Tag: radiohead

Posted in Sunday Songs

Sunday Songs: 11/30/25

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has treated you well.

I’ve got at least one more post here before I inevitably have to crawl back into the finals burrow. Since I’ve been out of the office lately, here are my graphics from the past few weeks:

11/9/25:

11/16/25:

11/23/25:

This week: What half of Britpop’s Big Four frontmen are up to these days, peak goth drama, and I finally find out why Joe Talbot was hiding out in that Gorillaz exhibit like Where’s Waldo.

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 11/30/25

“Something Changed” – Pulp

Pulp recently put on an absolutely showstopping performance at NPR’s Tiny Desk Concert. I still have only a handful of Pulp songs that I really know, but even as a budding fan that initially knew only 1/4 songs in their setlist (that one being “This Is Hardcore,” yet another shoutout to my amazing dad for showing me that one!), their performance was an absolute joy. Even in the confines of said Tiny Desk, Jarvis Cocker has the most enigmatic, fluid stage presence that defies being simply Britpop and has transformed into a timeless charm. And now I have three more Pulp songs on my rotation!

“Something Changed” hooked me more than the rest, and it reminded me that I really just need to get over myself and listen to Different Class already. Themes of social and sexual frustration aside (see: “Live Bed Show”), Pulp seemed to have an uncanny ability to create such pure, resonant anthems without making them cloying or insincere. I never got around to talking about “Disco 2000” last year, but that song feels like the platonic ideal of a pure, passionate love song—it’s a small wonder that nobody’s used it in the end credits of a rom-com yet. (Maybe that’s for the best? It’d need a really good rom-com.) “Something Changed” has that same quality in softer shades, with Cocker crooning about the nature of chance against a backdrop of swelling, sunlit strings: “Do you believe there’s someone up above/And does he have a timetable directing acts of love?” For someone with a sense of humor as sardonic and often cynical as Cocker, it’s a display of sincerity that feels anything but inauthentic—you can tell that, to some degree, there’s a genuine feeling of being wonderstruck by the chances that led him to this point in time—and this whirlwind romance.

“Something Changed” starts at 8:05. While you’re here, though, the 7+ minute rendition of “This Is Hardcore” stopped me dead in my tracks. One of the best Tiny Desk Concerts this year, for sure.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Time and Time Again – Chatham Greenfield – “Oh, I could have stayed at home and gone to bed/I could have gone to see a film instead/You might have changed your mind and seen your friend/Life could have been very different but then/Something changed…”

“Any Guy” – Melanie

I never find Melanie songs organically, I just leech them off of TV shows about once a year (see: “Look What They’ve Done to My Song, Ma” thanks to We Are Lady Parts). This one in particular came from the season 1 finale of Bad Sisters, and without spoiling anything, it rang out as a bitterly triumphant anthem for the culmination of a season’s worth of work to try and eliminate a man equivalent to Satan incarnate from the face of the earth. Season 1 has been out for a few years, but I’ll still refrain from spoilers.

But some needle drops get better and better the more that you think about them. Melanie fit along with the musical feel of Bad Sisters, primarily featuring needle drops from great women-fronted bands and musicians (Bikini Kill, Nancy Sinatra, Wet Leg, and of course, the theme song and score composed by the iconic PJ Harvey). Many of them feel more atmospheric other than a handful of very purposeful ones, but “Any Guy” relates so much to the character of Grace to me. A lot of Melanie’s earlier fame centered around how childish she looked—this was pre-“Brand New Key” and people derailing childhood innocence into Freudian nonsense, but there was a clear correlation between what people saw as an unassuming young woman and the talent that resided inside of her. That image remains after her death, but for me, Melanie’s her best when she lets loose—think of the righteous fury at the end of “Look What They’ve Done to My Song, Ma!” That final belt at the end! Reckoning! “Any Guy” has that same explosive moment at the end; beneath the veneer of placid strings, Melanie stews about getting involved with a two-timing guy and feeling disposable, until her waver breaks into an impassioned howl of “Is she as pretty as me, huh?” Nothing’s better than when Melanie snaps and lets the full force of her voice free, and what better song to soundtrack a similarly unassuming, underestimated woman finally breaking free. Even when she’s singing of breaking away, there’s a waver in her voice, and that’s more Grace than anything—and there’s no shame in having a waver in your voice when you’ve finally mustered the courage to speak your mind.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Heartbreak Bakery – A.R. Capetta – breakups, miscommunication, and one very fateful batch of magic brownies…

“The God of Lying” (feat. IDLES) – Gorillaz

Guess who’s getting tickets to L.A. the minute that they announce when the House of Kong exhibit is coming?? Prepare for me to be INSUFFERABLE and IN CALIFORNIA

Back when they did the story on the London House of Kong exhibit over the summer, they showed the collage on the wall of all of Gorillaz’s collaborators over the years. There were tons of familiar faces: De La Soul, Yasiin Bey, Shaun Ryder, St. Vincent, et cetera…but I swore that I could see Joe Talbot peeking out from between the faces. And it got me thinking…had I missed something? Mind you, this was before The Mountain was announced, so I had no idea what was a head. But now that it’s here, I’m so excited for this pairing! As is the ritual with most modern Gorillaz rollouts, the singles are hit or miss. “The Happy Dictator” was loads of fun, but “The Manifesto” is somehow two different songs, and none of them are particularly good. And here we see the post-Humanz Gorillaz “where’s Damon?” problem—it’s all the collaborators and barely him.

Thankfully, “The God of Lying” fixed this issue swiftly, with Albarn trading off verses with Joe Talbot of IDLES. Gorillaz have been mining the state of dystopian discontent that we’re in for quite some time now, but if there’s anyone more fit for an antidote, it’s Talbot. As he coolly assesses the sorry state of the world (“Are you deafened by the headlines?/Or does your head not hear at all?/Are you pacified by passion/Are you armed to the teeth?”), Albarn’s distorted voice professes that we’ve all reached for some comfort beyond the bad news, but that it’s so overwhelming that we can’t even comprehend that hope is still possible; we’re actively “running to the exit” because we somehow fear the notion of hope existing even while trapped in an endless cycle of doomscrolling and horrific news. Albarn said this to BBC Radio 1: “I suppose I’ve kind of got in my head what happened a few days ago with Mamdani in New York. And one of the things he said that really kind of stuck out for me is that ‘Hope is alive’. And in this track, Joe and I are kind of we’ve been chased by hope. And I thought, Oh, that’s nice.” First off, since I was hunkered down doing homework when it happened…THAT’S MY MAYOR! (I’ve been to NYC a grand total of one time in my life…anyways.) Second, what a poetic assessment—we haven’t just abandoned hope, we’re being pushed away from it, pacifying the weight of carrying every bad thing in the world with fleeting pleasures and addiction. It’s a poignant statement for both Albarn and IDLES, enduring proof that love remains to be the fing.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

No Gods, No Monsters – Caldwell Turnbull – “Are you pacified by passion?/Are you armed to the teeth?/Are you bubbling at the surface of what’s cooking underneath?/Are you dying for an answer for what they call good grief?”

“A Night Like This” – The Cure

Another album that I need to listen to: The Head on the Door, apparently! As the result of being brought up by gothy parents who went to high school in the ’80s, I’ve practically listened to the whole thing. The same can be said for a fair amount of their albums. (From The Head on the Door in particular, I have a specific memory of my parents showing me the “Close to Me” video and thinking that the puppets were really funny.)

How perfect it was that I remembered “A Night Like This” right after Halloween. Frankly, every season is The Cure season if you can get with the drama 24/7, but you can’t deny that it’s the ideal fall or winter soundtrack. This track in particular represents the peak of what I love about The Cure—oh my god, the drama. I mean that without any irony, because there’s such an art to throwing yourself into it fully without looking insincere. You have to make a bit of a fool of yourself to sell it, but Robert Smith never looked the part to me—it was so intentional, and so clearly from a place of love. Lyrically, that’s what sells the glut of the song for me, but musically, what pulled it back from my memory was that guitar tone—so incredibly rich and full, and yet cavernous in a way that it couldn’t be considered goth without. It’s the closest I feel a guitar can sound to a cello without Jonny Greenwooding it with an actual cello—there’s a depth to the sound that feels like it could only come from an instrument with a hollow body. It’s all an undeniable spectacle of romantic (capital R Romantic and the usual sense) passion.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Red City – Marie Lu – “It goes dark, it goes darker still/Please stay/But I watch you like I’m made of stone/As you walk away…”

“Where the Road Goes Down from Two Lanes to One” – Julie Doiron, Michael Feuerstack, Land of Talk, & Dany Placard

I just put Julie Doiron on the graphic since she’s the main artist on this song, but I wanted to credit the rest here. I just don’t think I could fit everybody else in the tiny text in that tiny little rectangle, and I’m not about to give anybody eyestrain.

I found out about this soothing song through Black Belt Eagle Scout, who played several shows with Julie Doiron earlier this month. (Happy to see that they’re well enough to play music again!!) Either way, I was immediately charmed by the nostalgic calmness of this song; it’s a six-minute, lazy stroll down memory lane, buoyed by a series of multilayered harmonies. As Doiron strings together a series of vignettes about crushes on boys and late-night driving, she gives them the feeling of blurry, sun-bleached photos with the edges curled up from wear. Towards the end, as all four of their voices fall artfully out of sync, repeating “Can you say it how I remember/Will you say it how I remember/Can you sing it how I remember/Will you sing it how I remember?”, it brings into sound the feeling of memories tangling together in your mind, timelines hazy and blurred, but just as pleasant as they were in the moment.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Amelia, If Only – Becky Albertalli – “Get in the van, we’re late for a show/Still got four more hours to go/Road maps, glovebox, no phone/I need to pull over, I wanna call home…”

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!

Posted in Book Review Tuesday

Book Review Tuesday (7/8/25) – Something More

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles!

I’ve been looking around for books to read for Disability Pride Month, and in general, trying to find some books by Palestinian/Palestinian diaspora authors. Something More fit both of those, so I figured I would give it a go! Though it wasn’t a perfect novel, it had all of the qualities of a classic YA romance novel—angsty, romantic, and heartfelt writing.

Enjoy this week’s review!

Something More – Jackie Khalilieh

Jessie is determined to turn over a new leaf. On the precipice of starting high school, she wants to show the world that she isn’t the girl who she was in middle school—lonely, awkward, and more importantly, autistic. Keeping her diagnosis a secret, Jessie quickly makes new friends—and new crushes—at Holy Trinity High. But when her friendships begin to unravel and her relationships start to crumble, Jessie questions whether it’s worth it to keep her authentic truth a secret after all.

TW/CW: ableism (external & internalized), xenophobia, racism, substance abuse, bullying

Dude. Jessie and I would’ve been best friends in high school. I would’ve gladly welcomed another neurodivergent Radiohead girlie to go sneak off to the library with during my lunch period.

Though I can’t speak to the accuracy of the representation, I loved how Something More explored Jessie’s identity! It’s something that I assume has a lot of personal importance to the author, and Khalilieh’s explored all of the facets of Jessie’s identity with such sensitivity and love. I’m not autistic, but I am neurodivergent (I have SPD), and I deeply resonated with a lot of her struggles with fitting in and adjusting to high school while being neurodivergent. I loved the arc of Jessie realizing that there’s no reason to hide her autism from her friends, and I also appreciated that a lot of her friends, despite their flaws, were respectful and accepting of her identity. The same goes with her Palestinian-Canadian identity—again, I can’t speak to the representation, but Something More had such a lovely exploration of Jessie’s experience growing up in an immigrant household and feeling like an outsider because of her Palestinian roots. It’s a deeply refreshing intersection of representation in YA literature that I adored!

I normally don’t advocate for things becoming Netflix movies, but I swear that Something More has the perfect recipe for becoming that kind of YA classic that gets a cute streaming movie. I can already see the Clueless-esque ’90s soundtrack from here, tailored towards Jessie’s special interest and the music integrated in the novel. From Jessie’s diary full of friend and boy-related (and getting her parents to get her a phone-related) goals to Jessie’s unique spark as a protagonist, it’s got the classic tropes down to a science, yet never makes them feel tired. She injects the right amounts of both the sass and the vulnerability that comes with a lovable YA rom-com protagonist. Khalilieh perfectly captures the awkwardness of entering high school and the rocky path to fitting in and finding your place. Jessie has so much great development, from realizing her self-worth in the face of her crush being dismissive of her, to realizing that she needs to stand up to her toxic “friends.” Jackie Khalilieh has clearly done her homework on YA, and with a little refinement, is well on her way to making a classic.

Despite what I loved about it, Something More suffered from a few key flaws. The most glaring of them was that…oh my god, there were so many wild, random subplots and side tangents that didn’t contribute much to the plot. Jessie’s grandma, who was almost never mentioned, randomly dies towards the end of the book, one of her friends gets involved with a creepy older man and gets dumped in a parking lot, and the rest of the friend group continuously gets tossed between several skeevy guys, seemingly with no resolution. Yeah, high school is weird, but by the end of the novel, the relationship/ex statuses between Jessie and her friend group looked like that one panel in Diary of a Wimpy Kid with the massive relationship diagram. And that’s just her friend group of FOUR PEOPLE. It was wild. Other than the gross Mel subplot, which…at the very least, I guess it gave some depth to Jessie and Levi’s relationship, none of them added to the plot, and nor did they have any ripple effects throughout the novel. I guess there was only so much time for Jessie to reflect on her grandmother dying, but if they were as close as we were blatantly told in a handful of sentences, why did it barely have an effect on Jessie? Wouldn’t she be…y’know, experiencing some form of grief? It all just felt rushed and took away page time that could’ve been used to develop the more central relationships in the novel.

Speaking of relationships…thankfully, as the cover might lead you to believe, there really isn’t much of a love triangle. (Cue a sigh of relief.) I guess you could technically make an argument for it, but honestly, up until the 80% mark, I fully thought that things between Jessie and Griffin were going to stay completely platonic. Yet even then, Levi would’ve been the worse choice…LEVI. What a piece of work! I know that Jessie had to learn, BUT GIRL! YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN HIM! Just because he’s vaguely nice and looks like Kurt Cobain doesn’t mean that he’s not a flaky, disrespectful asshole! I get that Jessie had to learn both her lesson and her self-worth when it comes to falling head-over-heels for guys, but I feel like the writing of their relationship needed some work. I feel like the time between them meeting and having their first kiss was way too fast, even if Jessie was infatuated; their dynamic over the rest of the novel felt repetitive, and it didn’t serve much to the novel save for building the case for Levi being insufferable. As for Griffin, I did like their relationship, but I honestly think it could’ve worked romantically or platonically—I did like them getting together at the end, but I also would’ve appreciated him being part of Jessie’s (abandoned) goal of getting a guy friend and having a healthy depiction of friendships of the opposite gender.

Overall, a diverse YA romance that nails all of the factors for a classic formula, but faltered in its overabundance of subplots and awkwardly-paced relationships. 3.5 stars!

Something More is a standalone and Jackie Khalilieh’s debut novel. Khalilieh is also the author of You Started It and the forthcoming Everything Comes Back to You, which is set for release in 2026.

Today’s song:

I love this song, it sounds like being in a goldfish bowl…

That’s it for this week’s Book Review Tuesday! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourself!

Posted in Sunday Songs

Sunday Songs: 2/23/25

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has treated you well.

This week: British women dominating rock music for decades, American women giving the gays what they want, and Thom Yorke’s seeming inability to make a bad song since 1995.

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 2/23/25

“Long Snake Moan” – PJ Harvey

Finally, finally, I’ve listened to a full PJ Harvey album! Took me long enough. Me and my arbitrary rules for listening to albums that I break half the time. Anyway. To Bring You My Love? I know this is the most vague descriptor you could give for an album, but it truly ROCKS. So many of these tracks embody the raw power that rock n’ roll can have. Not just that, but it feels like a love letter to the rich ancestry of the blues in rock n’ roll. Even without as much background knowledge of the blues, you can just feel the grimy, grungy crawling with threads of DNA in the history of blues in every growl that Harvey lets out. The desperation and wayward storytelling of “To Bring You My Love” and “Teclo” could’ve been fragments lost in the American south from decades before Harvey released the album. It feels to me like an example of the enduring power of any kind of music—here we have a white British woman in the mid-’90s taking inspiration from music from the ’20s-’40s made primarily by Black people all the way across the ocean, here in the States. Who would’ve thought.

One caveat with me saying that the album rocks: it’s got a relatively slow tempo, and we don’t get into the real guitars-going-crazy rock for a few songs. “Long Snake Moan” is one such song, and it knows it—Harvey’s sly “mmm-hmm” before the guitars slam into you like the brunt force of an avalanche is more proof of a smirk than a visual could ever be. She knows she’s about to absolutely wallop her listeners. And “Long Snake Moan” is one of the most enduring songs on the album. The title is a nod to Blind Lemon Jefferson’s “Black Snake Moan,” and though the sound differs, the desire of it is what fuels both; Harvey recalls a lust so all-consuming that “You’ll be drowning/Hell’s below, God above/All drunk on my love.” With every impassioned bellow, you can feel the ragged passion sloughing off every note, desperate yet distinctly conscious of its towering presence and power.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Familiar – Leigh Bardugo – “In my dreaming/You’ll be drowning/Hell’s low, God above/All drunk on my love…”

“Ride” – The Vines

I was this close to calling The Vines Britpop, but as it turns out, they’re technically nothing of the sort. Not because of the sound, which very edges closer to the rockier side of Britpop, but because they’re Australian. I don’t want to risk the wrath of any Australians, so consider myself checked before I’ve gotten hypothetically wrecked. Oops.

Regardless of whether or not they wanted to hop on the bandwagon, “Ride” feels firmly between Blur’s grunge-parody-that-became-kinda-grunge self-titled album and Supergrass. (Craig Nicholls also kinda has that Britpop, bad-boy frontman look on lock. The bangs, the smolder…) And “Ride” is such an adrenaline rush of a rocker. Guitar tone? Heavy and clean in perfect balance. Vocals? Though Nicholls’ voice doesn’t stand out to me, that distorted scream in between the chorus reminds of the best of 2000’s rock. The art of the rock scream is a sacred one—a well-placed scream can make or break a song, and Nicholls’ is simultaneously put in the spotlight and tucked into the crashing rhythms of the chorus, a grungy accent that drives up the fuel-burning energy of the track. It’s got a rasp that’s perfect for just what it is—a headbangable, garage-y rock track begging for a flimsy stereo speaker to be blasted from.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Victories Greater Than Death (Unstoppable, #1) – Charlie Jane Anders – the adrenaline-rushed, breakneck pace of this novel matches the reckless, rocking urgency of this track.

“Best Guess” – Lucy Dacus

This video is so cute and gay that I can almost ignore how annoying Cara Delevingne is…oh, no, wait, she’s caressing Lucy Dacus and hamming it up for the camera. Of course.

Either way, 2025 is shaping up to be an excellent year for music about tender love between queer women, between Send a Prayer My Way and everything that Lucy Dacus is putting out (aside from “Limerence”…oof). As much as Dacus’ emotional hard-hitters have a soft spot in my heart (was my 18-year-old brain permanently altered by the “Night Shift” belt? Perhaps), she makes tender, gentle love songs look easy. It rings similarly to her pair of Carole King covers (“Home Again” and “It’s Too Late”) from 2022, with the same slow rhythm and inner warmth; even with the fleeting mentions of over-the-moon obsession (“Tracing your tan lines/Making you mind/If this doesn’t work out/I’ll lose my mind”), it’s a very grounded, worldly kind of love song, in typical Dacus fashion. The first verse of the song centers around caressing the more physical aspects of her lover’s body, but it almost immediately professes that “I love your body/I love your mind/They will change/So will I.” So simply stated, but immediately after that, Dacus professes her undying love. That to me, feels like real love—appreciating your partner for everything that they are, impermanent as it may be. It shouldn’t be groundbreaking lyrical ground, and I don’t think it is, but it’s always refreshing when it comes up, with so many love songs focusing on youth and impermanent, surface-level qualities of people. Plus, “Best Guess” is just such a lovely, catchy song. That guitar riff at the end? Absolutely SUCCULENT. Waiter, more Lucy Dacus guitar work, please! Best-of lists are inevitably subjective, but you didn’t get named the 213th best guitarist of all time by Rolling Stone for nothing, queen! Plus, again…it’s gay. More music videos full of queer people AND queer people being happy, please!!

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Navigating With You – Jeremy Whitley and Cassio Ribeiro – soft, tender, sapphic love…and bonding over manga.

“There, There” – Radiohead

It always comes back to Radiohead. I don’t talk about music videos as extensively as much as I do the songs themselves, but “There, There” has to be one of my favorite Radiohead music videos of all time. Maybe my favorite? Not sure. Directed by Chris Hopewell, it shows Thom Yorke, his movements edited to give the appearance that he’s a stop-motion puppet, wandering into a Beatrix Potter storybook; after peering into miniature houses hollowed into trees, he finds squirrels smoking pipes, a weasel riding a Penny-farthing, all manner of rodents having a feast, and a cat couple’s wedding ceremony officiated by a crow. Of course, Thom Yorke breaks the first rule of the Brothers Grimm (from which he and Hopewell drew inspiration for the video), that being “don’t steal the shiny clothes off of that ominous-looking tree.” You can imagine how well that goes for him. It goes contrary to the largely technological, dystopian aesthetic that has endured throughout Radiohead’s discography, despite their many changes in sound. Up until The King of Limbs, their music was rarely associated with such naturalistic imagery, but that kind of fairytale darkness, paired with the lyrics, makes for a different kind of eeriness than what they usually brew. It all makes the song’s alternate title, “The Boney King of Nowhere,” all the more fitting.

Now, the lyrics…”We are accidents waiting to happen?” WHEW. I always forget about that one…for a band that seems to churn out unforgettable lyrics at a concerning rate, even this feels like one of the most masterful lines they’ve ever come up with. Like the gleaming coat and boots that Yorke finds in the forest, “There, There” is a song of being tugged in a myriad of directions—likely all the wrong ones. In typical Radiohead fandom fashion, most people seem to be divided about what kind of temptation it’s specifically talking about—general religious, personal relationships, you get the picture. The emphasis on the personal pronouns—”I go walking in your landscape,” “We are accidents waiting to happen”—lead me to believe closer to the latter, though I and We can easily be other concepts. There’s an intoxication to “There, There,” a painfully magnetic urge to enter into something dangerous, something that will by all accounts destroy you, but the irresistible temptation remains: “There’s always a siren/Singing you to shipwreck/Steer away from these rocks/We’d be a walking disaster.” One part of you cries “Heaven sent you to me,” the other cries “We’d be a walking disaster.” The chorus of “Just ’cause you feel it/Doesn’t mean its there” is the perfect embodiment of keeping up the façade of devotion—or any kind of emotion that has such a sway that you’re convinced of its reality, even when it has no roots. The whole band makes this spectacle of temptation feel like a trek deep into the mouth of a cave; Phil Selway leans on the thumping of the tom-toms, creating a truly cavernous shell for the song, while the reverb on Jonny Greenwood’s and Ed O’Brien’s guitars echo as though confined by the same dappled walls.

I get so hyperbolic with Radiohead. God, I know I do. I swear that past a certain point (1995?), a good 75% of their songs are tiny masterclasses in how to be creative—how to craft an atmosphere, how to write a gut-punching lyric, how to make music that sticks.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Someone You Can Build a Nest In – John Wiswell – “Why so green and lonely?/Heaven sent you to me/We are accidents waiting to happen…”

“The World’s Biggest Paving Slab” – English Teacher

So listen. I haven’t seen Frank. The one with Michael Fassbender, right? I’ve been meaning to watch it for years, but I haven’t gotten around to it. Should this music video give me enough of an idea?

My entirely arbitrary album listening system Destiny has not yet decided whether or not English Teacher will end up being a band I actually get into, or if I’ll resign myself to going “oh, this song is GREAT” and put off listening to them for another three to five business years. They’ve only got one album, This Could Be Texas, so I really don’t have an excuse. It’s on the list, though. And that one album won last year’s Mercury Prize, so it has to be worth it—not necessarily by virtue of being award-winning, but beating out Beth Gibbons and Charli XCX isn’t exactly an easy feat, even for an award that seems to cater more to alternative artists. Either way, “The World’s Biggest Paving Slab” is proof that no matter what, some part of me will always be attracted to any kind of alt/indie rock coming out of the UK. Something must be in the water there. Or maybe I inherited the gene from my dad, who spent his high school days listening to Julian Cope. Probably both.

Even just from this glimpse, I can already see how much of an avant-garde sensibility that Lily Fontaine and company have; their chord progressions seem to slant ever so angularly, prickly and particular, until the chorus lets them dissipate like fog. The lyrics are a collage of people and curios from Fontaine’s hometown of Colne; being at university for four years gave her the space to look back on it: “witnessing the social, economic and political issues that exist around there in juxtaposition with the beauty of the landscape and the characters that live within in it.” “The World’s Biggest Paving Slab” evokes everything from banks to remnants of the witch trials and a far-right terrorist—a complex history within what, as far as I can tell, is an unassuming, rural place on the surface. Through Fontaine, Colne itself announces its presence as something to be “Walk[ed] all over,” yet also as something containing multitudes beneath the time-weathered stone, for those who care to notice. Fontaine’s vocals switch from airy in the chorus to spoken-word in the blink of an eye, but both ring equally as cries of complicated pride: “I am the world’s biggest paving slab/And the world’s smallest celebrity.”

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Lagoon – Nnedi Okorafor – the place couldn’t be further away, but it’s a similar concept united around the soul of a place—in this case, Lagos, Nigeria.

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!

Posted in Sunday Songs

Sunday Songs: 11/24/24

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has been treating you well.

Before I begin, here are the graphics for the past two weeks. I was so excited to write about Hounds of Love, because…well, it’s Hounds of Love, oh my god, self-explanatory, but alas…we all know what happened. Not ideal conditions to write under. Rest assured, it will come back eventually. You can hold me to that. Either way, more music:

11/10/24:

11/17/24:

Now, for this week: ignoring whatever’s going on in that Goldfrapp music video…have fun?

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 11/24/24

“The Drum” – Car Seat Headrest

“The Drum” is the first video in this setlist, so there’s no need for a timestamp. Watch at your leisure!

That frame at 1:25 sums up my 8th grade experience more than any words can: Will Toledo with the blurry image of St. Vincent’s self-titled album in the background.

Ah, this one’s a throwback. I remember watching this tiny desk concert in my parents’ bedroom with my mom, who always indulged my adolescent squealing about Will Toledo with the bafflement that “he looks like he’s in high school.” I didn’t fully realize it back then, not even being in high school myself, but…no offense, Will, I love you, but the amount of voice cracks throughout (“he don’t have shIiIiIiiiIIIT”) would make me think that he was 14 or 15 here, and not 23, weirdly. This whole Tiny Desk is a work of art in the art it produces in spite of the awkwardness about. Band? Sorta. Ethan Ives and Andrew Katz are there (it’s so far back that Seth Dalby hasn’t even shown up yet!), but Andrew’s the only one with his instruments beside Toledo. And you’d think the other two guys to the left of Toledo are part of the band, right? They’re just emotional support, which, to be fair, I’d love to have during one of those shows, but it gives the effect of a bunch of guys watching their friend play guitar in senior hall. In an endearing way, honestly. It’ll always be endearing to me. It’s Car Seat Headrest, after all. Nothing but love for our nervous young man.

“The Drum” was one of the earlier tracks that was constantly in my orbit during the peak of my Car Seat Headrest heyday in my early teens. Teens of Style was Car Seat Headrest’s full album as a band (still a three-piece by that point) and the first to be signed to a label, but it retains that lo-fi sound that characterized what gave Car Seat Headrest its name in the first place: being recorded by a deeply self-conscious Toledo in his car. It’s composed mostly of songs recycled and refurbished from his early days self-recording (“The Drum” originally appeared on My Back Is Killing Me Baby), and all of them get a kind of self-deprecating grandeur. Though the lyrics have been whittled away and refined, it’s the same old sad boy underneath, rest assured. “The Drum” doesn’t necessarily fall into that category, but it makes me realize…Will Toledo sure loves writing about drunk people, huh? He’s quite good at it, too, and he’d get even better after this song with “Vincent”: “It must be hard to speak in a foreign language/Intoxicado.” This track feels like the song version of that gag in Snatch where they cut back to clips of Frankie Four Fingers gambling and getting drunk out of his mind to the tune of “Viva Las Vegas.” It’s a hundred tiny vignettes of an off-the-walls character as he stumbles through a nonlinear, drunken reality: he’s reading James Joyce, he’s too high to listen to anyone (and even if he wasn’t, he still wouldn’t be listening), and he owes you $20. He’s a real piece of work, and Toledo is the faithful documentarian struggling to catch up with his antics. And somehow, the bridge gives the sense that said sloshed asshole, swimming in alcohol and ego, has elevated himself to think that he has transcended life itself: “This is our lifetime/And I am its creator/A young man slowly pulled apart/By separate poles of gravity.” This bridge came to Toledo in a dream (with the only difference being that “young man” was originally “snowman”), and it begins to close “The Drum” out as one stumbles through an inebriated dream.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Punch – Noah Hawley – drunk, dysfunctional people aplenty, all of which need to have their perfect and unparalleled opinions heard. Surely nothing will go wrong…

“Anymore” – Goldfrapp

Another throwback, although this one didn’t factor in changing my 13-year-old brain chemistry nearly as much. That’s not a slight against it—my first memory of Goldfrapp was when I was about 11 or 12, and since then, she’s been a consistent, behind-the-scenes favorite. Between their work with Tricky and Spiritualized, I should’ve been hooked in the first place, but they’re so consistent in her sound, and not in a way that grows tired. Aside from some of the production, “Anymore” could just as easily been from one of their albums from the 2000’s. Their brand of futuristic-sounding synths sounds like something you’d hear from a club in Blade Runner, and not in a way that feels dated. It’s almost like Alison Goldfrapp and Will Gregory are just as precise as the machines that they manipulate to create their music; everything is oiled down until not a single wrinkle remains, and the result feels simultaneously far in the future and timeless…

…if you can ignore the tamer PG (?) version of Feyd Rautha that is the music video. You do you…?

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch – Philip K. Dick – I feel like this is the kind of music that would play if you took Can-D and going to Philip K. Dick’s version of Barbie Land…

“Moderation” – Cate Le Bon

Several months out from listening to Pompeii for the first time, I find myself returning to it time and time again. I’ll cling to any new weirdness I can find, and Cate Le Bon, at least for this album, delivers. Back in July, I talked about how the first four songs on the album are a cascade of absolute successes; “Moderation” is the second of the four, and although it’s much poppier than the eerie “Dirt on the Bed,” it nonetheless has her oddball twist. The instrumentals, from the so-bright-they-shine guitars to the backing saxophones, are very ’80s, but they’re tweaked enough that they don’t sound like hollow copies; the gated reverb on the drums is gently quieted, while the production, like the music video, feels like everything has been recorded straight from the mouth of a cave.

Something about the lyrics strike me as oddly coy—not in meaning, but more of how they start to reveal themselves as something that makes sense, so vague that they could be applied to anything, and then mischievously peek back behind the curtains and return with something truly bizarre. They’re somewhere in between the matter-of-fact but nonsensical utterances of both Brian Eno and Robyn Hitchcock, and even some of early St. Vincent’s artier ventures. “I get by pushing poets aside/’Cause they can’t beat the mother of pearl.” I love it, and somehow it makes sense, but do I have any clue what that means? Nope. It feels like it’s meant to be poetry more than anything, words strung together for aesthetic effect. The music video gives the distinct feel of a performance piece you’d see projected in a curtained-off corner of an art museum, but the colors of it are the perfect match “Moderation.” Against a backdrop of a brewing storm at sea, Le Bon is cloaked in black, with only her face, arms, or legs visible at any given time. Aside from her “Life On Mars”-blue eyeshadow, the only hints of color she reveals are lacy cuffs on her sleeves or bright colors on her tights. Those pops of color feel like the bursts of oddities throughout “Moderation,” so vibrant that they pop out like cartoon bubblegum.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Magonia – Maria Dahvana Headley – you think you’ve got a typical 2010’s YA fantasy book on your hands, and then it gets bonkers…delightfully so.

“Banana Co” – Radiohead

With every successive Radiohead EP I listen to, I’m baffled at not just the sheer amount of output they had, but how good a solid 90% of it is. The Bends sessions seem like some of the most fruitful of their entire career, what with three EPs and a series of smaller singles released in the periods directly before and after the album’s release. I’ve yet to listen to My Iron Lung – EP or the “Fake Plastic Trees” single, but from what I can tell, they were just constantly cooking. They had to be forcibly removed from the kitchen because the cooking was just TOO GOOD. They just COULD NOT BE STOPPED.

In some ways, “Banana Co” feels like if “Karma Police” was released on The Bends; the term “sardonic wit” is overused these days, but it applies here for sure, as it does to quite a lot of Radiohead. Written about the corporate colonialism of the United Fruit company in various countries in Central and South America, Thom Yorke slathers his honeyed words in sarcasm with the repeated verse: “Oh, Banana Co/We really love you and need you.” Yorke has an almost sleepy register to his words, as though he’s being pulled under by the propaganda himself, before the guitars of Jonny Greenwood and Ed O’Brien coalesce in a controlled blast of everything that makes me miss listening to The Bends. Adding this one to the list of Bends-era songs that make me think “this is a B-SIDE?” (see also: “Maquiladora,” “My Iron Lung”). Luckily—at least for the fans who were alive to see this (cries in Gen Z)—”Banana Co” was a live staple pre-OK Computer, and Yorke has often addressed it towards other colonial problems of the day, including one in 1998 that was addressed to “the people of Indonesia, and the people who have money invested in that country.”

Wow, what a wonderful example of a band committed to calling out imperialism and violence around the world! Surely they would carry these values into this day and age…right? Right?

Uh…

Well. I’ll say that I am quite disappointed after hearing that Thom Yorke confronted a pro-Palestine protestor at one of his solo shows back in October; the protestor demanded that Yorke condemn the ongoing violence in Palestine, and he responded by calling the protestor a coward, then walking offstage. In Yorke’s defense, he has every right to withhold his political views (and also, I don’t think yelling at a celebrity at a concert is necessarily the best way to get people on your side, no matter how good the cause, nor is it going to solve any conflict), but there has to be a much more respectful way of dealing with this kind of thing. Calling this person a coward was not the right move, even if he did want to decline to speak. It’s just so odd and hypocritical to me that he would be a champion for human rights for so long, and then call somebody a coward for protesting the same human rights violations that he once sang about and condemned in the ’90s. Even if he doesn’t publicly condemn the thousands of needless deaths, I just hope that he realizes how hypocritical he sounds. What a shame, really. Again, no way that Thom Yorke’s reading this, but…maybe go listen to your old catalogue over again before you call people protesting the horrors of modern imperialism cowards. Just saying. Free Palestine.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Countess – Suzan Palumbo – being under—and breaking the spell—of imperialism and subservience.

“Duet” – Frankie Cosmos

We’re ending on a much lighter note, worry not. Frankie Cosmos is always reliable on that front (whether or not it’s preceded by one of my rants).

I finally caught up with this season of Heartstopper, and I’ve fully moved away from calling it any sort of comfort show, as I feel that would diminish the incredibly important (and tactfully delivered) depictions of eating disorders and mental illness. Nonetheless, it remains a wonderfully queer show, and it’s got plenty of sweet moments, often buttressed by light and bubbly indie pop. I’m only on brand with…a third of the songs that are picked (some of it’s a bit too pop for me), but I can always count on at least a handful of hits popping up—season 3 featured not one but two Arlo Parks songs (“Devotion” and “Pegasus”—Parks is just perfect for the Heartstopper atmosphere), Sufjan Stevens’ “That Was the Worst Christmas Ever!” (it sure was…Charlie cannot catch a break 😭), and, reliably, more Frankie Cosmos. Maybe, just maybe, Alice Oseman might be a fan? We can never really be sure…

Either way, Frankie Cosmos and Heartstopper are matches of media that are made for each other. “Duet” has some of the simplest of lyrics, but they’re delivered with the lovesick joy of doodling hearts in the corner of your notebook as a teenager. Packaged in bite-sized containers (I can’t think of a song of theirs that’s over 4 minutes), they really do feel like bubblegum—sweet, sometimes sickly so, and short-lived, but constructed from simplicity that produces, more often than not, a perfect pop song. Like both the comic’s and the show’s cartoon hearts and leaves that surround the characters, there’s a simple purity to them that’s been distilled to the core.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Stars in Their Eyes – Jessica Walton and Aśka – similarly pure and comforting, and full of color and first love.

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!

Posted in Sunday Songs

Sunday Songs: 9/22/24

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has treated you well.

This week: I apologize in advance for every single driving mention and/or pun that I made in this post. I didn’t even notice it at a certain point…I just couldn’t…stop…

1:58-2:07

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 9/22/24

“Bloody Ice Cream” – Bikini Kill

It’s been just under a month since I had the privilege of seeing Bikini Kill live, and even as someone who isn’t a hardcore fan of the band, I had SUCH a wonderful time! That’s owed in no small part to the commanding presence of Kathleen Hanna, not just in the history she carries, but in just how real she was. There she was, a pioneer of feminist punk, just onstage joking about how her bra was too tight and recounting a memory of rich girls pelting her with squirt guns before she walked into a job interview. Never at any moment was there a pretense of acting cool or punk. It was nothing but Kathleen Hanna, in all of her smudged-mascara and sequined glory. Bless Kathleen Hanna, really.

So when she introduced this song, which I was familiar with only in name, by saying that it was dedicated to “all woman writers,” you bet that I stood up and saluted her like it was the national anthem. And even as a fan on the sidelines, I’d accept “Bloody Ice Cream” as a new kind of anthem. It articulates in less than one and a half minutes what so many creators—chiefly women—are told about the profession: “The Sylvia Plath story is told/To girls who write/They want us to think/That to be a girl poet/Means you have to die.” The unspoken doctrine of your craft not being valid unless you sobbed and suffered over it permeates all kinds of media. I’ve been around so many people who think that trauma is the secret to good writing, whether it’s slapping it onto their characters or thinking that their hope in their message is invalid because it doesn’t show the bleakness of the real world. Counterpoint: ever experience happiness? Even once? Was that not in the real world?

The modern world may be far from perfect, but we have an understanding that could nurture and heal the Sylvia Plaths and Virginia Woolfs of tomorrow. And we have the recognition that there is no power greater than joy. In and outside of the writer’s world, we’re taught that to feel downtrodden is to experience the real world, competing each other for how exhausted we are, how much we have on our plates, and how sad and gloomy our projects are. Is this really what creativity is? It’s not like there’s no value in showing the darker aspects of life, but for how much it clogs the literary world, I feel like so many people have forgotten that writing—and imagination—isn’t just a contest for who can work themselves to the bone the most artfully. I write to put out the energy I want to see reflected in the world around me. And that energy is joy. The systems of oppression that surround us want to see people like us being so downtrodden that we have no energy to question them. So write. Write joy. Write what’s in your heart. Scream and dance like Kathleen Hanna. And don’t underestimate the value of kindness. They hate to see you joyous.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Crane Husband – Kelly Barnhill – “Who was it/That told me/All girls who write/Must suicide?”

“My Impure Hair” – Blonde Redhead

The best shoegaze sounds like you’re slipping in and out of a dream, that limbo best experienced from 1-4 in the morning when you’ve woken up from a dream, your eyes are gummy, and you’re not sure if the hazy shapes forming the walls and bed around you are part of another dream you’ve yet to wake up from. I guess that’s why it’s so easy for people to get high to this kind of music, but like…well, all things, sobriety is better suited to experiencing them. “My Impure Hair” is the closing track on 23 (I’m not even a diehard fan, but I just LOVE that album cover), and even from this tiny taste, it feels like an artfully placed closing track. It has the quality of a lullaby; every element, from the soft instrumentation to Kazu Makino’s vocals, is whispered, as though not to disturb a swaddled baby drifting off in their crib. Once you think you’ve heard a distinct sound, it bleeds into another like spilled watercolors, creating a pale wisp that floats, airless, on the passing wind.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The First Sister – Linden A. Lewis – “But in the end/We defend our decadence/You never wept like that/Whatever lost, I won’t forget about you…”

“Kanga Roo” – Big Star

Nothing baffles me more about “Kanga Roo” than the fact that, although it didn’t officially see the light until 1978, it was recorded sometime in 1974. I suppose there’s some ’60s psychedelic bands that got close to the sound here, but this kind of deterioration feels so modern. It doesn’t sound like 1974! It sounds like a less fuzzy Spacemen 3 or the first take of a Bends-era Radiohead b-side. One of the top comments on the official audio called it “the rough draft for Wilco’s Yankee Hotel Foxtrot,“ which is the most astute description I’ve ever seen ascribed to it—I don’t know how it never clicked, but suddenly, “Ashes of American Flags” makes eons more sense.

I can only imagine what hearing this in 1978 felt like—probably the musical equivalent of “mom, come pick me up, I’m scared” after expecting something more like “In The Street.” Jesus. That feeling certainly crept into me when I first heard this song, while driving home from a concert late at night, navigating a winding canyon road in near-pitch black. All of the shrill mechanical squeals sound much more menacing when you’re barely awake. “Kanga Roo” sounds like it’s actively pulling itself apart at the seams, a threadbare rag only attached to its halves by a few strands of fraying string. The drums are never on beat or consistent in volume, somebody’s banging on a cowbell for about 15 seconds, and all the electric guitars are doing is getting scratched and squealed into oblivion. It’s a bizarre experience, watching a song crumble like charcoal in a dead firepit the morning after a campfire. Yet there’s an innocence to it; Alex Chilton’s voice is the only clear sound in “Kanga Roo.” You’re hearing the instruments fighting for their lives while Chilton’s plainly singing “You was at a party/Thought you was a queen.” The iconic line that gave the song its name (“oh, I want you/Like a kangaroo”) almost makes no sense, and I’m not sure if Chilton has ever offered up an explanation, but somehow, I see it. I imagine one of those towering, buck kangaroos standing at full height, and feeling the desire to grasp someone in your arms with the strength of such a creature.

I included This Mortal Coil’s cover of “Kangaroo” in one of my past Sunday Songs that I didn’t get around to writing because I was occupied with moving and school; I have too much homework to fully go into who’s coming out victorious if we’re pitting the original against this one, but I’m at least partial to it for how sparse it feels, even with the soaring strings. It’s much more put-together than the original (not to disparage the artful chaos), but there’s something to be said for what it does with the negative space that the Big Star version drowns out. What can I say? They got me. They got me with the big feels.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Spirit Bares Its Teeth – Andrew Joseph White – the lyrics could match up with any number of books, but it’s the creaking, uneasy atmosphere that puts it squarely in this novel’s company.

“Driver” – Soccer Mommy

I’m so glad that Soccer Mommy has become a prominent enough artist that she has the means to do funny marketing campaigns, because whoever came up with the one for “Driver” had a stroke of genius. By calling a number that Sophie Allison posted, you could get a snippet of the track before it came out, followed by “how’s my driving?”-style call prompt. Maybe we are in an okay timeline.

Without a doubt, Sophie Allison has never been more sure of herself at the wheel. A departure from the expression of beauty in lingering grief that were the two lead singles, “Lost” and “M,” “Driver” presents a more lighthearted detour to the landscape of Evergreen. The backing guitars and effects have gained a grungier, grimier edge, but Allison’s sunshine puts them all in a dusty, golden light. As the guitars and drums thrum like gravel skipping across a dirt road, Allison turns her attention to the present loves of her life. You almost get the feeling that she’s slipping into the self-deprecation of her early career, but there’s nothing but affection for herself, but more in terms of her partner, who puts up with her “losing [her] concentration on every whim.” Allison presents herself as the more emotional, scatterbrained half of the couple, which her partner is playful about, but is also the one to ground her when she gets too far into her head with a reminder of “where are we going now?” She’s never completely blameless, but she’s full of nothing but love for her anchor that keeps her from veering off the path; it’s not like some of her earlier songs, like this would indicate that she’s in danger of slipping away entirely, but it’s an exercise in learning to rein yourself in—and find somebody who isn’t afraid to rest a hand on your shoulders and remind you where your feet are planted.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Aurora Burning (The Aurora Cycle, #2) – Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff – not to get all 2020 Madeline on you all, but…the Kalauri in this song…I’m gonna keel over…

“I’m a five foot four engine waiting to move/I’m a test of his patience with all that I do/‘Cause I’m hot and he stays cool, I don’t know why/But he puts up with my moods/And he makes me smile when he says/’Where are we going now?'”

“Bishop’s Robes” – Radiohead

The connection of inspiration between Radiohead and The Smiths never surprises me, but sometimes, with bands that inspire another, you find a single song that you know is the missing link in the evolutionary tree, the line of ancestry concretely delineating their music as kin. More specifically, it makes sense next to their cover of “The Headmaster Ritual,” though “Bishop’s Robes” takes a much more subdued turn.

Yorke’s raw lyricism thrives in both simplicity and complexity; he can weave any number of stories with denser, more prosey lyrics, but he knows just what kind of simple, unadorned phrases to stab you in the gut with. In this case, it’s the chorus, repeated like a shaky-voiced prayer in a dark corner: “I am not going back.” It becomes more of a reminder than a statement, as though to convince his brain that no, he’s not back in his pre-teen years under the reign of his “bastard Headmaster.” Volumes have been written about the horrors and abuse of the British education system back in the day (see: pretty much anything by Pink Floyd)—and some continuing into now, I would imagine—but what sets “Bishop’s Robes” apart is the mood. It might be more accurate to call it a lack, as the most overwhelming feeling you get from this track is not anger but numbness. There’s a resignation to it, weighing down the music, as though, even in adulthood, the experience has sapped him: Yorke doesn’t have the energy to fling insults along the lines of “spineless swines” or “belligerent ghouls” at his abusive childhood tormentors—all he can do is “bastard.” And it’s that eyebagged, forlorn crawl that sells the lasting effect it had on him. After years of unyielding discipline, I can imagine the fear of not raising your voice—a haunting presence that permeates every note of this track, constantly looking over its shoulder to guard innocent contraband that doesn’t exist.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Agnes at the End of the World – Kelly McWilliams – secrecy, escape, and the horrors of a perverted version of Christianity in the hands of the wrong man.

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!

Posted in Music

Album Review: “Wall of Eyes” – The Smile

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles!

Apologies for a lack of Sunday Songs this week. I’ve just been busy with schoolwork, and I didn’t have time to polish anything for this week. I was, however, already about halfway done with this post by the time Sunday rolled around, so hopefully I can throw you a bone here.

My high school love of Radiohead predictably went down the pipeline to The Smile back in 2022, when their first album, A Light for Attracting Attention, was released. (I was going to review it then, but it ended up getting sidetracked by several other albums that were coming out at the time. Sadly, the Arcade Fire only took a few months to age like milk. Believe survivors.) Either way, A Light was one of my favorite albums of 2022, and I even had the incredible privilege of seeing them on that tour—that was a concert where I definitely cried a little once I’d gotten into the car. It was a beacon after I’d gotten through my first semester of college. Thom Yorke’s music isn’t one that I usually categorize as uplifting, but I remember saying—and thinking—that seeing them live was the happiest I’d been in a long time. And I meant it. Something mended a part of my soul that night.

So of course I lost my mind when I figured out that they were releasing Wall of Eyes so soon! And even more so that “Read the Room” would be among the ranks, which I’d been eagerly waiting to hear since December of 2022. I was afraid that I’d overhyped the whole shebang for myself because of how rosy those memories of seeing them were, but, as they often do, they did not disappoint—in fact, Wall of Eyes feels like a more refined effort after A Light, sharp and distinct in ways that make a colorful but cohesive record.

Let’s begin, shall we?

WALL OF EYES – THE SMILE

Release date: January 26, 2024 (XL Records)

TRACK 1: “Wall of Eyes” – 8.5/10

After A Light for Attracting Attention, The Smile’s trademark became the jazz-rock acrobatics that they regularly performed: unique time signatures and rhythms that were ever so artfully off-kilter. That’s part of what separates them from most other Thom Yorke or Radiohead-related projects, but the title track of this album proves that not every track has to be this way. Sometimes, they can revel in quiet, almost-acoustic numbers and make it feel as innovative as anything they’ve put out. “Wall of Eyes” adds another landscape of alienation to the general…well, absolute menagerie of those kinds of landscapes that Yorke has put out over the years, but this time trades uneasy synths for the strumming of an acoustic guitar, spare orchestral notes, and faint, rumbling synths that ripple like water reflected onto an unpolished ceiling. It’s a track that easily lets you drift into the immaculate world that Yorke, Greenwood, and Skinner have concocted, full of fainting pulsating lights and shadowy figures drifting in and out of focus. And Yorke’s fading, sinister laughter puts the icing on the already decadent cake, pulling this track into a haze of uncertainty and unwilling vulnerability.

TRACK 2: “Teleharmonic” – 8/10

“Teleharmonic” (if there could ever be a more Smiley song title) is where Wall of Eyes breaks out of its shell and begins to bristle and hum. Crackling with static and vibration, you can almost see the delicate waves strung through it, the kind of physical sound that feels like would shy away from your touch if you tried to lay a finger on it. Yorke’s voice is made to echo like he’s trapped in a digital cavern, resonating like words through a canyon distorted by a wool sweater of synths. Skinner’s thin, precise drumbeats seem to speckle the melody like falling bits of hail, melting into the kaleidoscopic vision that “Teleharmonic” plunges us headfirst into. If “Wall of Eyes” was the steady hand that eased you into the album, then this track is when the hand is wrenched away, leaving you to fall face-first into truly alien territory.

TRACK 3: “Read the Room” – 10/10

That’s your opinion

That’s how the story goes,

A magic rain, a magic rainbow,

So big it bends the light…

The Smile, “Read the Room”

Mark my words, this will not be the last time you’ll hear about this song from me. I’ll try to keep it short so I don’t find myself sounding like a broken record, but I can’t resist. This was my most anticipated track from Wall of Eyes, and I am elated to say that it did not disappoint in the slightest. Continuing the general theme of unrest (political, personal, and otherwise) and surveillance, it falls in the vein of “A Hairdryer” with its commentary, with its mentions of “magic rainbow[s]/So big it bends the light” and “massive egos.” To that, there’s no poetic response that Yorke has defined himself with; it’s gone so far that all there is to say is “I am gonna count to three/Keep that shit away from me,” as though to chide a child. And…well, yeah, at this point, that’s the only way you can probably speak to some our world leaders today, but it’s potent either way. “Read the Room” also feels like the smoothest, sleekest track to come out of The Smile’s catalogue, chrome-shiny but with all the same bite that they usually have. The intro is genuinely intoxicating to me, instantly loopable and blooming. Just as captivating as it was live.

TRACK 4: “Under Our Pillows” – 9/10

Episodes wiped clean,

This is major league make-believe.

The Smile, “Under Our Pillows”

Like “Read the Room,” “Under Our Pillows” opens with plucky, off-kilter guitar notes that could masquerade as synths just as easily. It gives the whole track the feel of watching a candy ad from the 2000’s, like I should suddenly be surrounded by Dippin’ Dots raining from the sky—everything is round, smooth, and full of artificially vibrant color. With a similar frantic, skipping beat as “Thin Thing,” it radiates both enticing sweetness and pent-up, anxiety, but there’s no denying that “Under Our Pillows” is full of energy—and a sinister energy, of course. (What else would it be, it’s The Smile! The Smile was always full of rotting teeth!) And to match the candy-colored vibrance is the promise of handshakes cloaked in lies—”A slate wiped clean, a white loss of feeling If you’re ready and willing.” Somebody’s taking the current environment of real, necessary change being nearly impossible to make because every politician you can think of has sold their soul and shoved themselves deep in somebody’s linty, corporate pocket well, huh? Guess he’s taking it well as any of us can. The western world may be an absolute joke, but at least Thom Yorke is here to pen some absolutely glorious music.

TRACK 5: “Friend Of A Friend” – 8/10

cannot stop thinking about the fact that Jonny Greenwood plays piano like a Peanuts character

Oh, what was that I was saying about politician’s being in corporate pockets? Oh…oh! Oh. Yeah. Comin’ atcha with round two.

“Friend Of A Friend” continues not just the political theme, but the pairing of said theme with enticing instrumentals to drive the hypnotic lyrics home. No pun intended, but just like the allure of money and the easy descent into corruption, this track is about as friendly as a Smile song can get, with its gentle, bass-driven start and Thom Yorke’s thin, resonant vocals, almost unchanged since at least 1999. It’s amazing how little (by little? okay, I’ll shut up) his voice has changed over the years; I wouldn’t call it deepened, but there’s undoubtedly a fullness that wasn’t all there in the post-Bends days. The pool was already full of his soaring, gut-wrenching falsetto, but the pool has only continued to overflow with his talent. The combination of Greenwood’s gentle piano and the soft hiss of Skinner’s drums only adds to the feel of the song being the last thing you hear before slipping into the trance, like someone’s put you under a spell, and the last thing you see before you go under is their eager eyes staring down at your prone body.

TRACK 6: “I Quit” – 7/10

I try not to worship the ground that Yorke, Greenwood, and Skinner walk on, but don’t worry, I still have criticisms of both this album and A Light for Attracting Attention. The main issue of the latter was that many tracks, despite being well-crafted and atmospheric, had the tendency to blend into each other—the same (no pun intended…oh god, I need to stop) jazzy, low-key rumbles that bled into each other too easily, like watercolors left to spill and blend into a muddy mess; every color was beautiful on its own, but they faded far too much into each other. For a title like “I Quit,” I completely expected it to be in the Bends-callback style of “You Will Never Work in Television Again,” but in actuality, it’s the slowest track on Wall of Eyes—I suppose the title makes a different kind of sense if the quitting in question is more from exhaustion and giving up as opposed to towel-throwing anger—”This is my stop/This is the end of the trip.” Drenched in delay on every possible instrument, “I Quit” has a lethargic crawl that could fit right in with A Light, but on this album, provides a calm respite from some of the more skittering, uptempo tracks. I see why it’s the subject of many critics’ ire, but I’d argue that this sleepier track has its place.

TRACK 7: “Bending Hectic” – 8.5/10

“Bending Hectic” was the very first single to come out of Wall of Eyes, and I reviewed it when it was released back in July (why, why, WHY did none of you tell me THAT I SPELLED THE SONG WRONG IN THE GRAPHIC AND THE POST?? WHY???) In concert with the rest of the album, it feels just as seamless and cinematic as it did when it stood alone. Now, bridged between the rambling quiet of “I Quit” and the uneasy shoulder-tapping of “You Know Me!” (see below), it feels like an elongated cat’s stretch, reveling in the softer moments but crashing like a volcanic explosion and letting the fiery debris rain down upon our ears with reckless abandon. Like “Read the Room,” it remains as gene-altering in real time as it felt seeing it live without knowing anything else about it, a swirl of sharp colors. And god. I can’t shut up about Jonny Greenwood’s guitar work, can I? I won’t. It never ceases to amaze me just how many innovative ways that this man can manipulate the instrument into something truly colossal.

TRACK 8: “You Know Me!” – 8.5/10

You are standing in my light,

You have wound yourself around me

Like you know me…

The Smile, “You Know Me!”

I wouldn’t have expected anything less from The Smile, but god, what a gloriously eery way to end the album. It has the feel of a latter-day Radiohead track, but with a much more modern sensibility—the lyrics are full of manipulation and trickery, which could just as easily be how it feels to be surrounded by advertising on social media in the corporate world, or just a sour relationship. Given Yorke’s history with this kind of thing (see: OK Computer), I’m gonna go with the former, but either way, the culmination is chilling, with echoing, distorted instrumentation and piano that sounds like it’s being transmitted from somewhere underwater. With the addition of the lyrics, “You Know Me!” feels like a boa constrictor slowly wrapping itself around your chest to suffocate you, but whispering in your ears that it’s for the best with every breath that it squeezes out of you: “None of this is mine/Always ‘you know me.'” Even the exclamation mark in the title feels like a corporate smile of misplaced trust, like a “we’re here for you!” as they lay off hundreds of their workforce. How’s that for an album closer, huh? Take notes.

I added up my scores for each track, and they came out to an 8.4! It’s really a shame that Wall of Eyes came out so early this year, because it’s going to be hard to compete with this album. (At least their competition is just as exciting—Chelsea Wolfe, IDLES, and…St. Vincent? Be still, my beating heart…) Now that they’ve slimmed down their track count and refined—and redefined—their sound, The Smile sounds as fully-realized as ever, brimming with sharp commentary and truly alien, expansive soundscapes full of vibrant colors. The talents of Yorke, Greenwood, and Skinner could never be called into question, but if they ever were, Wall of Eyes is a testament to their work as a truly powerful trio, cohesive and boundary-pushing in equal measure. (Why yes, I have had this on repeat for a solid week and a half, why do you ask?)

Since this is an album review, consider the whole album to be today’s song.

That’s it for this album review! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Sunday Songs

Sunday Songs: 12/31/23

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles!

Whew, here we are on New Year’s Eve! What a year it’s been, huh? The fact that there’s 2/5ths depressing songs in this batch was entirely unintentional, but I’m of the firm opinion that the last one is a good way to close out 2023. Also—no, somehow the Phoebe Bridgers song this week isn’t one of the depressing ones, bizarrely. Who would’ve thunk.

Enjoy the last songs of 2023!

SUNDAY SONGS: 12/31/23

“Garden Song” – Phoebe Bridgers

This song, like a good song does, came back like an old, loyal dog when I needed it most. But before I get into it, I remembered that I reviewed Punisher when it came out. So let’s see what I thought about it back in 2020:

This was the first single to be released out of the whole album. When I first listened to it, something about it got under my skin, but as I’ve listened to it more, something about it has grown on me (no pun intended). A nostalgic, dreamlike opener to the album. (Rating: 7/10)

…huh. Well, I thought I’d have…more to work with there, but 2020 me wasn’t necessarily wrong. I’d certainly bump up the rating up to at least an 8 or an 8.5, though. It’s what this song deserves, upon a few more years of reflection. It’s a way-homer once you get past the age of 16.

Yes, there is some sad bastard music coming soon in this post (buckle up), but contrary to what…95% of Phoebe Bridgers’ discography would have you believe, this isn’t one of them. Pigeonholing an artist into being just a “sad girl” has a multitude of pitfalls, but one of them is that automatically assuming that slow = sad. In fact, I think this is one of her most hopeful songs. I remember taking a while to warm up to it at first—the startlingly low, Matt Berninger-esque backing vocals, probably several octaves below Bridgers, felt off at first. (In fact, the voice belongs to Jeroen Vrijhoef, her tour manager, who she described as sounding like “Dutch Matt Berninger.”) It’s a stark contrast—Vrijhoef’s rumbling bass almost becomes the unstable ground that Bridgers’ frayed-silk high notes treads over, but it grows on you after a while.

One thing that writing these posts this year has taught me is that I can see more clearly how I approach music; it’s always the music itself first, and unless something immediately jumps out at me (or if I come in expecting it), the lyrics follow on subsequent listens. That’s certainly what’s happened with this song. The dreamlike calmness has never failed to soothe me, but the lyrics have a soothing quality to them as well. The sleepily rambling second verse, where Phoebe Bridgers describes a meandering dream, has the murmur that you would only expect when she’s just woken up and is scrawling the non-sequitur fragments into her journal. (Not to project onto a complete stranger, but I feel like she’s the kind of person to keep a dream journal. I just get that vibe.) But even beyond that, “Garden Song” really is about growth. It’s the soft space where you can look back on your life, recognizing the good and bad, and see it as the soil for other things to grow. It’s the sad smile that you can see as you recall the painful times in your life, but also the comfort in realizing that your sprout has gone beyond that and bloomed, and the hope that there’s blooming yet to do. I find myself going back to 2020, a few months after Punisher came out, when it seemed like all of the lead-weight things pinning my shoulders down would never lift, and inevitably feeling heavy again, but remembering where I’m sitting now, and where my feet have taken me since then. The path was winding and full of twists, but it led us all here. As Bridgers herself said, “…if you’re someone who believes that good people are doing amazing things no matter how small, and that there’s beauty or whatever in the midst of all the darkness, you’re going to see that proof, too. And you’re going to ignore the dark shit, or see it and it doesn’t really affect your worldview. It’s about fighting back dark, evil murder thoughts and feeling like if I really want something, it happens, or it comes true in a totally weird, different way than I even expected.” There’s no denying the darkness, but it is never all there is.

“Garden Song” came back to me towards the end of finals, and of course, I had to sit a while in my spinny chair and sit with it. To me, it’s the perfect song to take with us to the new year—to reflect on how you’ve grown through everything, and that there is so much left to grow through. I’ll leave it with these lines:

“I don’t know how, but I’m taller
It must be something in the water
Everything’s growing in our garden
You don’t have to know that it’s haunted
The doctor put her hands over my liver
She told me my resentment’s getting smaller
No, I’m not afraid of hard work
I get everything I want
I have everything I wanted.”

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Long Way to a Small, Angry Planet – Becky Chambers – even if the gentle, muted instrumentals didn’t perfectly mesh with the homey atmosphere of this novel, the stargazingly hopeful attitude certainly would.

“Ruined” – Adrianne Lenker

Alright, here’s a blanket. This one’s from another sad girl, and it’s very much actually sad.

If there’s one thing that Adrianne Lenker can write well, it’s a heartbreak song. Unlike most of her solo work that I’ve listened to, there’s no acoustic guitar in sight. This time, Lenker has opted for something equally sparse and solemn: the classic solo piano ballad, aided by some faint, synthy notes in the background, apparently credited as “crystals.” It could’ve easily blended in with the acoustic-dominated landscape of most of her other music, but somehow, the slowly marching piano chords leave the song room to take every rattling breath. Thanks to the music video…I…yeah, I think I’ve now seen more of Adrianne Lenker than I ever needed to see, but this song provides more of that in the metaphorical sense, which I much prefer. She’s a soul-bearer. Something about the plaintive, ever-present waver in her voice seems to age her—it’s not like much time has passed between her solo work, but the shake in her voice seems to indicated that whatever inspired this song aged something inside of her, certainly. Poor thing. Whether or not this song will eventually be a part of an album or remain adrift in Lenker’s discography, it would make a wonderful, thematic addition to the end of an album—it wouldn’t even need to be the very last song, but it would fit in at least the final three or four. The opening lines lend themselves to an album fading into the ether, of both love and music slipping through your fingers—”I wish I’d waved when I saw you/I just watched you passing by.”

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Even Though I Knew the End – C.L. Polk – I don’t think Adrianne Lenker would mind the inclusion of vampires, but this is certainly the kind of love that ruins you.

“I’m Not Feeling Human” – The Olivia Tremor Control

My musical wish for 2024: BRING BACK SLIDE WHISTLES, DAMMIT!

I’ve been riding off my dad’s high of Elephant 6 musicians after he recently watched the Elephant 6 Recording Co. documentary (hence the recent spike in Apples in Stereo-related content). There’s something so pure about so much of the music that they put out in the early days. Well…okay, maybe not on Neutral Milk Hotel’s part, but Robert Schneider (of the Apples) and Will Cullen Hart and Bill Doss (of The Olivia Tremor Control) certainly knew how to juice playful simplicity out of synths and all manner of catchy melodies. The Apples in Stereo have a space-age, almost scientific quality to their pop songs, but to me, The Olivia Tremor Control has always come across as something just as whimsical, but in the way of flat colors and simple shapes that bounce around. I’ll die on the hill that this song deserves some kind of Chicka-Chicka Boom Boom-style music video to go along with it. The patchwork of goofy instruments scattered around (including the aforementioned, glorious slide whistle) gives it a delightful whimsy that calls to mind stacks of building blocks. Even the slight discomfort of the lyrics seem to be delivered with a wry smile—”Don’t I feel, don’t I feel like a mineral?/Don’t I feel, don’t I feel like a vegetable?” Maybe it’s the rhymes, or maybe just the fact that I’ve always found the phrase “animal, vegetable, or mineral” funny for no reason (I blame it on what little I remember from The Magician’s Nephew), but even vague alienation has a childlike whimsy to it in the hands of The Olivia Tremor Control. Probably the slide whistle, though.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The World of Edena – Mœbius – colored in with the same flat but vibrant colors that “I’m Not Feeling Human” is shaded in.

“Crash” – The Primitives

Okay, we’ve got one more peppy song before the depression hits…let’s ride the high while it lasts.

“Crash,” other than being a nostalgic, smiling thing popping up in my brain’s whack-a-mole system of remembering songs, feels like the better side of late ’80s pop. By then, the oversaturated synths and gated reverb had probably spread faster than the plague; I can’t speak from experience, given that…y’know, I wasn’t alive, but it had to have gotten obnoxious by that point. This song could have easily been that, but The Primitives seemed to know just the right balance to hit to make something instantly catchy, but that also managed to date itself in a way that wasn’t plasticky and corny. It’s distinctively ’80s without being distinctively ’80s, if you get what I mean. The guitars are bright, but not polished into oblivion, and yet there’s no denying the authentic, cartoon stars coming off of the opening riff. It’s practically begging to soundtrack a confident, reckless heroine with a slick jacket and and a pair of rollerblades, the kind with sparks that fly off with every turn she makes. Tracy Tracy, dolled up like some kind of new wave Marilyn Monroe in the music video, knows that she never needed to over-exaggerate her voice—the warmth of it, combined with the fiery embers self-contained in a tidy two and a half minutes, made for a song that’s unmistakable as a hit.

And they put this song in Dumb and Dumber? Huh?

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Little Thieves – Margaret Owen – Vanja Schmidt is certainly the kind of reckless firebrand that doesn’t know when to slow down—and it takes her to some unexpected places…

“Motion Picture Soundtrack” – Radiohead

Another thing I have my wonderful dad to thank for: we watched a few episodes of Joseph Campbell’s The Power of Myth (it’s all on Youtube, go watch it), and besides the plentiful, earth-shattering truth bombs, for lack of a better phrase, about the nature of life and myth (and how those two aren’t really separate things after all), a quote from the second episode stood out to me when I was reminded of this song. At about 42:48, after he and Bill Moyers are discussing the manifestation of god in everything, and by extension, machines, Campbell examines the inner framework of a computer and remarks, “have you ever looked inside one of those things? You can’t believe it! It’s a whole hierarchy of angels…and those little tubes, those are miracles.” For the sake of not derailing this post so I can actually publish it on Sunday, I’ll holding back from expanding on all of the aforementioned Campbell capital-T Truth bombs, which he seems to produce with the same frequency as the other Campbell’s soup cans, but I can’t help but think of this song when I think of computers and angels. There’s no other word besides “angelic” to describe the distorted chorus of electric voices that begins at 2:15. That sound couldn’t have come from any other place save for the miraculous angel tubes. There’s some kind of gospel to this song, I swear.

Unless something absolutely drastic and apocalyptic happens, I doubt I’ll ever stop singing the praises of Radiohead. I’m long past caring about how inevitably insufferable I am as a result, but all the language I have about them ends up being hyperbolic. Kid A is probably somewhere amongst my favorite albums—I haven’t formally organized them past top 10, but I’d say that this lands somewhere in the 20s or 30s, at least. OK Computer, even if their chronological placement has doomed them to comparisons as long as there are music critics to do so, will always be the favorite child in my mind, but the special quality of this album can’t be understated. Like Punisher, another red, blue, and black-colored album that I listened to during the summer of 2020, it’s a signpost for a hyper-specific time in my life, and one of the most cohesive showcases of the talents of Thom Yorke and company. But as much as “Everything In Its Right Place” and “Idioteque” hold uncontested places in my heart, “Motion Picture Soundtrack” will wield the ultimate trophy as far as Kid A goes, and for my standards of music in general. Right now, it’s my favorite album closer of all time. (Before anybody says anything, I know, ackshually ☝️🤓 “Untitled” is technically the closer, but at this point, it’s basically a cooling-down extension to this song). As I brought up before, there’s an undeniable air of gospel about it—the synths that press in at the beginning sound like pipe organs run through a dystopian starscape, and if that’s the case, then the choir is certainly the angels dwelling just out of view in the pews.

“Motion Picture Soundtrack” was marinating in Thom Yorke’s massive cauldron of glorious music since the mid-nineties, where it was an acoustic lament befitting of The Bends. After that, it became a deeply solemn piano ballad somewhere in the depths of the OK Computer sessions, but I, for one, am glad that this is the definitive version, even if we were robbed of what was originally the third verse: “Beautiful angel/pulled apart at birth/Limbless and helpless/I can’t even recognize you.” (OW.) “Motion Picture Soundtrack” was always meant for cosmic grandeur; even though the opening mentions of “red wine and sleeping pills” ground us in the dim hours of planet Earth, the sprawling emotion of it all is the definition of all-consuming. It feels like the final leap off the cliff from death to rebirth, watching your feet slip and the gravel crumble beneath them as the electric, harp-like notes fill your ears like an endless field of stars. Within the infinite sprawl of sorrow, you can’t help but see the staggering beauty of life itself blossom in front of you. I’ll go out again and say it: I doubt we’ll ever come close to the tearjerking final line of Kid A: “I will see you in the next life,” and the pleading waver of Yorke’s soul-caressing voice makes it resonate all the more.

Kid A is probably the pinnacle of hopeless sad bastard music, but I can’t help but feel some kind of embryonic hope resting in the egg yolk of this song. “I will see you in the next life” is a release from all the mindless, sorrowful things that the rest of the verses lay out, and the promise of a starry new beginning. The closing of a chapter, the setting of a book back on the shelf, knowing that if you ever go back and read it, nothing will ever fully be the same, but knowing that isn’t always a bad thing.

What a way to end the year, huh? Just like “Garden Song,” I’m glad this song returned to me when it did. Radiohead is the gift that keeps on giving (me too many feelings to handle).

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Darkness Outside Us – Eliot Schrefer – this book takes “I will see you in the next life” very seriously. One of my favorite love stories of all time, and one of my favorite sci-fi books of all time as well.

Since this post consists entirely of songs, consider all of them to be today’s song.

That’s it for the last Sunday Songs of the year! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves.

Posted in Books

The Bookish Mutant’s 5-star Reads of 2023

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Wednesday, bibliophiles!

I was going to publish this earlier in the day, but that was before my laptop charger broke. Luckily, I’ve got a spare, but I’m glad that it happened, because while I was rationing my laptop’s battery life, I finished a book that landed on this year’s honorable mentions! Happy accidents.

Growth happens every year, but 2023 has especially felt like a year of growth to me; I’ve gotten into the rhythm of college, and I’ve tread into more challenging territory with my English degree. I’ve had the honor of being a learning assistant, and the experience of helping teach a class has greatly enriched me—and given me a much-needed boost to my public speaking confidence. And I started the year with buzzing my hair off! Not something that past me thought I’d ever do. (For those of you who are uncertain: do it. It’s worth it. Growing out your hair takes a while, but it’s worth the experience.)

I still haven’t gotten into the reading rhythm that I used to have (and I doubt I ever will—Jeezus, how did I ever manage to read 300 books in a year? How?), but that doesn’t mean that I’ve found plenty of gems in the bunch. Like last year, I don’t have as many 5-star reads, but that’s fine with me—as I said last year, it’s probably a consequence of my tastes getting more selective, and finding them scattered few and far between makes me savor them that much more. It’s a strange bunch this year—fiction and nonfiction, time travel and pirates. But these are the books that made this year all the richer.

Let’s begin, shall we?

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️THE BOOKISH MUTANT’S 5-STAR READS OF 2023⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

HONORABLE MENTIONS (4.5 STARS):

TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK! Have you read any of these books, and if so, did you enjoy them as much as I did? What were your favorite reads of the year? Let me know in the comments!

Today’s song:

That’s it for my favorite books of the year! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Monthly Wrap-Ups

October 2023 Wrap-Up 🧛🏼‍♀️

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Tuesday, bibliophiles, and more importantly, happy Halloween!

I really should be used to this by now, but getting this much snow two days before Halloween always feels so wrong. I like snow this time of year generally, but not when I have a costume to wear.

Let’s begin, shall we?

GENERAL THOUGHTS:

Usually a month this busy would dampen my overall feeling of it, but for once, it really hasn’t! That’s the magic of the Halloween season, I suppose. I’ve had a ton more stuff to do on the heels of midterm season, and even though I’m still somewhat busy (hence the scant amount of posts I’ve been able to make this month), I’m still enjoying myself.

However, even though most of the month has been favorable for me, my reading…hasn’t been as much so. Since the beginning of the month, I’ve been in a slump that I’ve only just been able to get out of in the last week or so. After the first few days, I just fell into a bad spell of especially mediocre books—for a solid two weeks, I didn’t run into much that I ended up rating higher than 3.5 stars. But I’ve slowly gotten out of the dry spell, and the end of the month has been filled with some fantastic reads!

I’ve also tried to get back into the rhythm of fiction writing, since I’ve fallen off the wagon for that since school started. Although I haven’t been able to adhere to the schedule to a T, I’ve allotted a good time of night towards writing at least 1,000 words a day, and that got me to the end of my first draft of the second book in my main sci-fi project! This one ended up being almost 82,000 words! Pretty proud of myself. Sadly, as I’m getting older, November has become a worse and worse year to try and crank out 50,000 words, so I’m not doing NaNoWriMo this year. The July Camp is a much more reliable time for me. In the meantime, I’m hoping to polish up some of my short stories to send off for publication…

Aside from that, though, there have been SO many fantastic things going on. First off, Sir Patrick Stewart (!!!!!) stopped by my school for his book tour, and it was incredible! I wish I had more pictures to show for it (we weren’t allowed to take any), but he just had the kindest, warmest presence, and it was such an honor to hear him speak about his life. What an incredible man.

After that, I had the amazing luck of being able to see Peter Gabriel and Wilco in the same week! Both were such phenomenal shows in their own ways—seeing Peter Gabriel when I thought I’d never even see him tour was the most transformative, beautiful experience, and seeing one of my favorite bands perform their best setlist yet (and seeing them from the front row!!) was just as wonderful.

Peter Gabriel at the Ball Arena
Wilco at the Mission Ballroom

Other than that, I’ve just been getting back in the rhythm of drawing, playing some guitar now and then, taking far too many pictures of the pretty leaves on campus, drinking my fill of apple cider, watching Taskmaster (FINALLY GOT THROUGH SEASON 15! THE BINGING HAS CEASED!) and catching up on Only Murders in the Building (please stop pairing Mabel up w randos, she deserves so much better), and soaking up the fall weather. At least I was until we got snow 2 days before Halloween. Oops.

READING AND BLOGGING:

I read 16 books this month! This month was slow going, and I ended up in a somewhat extended reading slump, but there were bright spots here and there.

2 – 2.75 stars:

The Jinn-Bot of Shantiport

3 – 3.75 stars:

Thornhedge

4 – 4.75 stars:

The Thursday Murder Club

FAVORITE BOOK OF THE MONTH: Under the Earth, Over the Sky – 4 stars

POSTS I’M PROUD OF:

[cough] not a whole lot here, but:

POSTS FROM OTHER WONDERFUL PEOPLE THAT I’VE BEEN ENJOYING:

Again, I haven’t had as much time to blog-hop, but:

SONGS/ALBUMS I’VE BEEN ENJOYING:

LOVING the new Wilco
this song makes my soul leave my body
this album was just as wonderful (and uncomfortable) as I thought it would be
WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
yeah I love OK Computer with every cell of my being, but there’s something to be said for the good ol’ Bends-era Radiohead
seeing Peter Gabriel live was truly magical :,)

Today’s song:

HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYBODY

That’s it for this month in blogging! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Sunday Songs

Sunday Songs: 10/29/23

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles! I hope this week has treated you well.

Here we are, almost at Halloween, the most wonderful time of the year! And to celebrate, I’ve brewed up a very special post for you, complete with…

…a Christmas color palette.

Hear me out. I didn’t intend to schedule the Christmas colors this week. It just happened. And it’s currently snowing where I am. Please. Please hear me out guys

Will last week’s Sunday Songs graphic cheer you up, then? It’s nice and autumnal…(and it’s got some nice songs, if I do say so myself. Would’ve written about them, but I was exhausted.)

LAST WEEK’S SUNDAY SONGS:

And now, enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 10/29/23

“Maquiladora” – Radiohead

I’ve long since accepted my status as a die-hard Radiohead fan, but I’ve noticed that most diehard Radioheads fans tend to put The Bends in time out in the corner in favor of Kid A and OK Computer. It’s understandable to a certain point—OK Computer is my second favorite album of all time, and Kid A is one of the most important records in modern rock history. But I’ll always have a soft spot for most everything that came out of the Bends era. Yes, it’s far more of a conventional rock record and there’s little of the experimentation that Radiohead became known for, but it’s consistently emotional and chock-full of some beautiful, punchy guitar work. Who can deny the grandeur of “Fake Plastic Trees?” Who can deny that “Planet Telex” is one of the coolest rock album openers of the 90’s, if not of all time? Come on now.

But there were a host of EPs (that I need to explore) that came out shortly before the full album released, with sprinklings of songs that would later appear on it (in this case, the iconic “High & Dry” and “Planet Telex”). Besides having some fantastic cover art (I think I had a dream in early high school where I had it on a shirt), this EP really has something of a hidden gem. The minute the distorted guitars kick in, my first thought was similar to hearing “Burning Bridge” by Kate Bush for the first time—how the hell was this a B-side? How was this not on the album and something like…I don’t know, “Bones” didn’t get relegated to throwaway EP status? It’s incredible. It has to be, since it’s in such legendary company, but “Maquiladora” is worthy of it. The grinding, tidal wave texture of the combined guitars of Thom Yorke, Johnny Greenwood, and Ed O’Brien is always a Radiohead trademark, but it really screams out on this track—the minute they kick it, it’s like watching yourself being buried in rubble, but with a smile on your face. Thom Yorke hasn’t quite wrestled the squeaky cracks out of his voice, but somehow, it sells the crunching angst of the sound ten times more. Everything cascades down around you as you watch it crumble, and the result is an explosion of sound that makes The Bends such a staple of the 90’s. It’s hard, it’s crunchy, and even the softer, twinkling moments screech along like a car past the speed limit, leaving trails of exhaust in its wake. Again: how this track wasn’t on the album is beyond me. Good god. It could’ve been perfectly sandwiched between “High & Dry” and “Fake Plastic Trees.” I’m just saying.

“I Just Wanna Get Along” – The Breeders

Speaking of punchy, early-to-mid 90’s rock…do I smell a coincidentally great transition? (It’s all gonna fizzle out by the time we get to the next song, don’t worry…)

My god, I love the 90’s. I love the 90’s. I really need to listen more of The Breeders, because this hits an especially sweet spot for me. It toes the line between abrasive and absolute tightness; it’s got a punk sensibility to it, but with a sanded edge that smooths it into something truly meticulous in how much it rocks. For a song that’s only a minute and 44 seconds long, it has such a punch to it that could only be so self-contained; it’s rare that I like a song and don’t want to extend it if it’s so short. Some songs were meant to be a smack in the face and then fade away like a sparkler fizzling out. And this song has just the same bite as a sparkler—the double guitar act of twins Kim and Kelley Deal, combined with the thrumming bass of Josephine Wiggs, makes for a deliciously spiky, driving sound. Kim Deal’s deadpan vocals only elevate it—the dry delivery of the line “if you’re so special/why aren’t you dead?” feels like spitting a wad of chewed-up gum in the trash in the most gloriously 90’s way. Deal delivers the song’s title in the same way; it’s not a chant so much as it is a rolled eye and a shrug as you reapply red lipstick in the mirror. There’s a sharply stamped period at the end of each repetition: “I just wanna get along. I just wanna get along.” It oozes confidence, but not in an arrogant way: it’s the kind of confidence of pulling yourself onto a motorcycle without a word and leaving everyone else in the dust.

“Bliss” – Annie Clark

“Bliss” starts at 0:32 in this video.

I’ve done it. I’ve reached peak obscurity in one of these posts. Streaming? No can do. Available to purchase? Doubtful. All we’ve got is a few YouTube videos where the “full” version is still missing a song (or two?), complete with some crusty pixelation on the album art. Mwah.

I am become annoyingly into St. Vincent, scroller of wikipedia rabbit holes. Even though I first heard about this EP during my initial St. Vincent superfan period in about sixth grade, I hadn’t gotten around to listening to it until now. Ratsliveonnoevilstar is St. Vincent before she was St. Vincent; she released the EP in early 2003, when she was a student at the Berklee College of Music. Most of the only copies that exist are floating somewhere around Berklee and possibly on eBay. What remains accessible is three to four songs—Wikipedia only lists three, but “Good Morning” (the first song in the above video) is only on this YouTube version, and “Breathing” seems lost to the ether. And from what Clark herself has said about the EP, it’s likely to stay that way:

“It was horrible. I did that my sophomore year or something. I haven’t listened to that in a really long time. I would say I should have put a little more Bill Callahan and a little less Herbie Hancock in it.”

And upon listening to it, I’m glad I listened to it then and not in middle school, because I sincerely doubt that I would’ve lasted more than 2 minutes at age 12. Now, I can say this affectionately, as someone who is around the age Clark was when she made this EP: this is the most college student thing I’ve ever listened to. She’s made her voice theatrically lower than how her voice sounds as a grown woman, and most of the EP is a very particular brand of over-the-top avant-garde, jazzy-sounding circularity. Most of it’s pleasant to listen to, but it still has an air of “look at me, College Student, producing High Art™️.” But it’s not all bad. Songs like “Bliss” are still full of the meticulous threads that led to the wonderfully clever art-pop of Marry Me five years later. It’s a portrait of a very artsy young musician, one who hadn’t hit her stride yet, but was brimming with inspiration and determination. Clark had a very specific sound in mind, and she was well on her way to nailing it. It’s certainly not your ordinary acoustic college student EP—I guess that’s bound to happen if you’re going somewhere like Berklee, but either way, there’s something endearing about this effort; it’s far from perfect, but it’s the seedling that would go on to sprout one of the most iconic musical careers of the 21st century. #26 on Rolling Stone’s 250 Greatest Guitarists of All Time list? Those lists may be exceedingly subjective, but come on. More than deserved.

I love the sound of old men foaming at the mouth in the Rolling Stone comments section in the morning.

“Backslider” – Toadies

There’s no bond like the bond between a high school girl and a simple but spectacular song that she learned how to play by herself on guitar. It’s a perfect warm-up song; part of why I’ve loved playing guitar more than piano is that I’ve feel more connected with the material that I can use for keeping my fingers dextrous. And when I was first learning this and slowing the song down on YouTube, it doesn’t sound silly like a bunch of other songs do (play “Drive My Car” on 0.5x speed, I dare you)—this just sounded so perfectly bluesy.

I suppose this could be the closest to Halloweeny that this week’s songs come to, but I really should’ve gone with something like “Possum Kingdom” if we wanted some real Halloween. Alas, “Backslider” was on the brain more. But that’s not a complaint—I’ve been coming back to this, the aforementioned vampire song, and “I Come From the Water” since 8th grade, and I have nothing but fond memories of them. That chugging, grinding guitar never fails to hook me just like it did when I was 14; there’s a dark grime clinging to every Toadies song I’ve ever heard, muddy and hazily dark, like the humidity that clings to your forehead at night in the South. (A feeling that they probably knew well, what with the band hailing from Texas.) The flies lingering around the band in the video really tie it all together. It’s a sludgy, eery texture that pairs with everything I’ve heard of theirs, but especially with this, a series of vignettes of Todd Lewis’ Southern, Christian upbringing and the creeping dread ever-present within it. All crammed in just over two and a half minutes, all of that grime and dread is as tight as ever—not polished, but sculpted into something fully-formed.

“Glue Song” – beabadoobee

Since I first posted about beabadoobee way back in July, I’m veeeery slowly sprinkling some of her songs into my rotation. And although not everything’s my speed, I’m not regretting this mini deep-dive into her music! Again, if anyone has any starting points as far as album goes, be my guest! Onto the Sisyphean album bucket list…

An open letter to anybody looking to make a high quality teen rom-com: please, this needs to go at the very end. Imagine that: you see the two protagonists look into each other’s eyes, their hands slowly slip into each others, they smile. The opening strings kick in, camera cuts back to them looking into each other’s eyes. Roll credits as beabadoobee’s voice hits. Perfection, right? I’m starting to see why so much of her catalogue is made up of love songs—from what I can tell, that kind of sweetness has been her trademark for years. “Glue Song” is one of her newest efforts, and it’s easy to see that she’s known for that kind of love song craft. She has the perfect voice for these kind of tenderhearted, smiley ballads—gently high-pitched, feathery, and glimmeringly sweet like honey. As soon as she declares that “I’ve never known someone like you,” I can’t help but believe it. And just like the orchestral arrangements in the background of “the way things go,” the strings and horns trilling in the background elevate “Glue Song” into the perfect bite of cheek-blushingly, dress-twirlingly lovey-dovey declarations. It would be easy to make something like this incredibly sappy, but Bea Kristi’s light voice is light enough to feel like she isn’t trying to pack a ton of unneeded sugar into every note—she knows the balance, and she keeps it simple, gentle. It’s just the right amount of sweetness—enough to melt on your tongue, but not so much that it rots your teeth.

Bonus: she also released a version of “Glue Song” as a duet with Clairo—it’s just as lovely!

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!