle minutes of a plane ride home. It’s a distinctly sunset song: you’re slumped back in your seat, golden light is spilling through the window, and you have the sense, more than ever, that a chapter is closing, but not necessarily in a negative way. You can tell that there’s a myriad of different instruments, but all of them are toned down to a faint crawl, strings gently winding, acoustic guitars drifting away like insects in the early evening. “the rot” in particular has such a gorgeous vocal contrast between Blunt and guest artist Joanne Robertson; like Phoebe Bridgers and Jeroen Vrijhoef on “Garden Song,” what grounds the song is the stark difference, although that of Blunt and Robertson feels much more natural and less jarring than the latter. Where Blunt has the warmth and thickness of the ocean lapping over a volcanic shore, Robertson’s words float like the breeze stirring the water. Both of them drift like motes of dust into the air, closing out Black Metal 2. Without even having listened to the whole album, I can tell how successful “the rot” is as a gentle closer.
Ugh, I’m so glad this song came back intro my regular rotation recently. The outro did wonders for amping me up for my astronomy midterm.
It’s been about four years since I’ve consciously started listening to this song, but I’m sure my dad played it in the car long before that. But I’ll always love this era of Lou Reed, and you know who I’ll also always love? David Bowie. And Bowie, along with Mick Ronson (Bowie’s guitarist in the Spiders from Mars) co-produced Transformer, which has spent a woefully long time on my album bucket list. It’s smack dab in that early-’70s sound that I just live for, and I’ve already heard a handful of the classics from the album already—“Walk On the Wild Side” and “Perfect Day,” to name a few. But “Satellite of Love” remains my favorite thus far, and it’s not just because I collect space-related songs like a bower bird collects shiny rocks and trinkets. As with…well, almost every Lou Reed song, “Satellite of Love” is tinged with melancholy; it tells of love watched from a distance, the aftermath of a breakup watched from below like a stargazer looking at a meteor shower. The offbeat admission of “I love to watch things on TV” feels like an admission of what Reed thought that the relationship had turned into—just something to pass the time and make the eyes go limp. I can’t help but think of Lisa Hannigan—I can’t be sure if this was her exact inspiration, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the chorus of “Passenger” came from a similar metaphor of distant love adrift in the sky—”Oh, my satellite/Oh, my passenger.” For once, Lou Reed is the one that doesn’t sound abjectly in mourning—wistful, sure, but there’s still some light shining in the corner of his eyes, even if it’s just the reflection of a star. For me, the outro is what pumps just the barest pulse of hope into “Satellite of Love”—the piano begins to gallop, clapping and snapping dominates the percussion, and Reed begins a harmony with a wailing, angel-voiced Bowie. Reed remains anchored to the ground, but Bowie, naturally, ascends skyward with every note. There’s something about it that feels like he’s extending a hand from somewhere in the night sky, inviting us to join in the chorus.
…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:
All Systems Red (The Murderbot Diaries, #1) – Martha Wells – the detached observation of love (and humanity in general) is much more humorous than wistful in nature here, but we can’t deny that Murderbot likes to watch things on TV.
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 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 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.
The Bookish Mutant 