Tag: Sunday Songs

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Sunday Songs: 1/12/25

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

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

This week: in which being a DC comics fan and a fan of British alt-rock goes awry.

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 1/12/25

“Can’t Help Falling in Love” (Elvis Presley cover) – Lick the Tins

Imagine going so hard on an Elvis cover that you have to add not one, not two, but THREE Irish polkas at the end just so that it reaches the three-minute mark…I don’t find myself saying this often, but that pennywhistle kinda goes crazy.

“Can’t Help Falling In Love” has been covered hundreds upon hundreds of times—it’s so simple and iconic that it’s an obvious go-to for anyone to wring some emotion from the audience. (Whether or not they’re always successful is debatable. At worst, it can be the easy way out.) I can’t definitively find just how many times it’s been covered since Presley’s original release, but it’s got a slew of big names parading behind it: Kacey Musgraves, Beck, Chris Isaak, U2, Erasure, Zayn of One Direction, and Christine McVie isn’t even scratching the surface. (Though this one isn’t technically a cover, Spiritualized’s “Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating in Space,” one of my favorite songs of all time, adds the lyrics to J. Spaceman’s melody. It gets me every time…) And…well, as with any song that’s covered as numerously as this one, even the greats blend together sometimes. Rarely do they stray beyond the lazy, slow-danceable tempo. You can’t do much to a classic…

…unless you’re Lick the Tins. Their take on “Can’t Help Falling in Love” is one of the only takes that makes it sound lively. From the minute the drums kick in, you’re propelled by the spirited energy that the Irish band injected straight into the heart of this song. It’s considerably sped up, but beyond that, they make it so naturally celebratory. Alison Marr and the chorus behind her make every verse feel like a victory lap, a joyous sprint fueled by the essence of that feeling of falling in love. Of course, said speed meant that they had to add said three polkas at the end, all performed with the same Celtic inspiration that fueled the rest of the cover (and their very small body of work), but it makes it feel like the most triumphant of endings: the rickety car is driving into the sunset, the bouquet has been caught, the girl has been got. John Hughes clocked that quickly in his decision to put it at the end of Some Kind of Wonderful—this song couldn’t be any more ’80s rom-com if it tried. But long before I saw that movie, there was always a kind of purity to it—nothing could taint the memory of a song that so embodied the unbridled joy of running through a field, bathed in sunlight.

I haven’t sampled any of the Lick the Tins originals, but this song was released on their first and only album, Blind Man on a Flying Horse. Maybe there is some kind of shame to be only known for an Elvis cover and then disappearing from the face of the earth, but if I had a cover as near-perfect as this one…I dunno. I think I’d be happy.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Flowerheart – Catherine Bakewell – though I didn’t enjoy every aspect of this book, I do feel like this cover would suit the homely, comforting atmosphere that it boasted at its highest points.

“Little Spacey” – Cocteau Twins

It now the dead of Cocteau Twinter. It’s been in the 20-degree range for several days now, and I’ve had several…questionably fruitful sessions of attempting to learn to knit while listening to this album. My expectations were high after how consistently fantastic the albums I’ve listened to before this (Heaven or Las Vegas and Blue Bell Knoll) and how pleasantly “Oomingmak” has lingered with me for six months, but to this day, Elizabeth Fraser and co. have not failed me.

Take out the inspirations from David Attenborough’s The Living Planet: A Portrait of Life on Earth, and it would still be a distinctly winter album. With bass player Simon Raymonde absent for the recording of this album (he was recording for the This Mortal Coil record Filigree & Shadow), the sound is more delicate than a pointed icicle dripping from a rooftop; the album’s lack of a distinct bass gives its the delicacy it needs to feel as atmospherically Antarctic as it does. (A great playlist transition for you: “Lazy Calm,” the opening track, with David Bowie’s “V-2 Schneider”…what, you thought you could escape one of my posts without a mention of David Bowie?) “Little Spacey” in particular has to be one of the iciest songs on the album. Normally, that word has the connotation of being prickly or unfeeling, but in this case, I say icy in the sense of how winter sunlight reflects crystalline colors off of it, or how it begins to melt at the corners once that sunlight comes out, or how snowflakes cling to the toothy tip of an icicle during a snowstorm. Fraser arranges and layers her harmonies in such an otherworldly way that it sounds more like an overhead flock of cooing seabirds than anything human. It has the ice of an Antarctic winter, yet all of the comfort of watching it from a TV screen, in the same way I imagine the band gathering inspiration for the album.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Even the Darkest Stars – Heather Fawcett – frigid, windy, and wintry, but glittering with starlight.

“I Me Mine” – The Beatles

…yeah. It’s not like George Harrison wasn’t also a jerk during the Get Back sessions, but oh my god…being in the studio with the rest of The Beatles for that long would make me write a song about how the world is ruled by ego too. Being around John Lennon does that to a guy…and Paul McCartney bluntly correcting your grammar. Jesus. Without a doubt, it’s a bitter note for The Beatles—”I Me Mine” was the last new material recorded by them, depending on which criteria you’re going off of*—but even through the bitterness, you can of course count on George Harrison to weave something timeless from it. The oscillation from the boat-rocking-on-waves sway of the verses to the urgent clanging of the organ during the chorus seems like an accurate picture of the volatility of these sessions—sometimes, they made progress that would eventually become Let It Be and Abbey Road, but it would whip around into heated arguments (take a wild guess who started most of them) just as easily. Given the more charitable and spiritual person Harrison became as he departed from The Beatles, it’s hard to imagine him throwing any sort of truly mean-spirited shade—but I feel like “I Me Mine” could be argued as a diss track. No names named, but it’s about John and Paul. We know. Or a diss track on the concept of egoism. It’s both.

*there’s a considerable amount of debate over what counts as the last true Beatles song; “I Me Mine” had only 3/4 Beatles present for the recording.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Brightness Between Us (The Darkness Outside Us, #2) – Eliot Schrefer – in the less-far future side of this novel, there’s an awful lot of “I Me Mine” going on in the Cusk household…

“Good Blood Mexico City” – Elbow

Man…I love comics, but any given comic fandom is just so painfully full of contrarians. You’ve got a bunch of dudebros wasting away in basements whining about how none of the comic book movies coming out are actually comic accurate, but then the Superman trailer comes out, and those same people are whining about Guy Gardner and his glorious bowl cut? It’s pure campy comic perfection. IT’S COMIC ACCURATE. It was never about comic accuracy, was it—

Oh? What’s that you say?

…oh. Wrong guy. Wrong Guy. Garvey, not Gardner, I’ll see myself out…great song though, right?

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Aurora’s End (The Aurora Cycle, #3) – Amie Kaufman & Jay Kristoff – “This is the day for big decisions, you know/Follow your lodestar/Starry eyes, smoky eyes, urgent eyes/This is the surge of the good blood rising/If you’re running, I’m coming…”

“Love’s Ring of Fire” – Anita Carter

If I had a nickel for each time in music history that Johnny Cash became known and adored for a cover, I’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot, but in this instance, it’s really not weird that it happened twice. The man was supremely talented—he didn’t just cover said songs, but undeniably elevated them (the other, in this case, being his gut-wrenching rendition of Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt”). In this case, a fair amount of people know that “Hurt” is a cover. I can’t speak for the rest of you, but it hit me like a sack of bricks when I found out that “Ring of Fire” was a cover. (The one time I’ve actually learned something from YouTube shorts—specifically this one by Tommy Edison.) I was just so accustomed to hearing his version and nothing else; I assumed with his stature that he’d written it just the same.

Turns out that Anita Carter was responsible for the original version, sister of June Carter (who Cash eventually married), who wrote the song along with Merle Kilgore. Carter’s voice is a noteworthy contrast to Cash’s—the way she croons the iconic line “I believed you like a child/oh, but the fire went wild” tickles my brain in that special sort of way that only a handful of songs do—as does the way her high note fades into a sunset sky at the end of every repetition of the chorus. Yet despite, that, it’s rather subdued for a song comparing love to, y’know, a whole ring of fire; to quote my mom upon hearing it, she sounds “emotionally distanced from the ring of fire.” Yikes…but it is awfully slow for the metaphor at hand. It could be a consequence of being able to see clearly after being chucked through said ring of fire and coming out the other side with more than a few burns, but you don’t exactly get that fervor that’s inherent to the metaphor. Johnny Cash, being Johnny Cash, took that sign, sped up the chorus, tweaked some lyrics, and added some mariachi horns after dreaming about a rendition of the song backed by them, as the story goes. To me, it’s two observers’ perspectives on the same phenomenon, but distance is the key: maybe it’s because Cash sung his view directly from said ring of fire that his version became more enduring. Either way, seeing the first evolution behind an enduring country hit was a surprising journey.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Good Luck Girls – Charlotte Nicole Davis – Anita Carter’s specific version wouldn’t be out of place in the Western-inspired setting of this duology.

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: 1/5/25

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

Happy Sunday, bibliophiles, and happy near year!

First post and the first Sunday Songs of 2025! No pressure. This week: new verses on new songs, new(ish) takes on old(er) songs, and…oh, god, Eric, please put your shirt back on—

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 1/5/25

“POP POP POP (feat. Danny Brown)” – IDLES

Dread it…run from it…TANGK always arrives. One of the best albums of 2024, hands down. I already talked about “POP POP POP” back in March, but at the end of the year, IDLES added one more flourish to an already excellent track—a guest feature by Danny Brown. Of course, I say that knowing next to nothing about Danny Brown up until this point, but the spin he and IDLES put on one of the most prominent highlights of TANGK is an interesting one—and catchy, too. In places, the beat has been treated like an accordion, stretched out in some areas and compressed in others—the final, spoken-word monologue has been sped up, while the first five seconds are jumpstarted, recreating the static of plugging a guitar amp in. Meanwhile, Brown’s guest verse hurtles at breakneck speed; For me, there are some lines that come across rather corny (“On the surface/Looks like a circus/All these clowns around, pull the curtain”). However, at the very end, Brown’s lyrics align with the ethos of “POP POP POP” in the first place: an assertion of purpose, that purpose being staying true to yourself, spreading love, and being a source of protection for others. The final line sums it up nicely: “Took a couple wrong turns/Don’t know right from left/But found my way to the home that I strayed/And now I say everything is okay.” Can “POP POP POP” ever be improved? I highly doubt it, but I also doubt that this was meant to be an improvement—it’s more the kicking around with a preexisting idea with other collaborators, and in that experimentation, it creates an exciting take on one of the 2024’s best songs.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Forever Is Now – Mariama J. Lockington – “Searching for something you cannot hide/Looked in the wrong place, but should search inside/Relied on things that just let me down
But now I see what its really ’bout…”

“Sugar in the Tank” – Julien Baker & TORRES

Personally, I’ve never quite gotten on board with the queer cowboy aesthetic, but I can respect how queer people have been taking it back. In the first place, I think any kind of cowboy mythos attracts the kind of people who want to forge their own trails and make their own way without the constraints of society, a Venn diagram that seems to attract, strangely enough, both conservative people wanting to go back to “traditional values” and queer people who see an out from heteronormative culture. Growing up in the mountains, my association with much of it came from the former, even in our fairly liberal town (I say fairly liberal because there was the odd confederate flag or “if you’re reading this, you’re in range” sign on someone’s house). But I don’t mind seeing a bedazzled cowboy hat or a boygenius photoshoot out in the desert every now and then. Evidently, I’m too much of a city slicker.

The reclamation of country by queer people has gone in much the same way, and I’ve never been one for country in the first place (same association as above), but what I will give a try 8 or 9 times out of 10 is anything that Julien Baker is involved in. Now here’s an example of queer cowboy/country reclamation done right: nothing better than two lesbians making a song with a title referring to slang for an effeminate man and turning it into something positive and sensual. Musically, there’s twang aplenty, but at least for me, Baker’s talent screams at you like a neon sign—she’s whipped out the banjo once more, and it contrasts with the hazy overdrive that TORRES has applied to her excellent guitar work. The boygenius fan is me is more partial to how Baker’s harmonies fit with Phoebe Bridgers and Lucy Dacus, but it’s clear that she’s well-matched with TORRES, musically and vocally. I’m not 100% on board with the more country direction—it’s more on the alt-country side, but very much country-sounding—but I’ll give it a chance for Baker.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Road to Ruin – Hana Lee – will something close to post-apocalyptic, biker cowboys suffice?

“Man Research (Clapper)” – Gorillaz

I remembered this track after getting into “Bill Murray” a few weeks ago; as wonderful an album as Gorillaz is, I often find myself forgetting about some of the songs sandwiched in the middle; this one has the job of following up “Clint Eastwood,” and with how many tidal waves that classic made in the early 2000’s, any track following that up, like “Bill Murray” and “Feel Good, Inc.,” has an exceedingly hard act to follow. But in much the same way as “Bill Murray” brings down the tempo but keeps the creativity, “Man Research (Clapper)” provides a bridge between some of the more energetic heavy-hitters—“Punk” comes up right after it. Buoyed by a sample from Raymond Scott’s instrumental piece “In The Hall of the Mountain Queen” (delightful, honestly—feels like the title screen music for an ’80s video game and not in a cheesy way), it’s dominated by the rasping repetitions of Damon Albarn pushing his higher vocals to their limits—maybe there’s the excuse for why I forgot about it. A good portion is just him going “yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah,” but that’s the mark of a great musician—sure, he’s just going “yeah yeah yeah” in front of a sample and some record scratches, but I eat it up every time. There’s a smooth cohesion to his craft that makes every separate element seem as though this song is their final form, their ultimate destiny to be brought together.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Chameleon Moon – RoAnna Sylver – I picked this one more for the atmosphere than the lyrics—a similar kind of hazy and raspy energy, but with an undercurrent of vitality.

“The Slide” (Tall Dwarfs cover) – Shayne Carter

Some covers prove that the singer understands some part of the song more than the original creators. Not to front on Chris Knox, incredibly talented and oddball songwriters as he is, but Shayne Carter’s cover gets to the heart of what Knox and co. were going for as far as the tone and the emotion of the lyrics.

Tall Dwarfs aren’t going to be anything but jangly, and their original version of “The Slide” is no exception. It’s got a psychedelic, ’60s sway to it, faintly sunny…and then you get to the lyrics. And then you get the whiplash from hearing those upbeat guitars against the lyrics: “The doctors should kill/She’s terminally ill.” I’m sorry, WHAT? I’m not saying that songs can’t have lyrics that don’t match the mood of their music, but in this case, Shayne Carter’s interpretation does the song more justice. In contrast to Knox’s upbeat instrumentals, Carter employs solemn pianos, muted strums of an acoustic guitar, and an electronic drone that begins to circle around you at the 1:58 mark as you listen like vultures circling carrion. The acoustics sound like they were recorded at 3 a.m. in an abandoned gym with walls covered in mold. That atmosphere captures how disturbing the lyrics are—sparsely told, it recounts the experience of an 80-year-old, terminally ill woman wasting away in an institution. That cold, chilling echo gives the song a much more tangible setting and emotional depth; the spareness of it all makes the setting so much more unforgivable, with its featureless walls and constant chill in the air. That Radiohead-like, droning dread comes about as close as I would imagine to capturing that imprisoned, monotonous feeling of your mind slip away and being powerless to do anything about it, all the while surrounded by nurses who barely want to be there. It’s a tragedy of a song—it was written in the 1990’s, and while I’m sure conditions have somewhat improved for patients, these situations are a reality for so many people, whether or not they have control of their minds. The pen that Chris Knox and co. put to paper was a respectful and sympathetic one, but Shayne Carter deserves so much praise for how much his musical interpretation brought out the original sentiment—and made it even more emotional.

Sadly, it’s a story that partially came true for Chris Knox; he suffered a stroke in 2009, and has had a limited vocabulary ever since. He’s made a handful of public appearances and performances in the last decade or so, but he’s largely off the radar these days. However, “The Slide,” alongside many more of his covers from both his solo work and of Tall Dwarfs, were compiled on Stroke: Songs for Chris Knox in order to initially help his family pay the medical bills. I hoped that he hadn’t accidentally predicted his own fate with “The Slide,” but it seems that his family has been going to great lengths to make sure he’s taken care of. Even amidst the horrors he described, there are bright spots worth celebrating—namely, the love of family and friends during unpredictable situations such as his.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Spirit Bares Its Teeth – Andrew Joseph White – the institutions in this novel are different than the one in the song, but it’s just as oppressive—and deeply haunting and eerie.

“You’re Too Weird” – Fruit Bats

…okay! Going into this, I didn’t expect to be that well-acquainted with Eric Johnson’s chest hair while he stared longingly into my eyes, but here we are? 😀 Don’t think I needed all that…thank you Eric, very cool

Either way, it’s all part of the ’80s-parodying cheese of the music video, complete with mullets, long pearl necklaces, everyone’s hair being artfully blown by an invisible fan, and even a keytar. The best part is that every single band member is fully leaning into the cheese, with every band member hamming it up whenever the camera is on them. If I can erase the strategic view of said chest hair via Johnson’s unbuttoned shirt, “You’re Too Weird” is a great little indie track; Johnson has one of the more distinctive voices in indie music that I can think of, and he takes it to some of its extremes, hitting higher notes than I’d expect even from him. Like the ’80s music and videos that “You’re Too Weird” takes cues from, it’s an endlessly catchy love song, peppered by a tasteful guitar solo and tambourine here and there. I’ll have to bring this back once the weather gets warmer—it’s the perfect song for staring out the car window on a summer evening.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

If You Still Recognize Me – Cynthia So – “They say that I’m not supposed to be in love with you/They say that you’re too weird for me/And you’ll leave eventually/But then I’m the only one who ever believed in you…”

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

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

Posted in Sunday Songs

Sunday Songs: 12/29/24

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

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

This week: Patchwork songs, and a few too many lyrics that hit me like a train. It’s the final Sunday Songs of the year…I might as well ramble.

Enjoy the final Sunday Songs of 2024!

SUNDAY SONGS: 12/29/24

“Tuesday” – mary in the junkyard

“this is my california” was my introduction to mary in the junkyard, but “Tuesday” was what convinced me to like them. [slides glasses up bridge of nose] Having listened to their entire discography now (read: a four-song EP and three singles), I gather that, whenever it comes time for them to release an album, I’ll be happy with the product, but I really, really hope that “Tuesday” is more the direction that they go in.

“Tuesday” might as well be three songs Frankensteined together into a neat five minutes, but in its shambling, stitched-up form, it packs an unexpected punch. Imagine: three figures hunched over a cauldron. One adds something adjacent to your typical sadgirl indie, one adds the juiciest bass-line you’ve ever heard, and another adds a skittering tribute to Radiohead’s “2+2=5.” Pieces of the patchwork monster reveal themselves in the light in the form of Clari Freeman-Taylor’s lyrics—a favorite of mine is “I feel like an alien here/Breathing from a separate hole.” As…gross an image that potentially conjures (no, not that hole, GET YOUR MIND OUT OF THE GUTTER), it’s apt for the jerkily combined spare and found parts of this song. It’s an urgent sprint through a foreign landscape, furtive as it darts into alleys and backroads as it tries to find its way around. The disheveled yeti in the music video seems more whimsical than the lyrics imply, but it’s nonetheless a story of a creature out of its element.

Freeman-Taylor, when interviewed for The Line of Best Fit, explained that “Tuesday” was written about living in the city for the first time: “[I] was feeling very small…I wanted to write about my yearning for chaos and realness—we all have wildness within us that we might be suppressing and we shouldn’t feel like aliens because of it.” Wildness and chaos are what stands out to me—”Tuesday” scampers with the speed of a frantic prey animal, cornered as it finds a new burrow to dart into. Cities and nature have a very different kind of chaos to them—a city’s chaos feels bred by the bustle of machinery and productivity, and it becomes so compressed and rushed that order births chaos; nature’s chaos comes only from the cycle of itself. That clash of opposite breeds of chaos is where “Tuesday” finds its not-so-happy, alien(ated) medium, the space between the shards of flint where the embers crack away.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Beautyland – Marie-Helene Bertino – isolation, alienation, and surviving both from suburbs to big cities.

“Julie” – Horsegirl

First off: in concert with an excellent song, I have to praise this incredible music video by Daphna Awadish Golan! Her style melds so well with the collaged aesthetic of Horsegirl’s album covers and sound; the music video consists entirely of black and white footage of cities, animals, and people colored in with pastels that jump away from the grainy shades of gray.

As for “Julie” itself, the song makes me even more excited for Phonetics On & On just because I entirely can’t pinpoint the direction that Horsegirl are going in—and that excites me so much. Sure, albums have their more energetic points and their slower points, but this track is only one song away from “2468” and lands just past the halfway mark of the album. Their first album, Versions of Modern Performance, was fairly cohesive in its tempo and the invitations of different sounds and lyrical styles; aside from the instrumental interludes, there were never any slowdowns unless it was to watch a song crumble (“The Fall of Horsegirl”), but even that was crunched out and artsied-up to the extreme.

That’s not to say that “Julie” isn’t artsy, but it touches a more introspective side that the band have rarely reached thus far. The skeleton, aside from the slower tempo, is as Horsegirl as ever: guitar slides that dart around like frightened koi in a pond, buzzing synths, and a healthy dose of “da-da-da-da”s integrated throughout. (Is it really Horsegirl if there’s no da-da-da-da?) Yet the lyrics deviate from their usual style of sticking nonsense phrases together. Whether or not there’s a real Julie behind it, they extend reflection and comfort towards a figure: “Well, there’s something on your plate/You wish it was morе than you could take/We have so many mistakеs to make/What do you want from them?” It feels like an encouragement to break from monotony and form; the colored-over footage of subways in the music video emphasize that impression, but the mistakes to make feels to me like an encouragement to be human, to break free of a routine or lifestyle that isn’t necessarily crushing, but nonetheless doesn’t serve you either. With the way that the Horsegirl gang has with weird words, it doesn’t surprise me that they have something more emotional in them, but either way, it’s a promising glimpse of Phonetics On & On.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Some Girls Do – Jennifer Dugan – “To have the same dream three times a week/Favors too big for you to keep/I have so many mistakes to make/Mistakes to make with you/You know I want them too…”

“Dory Previn” – Camera Obscura

The two-week gap between it doesn’t do it justice, but I’m reaping the benefits from Suki Waterhouse’s episode of “What’s In My Bag?” She’s got taste.

What is it with Scotland and cranking out soft-sounding indie pop bands in the late 90’s and early 2000’s? Does the weather necessitate that kind of tempo? No complaints of course, knowing that they produced this and Belle and Sebastian, who Camera Obscura were heavily influenced by. Even from all the way across the pond, “Dory Previn” has a nearly country twang, but it’s distinctly indie-pop, with its ever-stargazing, wistful delivery of Tracyanne Campbell’s lyrics or the muted instrumentals. The album title, Let’s Get Out of This Country, suggest more urgency, but “Dory Previn” implies that the sentiment is more out of quiet resignation; it’s a song at the crossroads, not ready to give up a lover, but at the same time “Sick of the sight of my old lover/Went under sheets and covers to get away from him.” Simultaneously wrapped up in the waning colors of the sunset and right smack in the emotional middle of 2 a.m., it feels like the exhausted yet determined position right after you’ve cried your eyes out; you’re embarrassed it took this long to decide, but you’re making a change—for Campbell, it’s the mantra-like repetition of “I think it’s time/I put him out of my mind.”

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Man o’ War – Cory McCarthy – “So I took a glimpse of Montana/Now nothing else matters/I’ll heal eventually…”

“The Wrong Child” – R.E.M.

Can we talk about Green? Genuinely, I think the only thing wrong with the album is that the album cover isn’t green. Probably a joke between the band members and the album artist, but the burnt shade of yellow on the cover does somehow fit how the album feels—sunny, but in a humid, Southern way. Sometimes it’s the eager yellow of energy and intent (“Get Up,” “Stand”), and other times it’s the fading yellow of a sunset over memories curling up and going sepia (“I Remember California”).

I’ve loved this album since late high school, but “The Wrong Child” was one that I was so used to skipping when it came on shuffle that it became lost. To be fair, the beginning is one of the less listener-friendly ones of the album, immediately opening with the out-of-sync clash of the mandolins and the key that Michael Stipe is singing in. (Can we talk about those mandolins? If anything else, Green will make you appreciate what a mandolin can do.) Once you stay with it—and I’m so glad I did on that fateful night in early December—it contains some of Stipe’s most evocative poetry on the whole album. The first verse should be in masterclasses about the ability of music to set a scene:

“I’ve watched the children come and go/A late long march into spring/I sit and watch those children/Jump in the tall grass/Leap the sprinkler/Walk in the ground/Bicycle clothespin spokes/The sound the smell of swingset hands…”

The smell of swingset hands! It’s so specific, but I can smell exactly what Stipe is describing, the medley of the sweaty scent of skin with the tang of metal smeared all over it. There’s some gravel mixed in if I dig deep enough. I can feel the tickle of every blade of grass, each ray of sunlight. But more than that, I can feel the deep-seated aching of this song. Over the years, there have been a variety of interpretations of the song, everything from a burn victim reintegrating into society to a young gay boy’s experience of homophobia. In 2008, Stipe admitted that he’s “fine with any and all interpretations that aren’t manifested in real life as harmful, hateful or violent,” but that it was loosely centered around “a kid who is physically handicapped, and left it purposely undefined.” It is distinctly othered song. I can’t relate to the severity of what the subject experiences, but even some of it rings true for me; I did feel isolated from my peers for quite some time, in part due to my SPD, among the varied things that made me different. There was never that outright bullying, but I could see it all in the periphery, the kids that laughed behind their hands whenever I had what they saw as an overreaction to an unexpected sound—some of that “Hey those kids are looking at me/I told my friend myself/Those kids are looking at me” certainly put a bit of a knife in my gut. But this subject has become so removed from society for whatever reason that they yearn for the outside world, even if its occupants do nothing but torment them. They attempt to self-soothe, but in the end, they try to mold themself to the outside world instead of the other way around, repeating the chorus like a mantra: “I’m not supposed to be like this/But it’s okay.” And god, Stipe’s delivery of “it’s okay,” the bleeding rawness of it…oh, god. Yeah. It gets me every time. It delivers that sense that the subject is trying so hard to justify their existence and their right to play with the other kids that they’ve convinced themself that they are inherently wrong. They try and try, but never reach the happiness the other kids have, and the only way they know to try to reach it is to convince themself that they’re the problem, not the prejudice and taunting of the others. That is what any kind of prejudice does to you: it convinces you that, even if you were born in the same way as humans have been reproducing for millions of years, that you’re wrong, and not the fabricated idea of rightness taught from a young age. In the end, I’m glad that Stipe kept the subject undefined, because it does provide a kind of sanctuary, a reassurance that none of us are alone in this experience, whichever lyric rings true.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Reckless Kind – Carly Heath – “Hey those kids are looking at me/I told my friend myself/Those kids are looking at me/They’re laughing and they’re running over here/They’re laughing and they’re running over here/What do I do?”

“The Key” – Kristin Hersh

“You don’t inspire a metric ton of trust/’Cause I’m on fire, and so is all my stuff.”

There. I could just leave it at that, and it would explain the whimsical cleverness of this song, kind of like “Little Bird,” which I talked about back in July. Once again, that wouldn’t work, simply because there are just too many good lyrics here. Leave some for the rest of us, Kristin! God. So selfish. Can’t we get some of whatever creativity inspired “If I lived in a pumpkin shell/I’d have the key/And if I had a daughter/She’d look a lot like me?”

I may use the word “whimsy” quite liberally, but there’s a kind of ethereal whimsy to “The Key” that I can only describe in images. This song was a frequent visitor in my dad’s car when I was young; I associate it the most with nights spent on the car ride back from dinner or road trips. As the sky darkened, so did the images in my mind—not in emotion, just in the amount of light that was let in. Kristin Hersh felt candlelit, the kind of music meant to soundtrack a child’s nursery in the early hours of night. The lyrics nearly call to mind Lewis Carroll—save for the absence of made-up words, I wouldn’t bat an eye if you attributed “Copper and snow/Make a dusky blue boy” to one of his poems, if he’d condensed them more. Less British, of course. (Maybe that’s for the best.) We’re not getting too “Walrus and the Carpenter” with it, but we sure are close. “The Key” is inherently soft; in that children’s bedroom, dated maybe 100 years ago, with flowery, peeling wallpaper and lacy curtains, I can see a pink, plush blanket over a bed tucked in the corner, yellowed by a lantern on the dresser. Hersh’s fingerpicking has a comforting repetition to it, chords blending into each other as gently as freshly-washed hair splays out across a pillow. In between all of these images, there’s a ballerina in a music box that squeaks as it spins in a circle. Sometimes it’s the one I had as a kid, sometimes there are subtle tweaks—longer hair, different painted eyes. Like that music box, the repetition is soothing in a way that few songs are—the song’s outro of “and we’d dance all night” is a promise, and one filled with golden-lit joy to come. As Hersh’s guitar fades out, I see that mother and daughter, dancing in circles. I didn’t quite get it when I was younger, but that repetition, that security, swaddled me up like a blanket.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Lost Story – Meg Shaffer – “If I lived in a pumpkin shell/I’d have the key/And if I had a daughter/She’d look a lot like me…”

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 2024! Have a wonderful rest of your day, and take care of yourselves!

Posted in Sunday Songs

Sunday Songs: 12/22/24

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

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

Before I begin, here are the Sunday Songs from the past two weeks, as I had to crawl my way through finals hell and didn’t have time to write here. As with Hounds of Love, I PROMISE that I’ll end up talking about Before and After Science: Ten Pictures someday, because that album is spectacular. In the meantime…

12/8/24:

12/15/24 (or, “I haven’t seen Priscilla, I’ve just seen Suki Waterhouse’s episode of What’s in My Bag“):

This week: I didn’t intend for a) my color scheme to line up with the trans flag or b) the cover of this week’s Book Review Tuesday, but trans rights. Obviously.

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 12/22/24

“Well Well Well” – Le Tigre

There’s nothing like looking through YouTube comments on this video and slowly piecing together that there was some kind of huge argument under them circa 2008 that, because of it being so far back, is impossible to trace the beginning or end of because the reply function gets weird to track after 10 years or so. Not to be defeatist about these things, but it seems that so long as there arises new technology, humans will find a way to use them to engage in pointless arguments. Given the band, there’s probably some butthurt republican of yesteryear at the end of it, but the point still stands. (But also, who the hell goes into a Le Tigre song and thinks “ah, yes, this will align with my conservative views?”)

Le Tigre is going to prove a vital wellspring to tap into for the next four years or so. In these dark times, we look to the gospel of Kathleen Hanna. (Also to my mom, who was the one who remembered “Well Well Well” in the first place). This is one of the songs where Le Tigre’s switch from Bikini Kill’s guitars to synths makes perfect sense—it’s a song of going through the motions, not unlike a machine. Hanna and Johanna Fateman deliver the lyrics with all of the enthusiasm of reading an instruction manual: “Well, what do you like/And what do you need?/How should I act/And who should I be?” Never have I heard a song so delightful in its over-the-top performance of being perfunctory: there’s no pleasure to any of it.

Which brings me to the subject matter—given some of the subtle (and not so subtle) sexual references in the music video (which was incredibly made, so kudos to Elisabeth Subrin and her direction), there’s an overtone of women being expected to exist only to please men, especially when sex is concerned. It’s all about men’s pleasure, and as with the lyrics, there’s no regard of what the woman wants—it’s all just “What, where, when, how, when, who?” on the woman’s part. Even if, sadly, that one Ben Shapiro tweet is fake (we all know that the sentiment behind it is probably true), even now women are expected to always be receptive, anticipate of every single need of men, and exist only to fulfill their needs. Obviously, it extends far beyond sex and into any aspect of life, as any woman or AFAB person knows all too well. That’s part of the genius of Subrin’s music video—aside from the fact that the fonts and animations are gloriously early-2000’s, the corporate atmosphere of it does capture the restriction of being under those patriarchal expectations: going through the motions and constantly awaiting another mindless task that brings you no pleasure. Genius.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Luis Ortega Survival Club – Sonora Reyes – the story of an entitled boy who thinks that he can get away with anything—and the students who push back against his chauvinist actions.

“this is my california” – mary in the junkyard

A promise for the new year, or at least for the next few weeks: this is not the last you’ll be hearing of mary in the junkyard here on The Bookish Mutant. The band name (who’s mary and why’s she in the junkyard?) was what originally grabbed me, but discovering them turned out to be those once-in-a-blue moon finds—they combine a reverence for 90’s alt-rock with an artsy sensibility that’s distinctly 21st century, unafraid of letting their melodies collapse like a crushed-tin can and reform as an entirely different creature. They’re good. They’re the product of a collapse of sorts—founding members Clari Freeman-Taylor and David Allison were originally part of Second Thoughts, a band that found success on TikTok but grew increasingly stifled by the music that made them popular. Their move? Break up, switch around some members, and start anew.

“this is my california” is one of their gentler, more restrained efforts (you’ll see what I mean next week…stay tuned), but even their restraint feels fresh somehow. I’ve pinpointed several comparisons for mary in the junkyard, but the one that immediately comes to mind for this track is Luna. From the easygoing, sidewalk-ambling pace to the warm pulsation to guitars to…well, you can’t blame them for the California part. It doesn’t help that “this is my california” rings close to “California (All the Way),” but it doesn’t feel like a rip-off—in fact, that wide body of songs about California makes the pairing enhance the lyrics. Freeman-Taylor has never been to California, but described it in an interview with Northern Transmissions as “a paradise or idea of success that didn’t really resonate with me.” Her California, as it I’m sure it is for hundreds of people, owing to Hollywood and its side effects, is an ideality, but one that’s just out of reach—”My dream/Comes from the pale light of a bright blue screen.”

It feels like a critical part of growing up and realizing that your lifestyle doesn’t align with what you once thought it did. You’re stuck in that place and think that you’re the only one feeling this way, but you realize that the path before you is even clearer than before. That image of California is a place for other people’s dreams, but not yours—there’s a physical distance, too. Certainly fits with that separation from the earlier sound they were boxed into before forming this band. These lines sounded wistful to me at first, and there’s plenty of wist to go around, but one of the last ones sounds more liberatory now than anything: “If you go to California/We will not stay in touch/I’ve never been to California/And I will keep it as such.” I feel this song echoing through me in every transition—getting away from my middle school classmates in high school, then realizing in college that my high school classmates wanted a different kind of college lifestyle than I did and forging my own path. Not everybody needs California. Lots of natural disasters and whatnot.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Where You See Yourself – Claire Forrest – diverging from other people’s expectations, but also the ones you’ve set for yourself.

“Memories” – White Poppy

If anyone on this Earth is deserving of being named Crystal, I think it’s a musician who makes a song like this. Her name is Crystal Dorval, and I really, really wish I remembered how I discovered her song, for the life of me. It was all a haze. I realize I’m talking like an aging stoner recounting the sixties. But no, it was the COVID lockdown, and to this day, I’ve never touched drugs of any kind, unless you count coffee. I floated from album to album, song to song, not quite absorbing all of them, but all of them sticking to me anyway. “Memories” is one such artifact from that time. I don’t remember where I found it, but it sticks—unpainfully and untainted thankfully—as a distinctly May 2020-or-thereabouts artifact.

“Memories” is one of those rare songs where the feel of the song, the album title and the album cover collide to create the most cohesive picture of the music possible; the pale blue and pink filter on the cover, combined with a lens flare that punctures the image of a person walking down a bridge into a forest, is as rippling and light as the music itself—Paradise Gardens is the name of the album, and, very likely, where that bridge leads. (Was this what George Bluth Sr. was missing all along?) As crystalline as Crystal Dorval’s name, “Memories” twinkles along in a dreamlike haze, untethered save for the thick baseline keeping it anchored. Even that anchor ripples with the rest of the glimmering, the edges blurred along with Dorval’s echoing vocals, which do sound like the whispers echoing from inside of a glittering geode split open. It took me until my Cocteau Twins summer to bridge the gap, but if you’re searching for something close to a modern analogue, look no further. Nobody can top them, of course, but Dorval has most certainly attended the Liz Frazer School of Dreamlike Music. I suspect the reason that she didn’t get a perfect score was because her lyrics are decipherable and have a concrete meaning. Either way, if you need to drift off for four minutes and five seconds, climb aboard.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Stardust Grail – Yume Kitasei – the album cover for Paradise Gardens, as well as the dreamy feel of the music, ripples in a similar way to how I imagined Auncle’s chromatophores. I promise it makes sense.

“Bill Murray” – Gorillaz

The joys of being a fan of a band with a treasure trove of B-Sides (or D-Sides, I should say) never end. It’s intimidating to see two whole albums of B-Sides from Gorillaz in particular, but if anything positive can be said about the Apple Music algorithm, it reminds me that they exist.

Being the B-Side for “Feel Good Inc.” has to be the worst job in the world for a song. It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it. When I say that “Bill Murray” is an afterthought, I don’t mean it in a derogatory way at all. It does feel distinctly like a B-Side, but some songs are meant to be B-Sides—products from restless minds that were never meant to be center stage, but create a more nuanced picture of what came out of their famously fruitful sessions. Even the title is a bit of an afterthought—the lyrics aren’t much to go off of, but Jamie Hewlett suggested the name off the cuff after seeing his name in a magazine while discussing the song with Damon Albarn. Even though it only came to fruition during Demon Days, it traces its origins back to 1999, for the recording of Gorillaz’s self titled album. “Bill Murray” screams Phase 1, and that’s what so charming about it to me—Albarn’s wistful vocals, backed by The Bees, call back to the plaintive high notes of “Man Research (Clapper),” while the easygoing rhythm could fit right in with “Slow Country.” Had it been sandwiched between, say, “Sound Check (Gravity)” and “Double Bass,” it could have been a smooth transition—a temporary cooldown for an album brimming with energy. But on its own, “Bill Murray” proves that even the songs that Gorillaz cast aside in its early days were constructed with nothing but passion and intricacy.

As I said, even Gorillaz’s afterthoughts had plenty of polishing up on their own. Here’s an extra from the special edition of Bananaz, where you can see Albarn, Hewlett, and The Bees recording this song, complete with the usual antics (and chicken noises).

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Full Speed to a Crash Landing – Beth Revis – “Bill Murray” seems right at home in the atmosphere of this novella—even amidst all of the climactic space opera machinations, Ada has time to quip and slip into her easygoing personality.

“A Bowl and A Pudding” – Wilco

Cousin, huh? It truly is the gift that keeps on giving. As full of hidden miracles as Cruel Country was, I think I’ll side with Cousin at the end of the day if we’re picking sides as far as 2020’s Wilco albums. (But why pit two Tweedys against each other?)

The more Cousin reveals itself to me, the more the album art makes sense. The original art is a photograph by sculptor Makoto Azura; this piece is Frozen Flowers 2023, and it’s one of his many botanical sculptures, many of which are frozen and propped into snowy landscapes. As much of a visual learner as I am, his sculptures immediately draw me to the sense of touch; with every separate flower frozen into its neighbor, I can imagine the ridges of icicles under my fingertips, of the curve of each individual petal and leaf as they were compressed into coldness. It’s so befitting of Cousin because the whole album is an exercise in textures. As with each individual shade of the vibrant botanicals in the sculpture, unique sounds blister and twirl next to each other, from the ear-popping cacophony (and possible all-time album opener, for me) “Infinite Surprise” to the dusty dewdrop softness of “Sunlight Ends.”

“A Bowl and A Pudding” was one of the Cousin tracks that flew under the radar for me. The bar was unreasonably high after some of the tracks that I mentioned, as well as “Pittsburgh.” No skips, the more I think about it, and this track adds to that pantheon. In comparison to some of the more in-your-face textures on the album, this song is more understated; it’s more of the woolen fibers of a sweater or the gentle trickle of water after you’ve left the faucet running by mistake. It’s softly cyclical. The acoustic guitar notes swallow themselves, the fingerpicking as gentle as sunlight through a window. Tweedy’s lyrics are similarly cyclical, every one parroting the other in whispers, laying bare the dissolution of a relationship. That calmness makes the title feel like a still life. It’s up to you whether the bowl and the pudding are two separate items or if the pudding is in the bowl by design…or maybe that’s the point of the lyrics. Is it? Is the togetherness of the bowl and the pudding meant to reflect the separation and alienation that Tweedy narrates as someone he loved slips away from him? The bowl loves the pudding because it fills up the empty space that was molded to hold something. The pudding loves the bowl for the security, but does the pudding want something more? Can it be contained? Is the pudding in question the kind that is even served in a bowl in the first place? Is the bowl sick of being created solely as a vessel to hold other things?

Oh, god. Got too English major with it. A note to my parents: I guess this means that my degree is going to good use?

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Feeling of Falling in Love – Mason Deaver – “I can tell/How long this night is gonna be/And the one you love/Is not me…”

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: 12/1/24

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

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

This week: apologies for the whiplash lineup, but if your shuffle hasn’t whooped you with Julien Baker and Caroline Polachek back to back, have you even lived?

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 12/1/24

“2468” – Horsegirl

2024 was such a powerhouse year of fantastic albums that I’ve found myself wondering how 2025 could possibly measure up. Of course, the future’s unwritten, to quote Phoebe Bridgers, but if the upcoming solo Tunde Adebimpe album and this are anything to go by, it’s gonna be another fantastic year of music. Or at least a fantastic February, now that we have new Horsegirl on the horizon! Their second album, Phonetics On & On (if there was ever a more Horsegirl album title) comes out on Valentine’s Day next year, so I’m officially spoken for, thank you very much. It’s produced by none other than Cate Le Bon (!!!), and no matter how utterly pretentious I sound for getting excited about Horsegirl being produced by Cate Le Bon, oh my gooooooood (nobody got that), I remain excited after finally listening to some of Le Bon’s weirder solo albums and knowing the magic she worked with Wilco on Cousin back in 2023.

Horsegirl have always been an artsy bunch, taking inspiration from everyone from Brian Eno to Built to Spill, but “2468” reminds me of their picks from their episode of What’s In My Bag?—specifically their last one, The Feelies’ Crazy Rhythms. Penelope Lowenstein described a moment on that episode where she was supposed to be doing homework in Spanish class and was listening to The Feelies instead and felt like “the coolest person in the world.” I’ve always respected The Feelies, but they just make me anxious. Props to them for having their music so sanded down that there’s no wrinkles whatsoever, but it feels like the point after you’ve enjoyed your coffee and the caffeine jitters start to set in, but you have to stay put in your seat. They feel itchy, weirdly. Like something’s trapped in the music and is clawing to get out, but The Feelies just won’t let it. Good for them, man, but the nervous energy transfers very easily. “2468” is proof that Horsegirl’s uptight needle is quivering in the direction of The Feelies, but for all of their toy-solider precision, I don’t think they could ever be that itchily nervous. All of the lyrics are spoken deadpan, in some sort of no-man’s-land between nursery rhymes and marching orders, complete with a little “da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da” in case it gets too strict. With the band decked out in their best Wes Anderson fits, they shuffle and paddy-cake around as their well-oiled machine skips along. They may be taking after their uptight forefathers, but they’ve left themselves plenty of leeway to jump around—and those artsy leaps are what make me the most excited for what the future holds for Horsegirl.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Early Riser – Jasper Fforde – delightfully odd in both concept and writing.

“When the Sun Hits” – Slowdive

Dread it…run from it…shoegaze always arrives on this blog.

I guess I was too mired in Spiritualized (and a sprinkling of Beach House) to get into Slowdive sooner, but it was always at the back of my mind, even when I’d never listened to it yet. I’d seen them floating around in the same musical circles that I listened to, not to mention my awesome honors English teacher from high school wearing a Slowdive shirt out of nowhere for band shirt day during spirit week. (My high school’s English department happened to be very shoegazey. I bumped into that same teacher at a Spiritualized concert in my senior year.) I should’ve hitched a ride on the bandwagon after Soccer Mommy covered “Dagger” last year, but here we are. Look, I know “When The Sun Hits” is their most popular song, and I’m a poser, yada yada yada, but LORD, this is beautiful.

For me, what separates shoegaze is its ability to create an atmosphere. J. Spaceman is the undisputed king (in my mind) in that regard, with his ability to create cosmically lived-in music that sounds all at once intimately personal and wide enough to swallow the world whole. “When The Sun Hits” stirs up that same feeling; the production is nothing short of cavernous, capturing the dappled reflections of water on the walls of a cave and the stringy sunlight shyly peering in. Both the vocals of Neil Halstead and Rachel Goswell take a blinding backseat to the mounting ocean of sound that reduces all else to a wavering echo. Slowdive were one of many alternative bands inspired by David Bowie’s Berlin trilogy, citing Low and Lodger as key influences, but funnily enough, I discovered this song through this inspired mashup of this track and David Bowie’s “Heroes.” I’d be surprised if that missing album didn’t creep in there, given how seamlessly the chorus of “When The Sun Hits” glides into Bowie’s opening chords. Having the first line of the pre-chorus be “It matters where you are” is a choice that defines the song’s experience: when you’re in the midst of experiencing it for the first time, all else seems to fall away. You can’t help but be pulled into the undertow, to be in the present, just to experience this song. That’s shoegaze.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Heart of the World (The Isles of the Gods, #2) – Amie Kaufman – “Sweet thing, I watch you/Burn so fast, it scares me/Mind games, don’t leave me/Come so far, don’t lose me…”

“Get Me Away From Here, I’m Dying” (feat. SOAK and Quinn Christopherson) [Belle and Sebastian cover] – Julien Baker & Calvin Lauber

If you’re able, consider supporting this album, TRANSA, a compilation album featuring over 100 artists organized by the Red Hot Organization to bring awareness to trans rights! The album features Jeff Tweedy, Adrianne Lenker, Bill Callahan, André 3000, Perfume Genius, and so many more amongst its ranks, with both original songs and covers ranging from Kate Bush to SOPHIE.

Predictably, I first heard of TRANSA through Julien Baker, who covered Belle & Sebastian’s “Get Me Away From Here, I’m Dying” with SOAK, Quinn Christopherson, and Calvin Lauber. Lauber, who also produced many of Julien Baker’s newer material as well as boygenius’ “Black Hole,” turns Belle & Sebastian’s melancholy, jangly yearning into an urgent spectacle, a sprint through the woods to a brighter future for all four minutes and 13 seconds. If there’s anything that Baker can always deliver on, it’s urgency—the urgency of trauma, the urgency of love. With the context of both Baker’s queer identity and the album’s overarching theme of the trans experience, “Get Me Away From Here, I’m Dying” takes on a whole new light; “Oh, I’ll settle down with some old story/About a boy who’s just like me/Thought there was love in everything and everyone/You’re so naive” becomes the loss of innocence in the face of homophobia and transphobia and finding solace in fiction, and “Here on my own now after hours/Here on my own now on a bus/Think of it this way/You could either be successful or be us” feels like a vignette of someone on the run after being kicked out of their home. Even the title becomes a rallying cry of wishing to break free of the confines of prejudice that so many queer people know like the back of their hands. SOAK and Quinn Christopherson, both trans artists, trade verses and backing vocals with Baker, creating a harmony of solidarity that gives Belle & Sebastian’s original words an even more emotional meaning.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

I Wish You All the Best – Mason Deaver – heartbreak, new love, and a desire for a new life.

“Dang” – Caroline Polachek

Even with specific music categories being an illusion kept afloat by critics, I feel like what I’ve heard of Caroline Polachek aligns with my hazy definition of indie pop. It’s theoretically everything that should be popular, but like alternative or mainstream rock, it’s the label or the sensibilities that separates it. In the case of Caroline Polachek, she’s definitely too out there for the Top 40, but make no mistake: in the words of XTC, this is pop (yeah yeah, this is pop, yeah yeah, etc). The pop part is what prevents me from entirely getting into her music; as impressive as her vocal range is, it’s often too polished for me, and sometimes the isolated instrumentals feel like they could belong in a commercial. Not always my cup of tea.

But. But. I can’t not admire how weird she gets with it. I’m not seeing any other pop star willingly turn themselves into a chimera in their music videos, after all. And Polachek has more than a few excellent belts and screams in her. (Plus, she has my immediate respect for, after being called “this generation’s Kate Bush,” responding by saying that “SHE [Kate Bush] is this generation’s Kate Bush. Damn right.) “Dang” gets recommended to me in droves around every 6 months, and I can’t not be compelled by it. When I call it corporate, I mean it as a compliment—it feels like a strange distillation of disinterest and sanitized, company-wide messages saying something on the lines of “we’re all a family.” The intro of garbled vocals, followed by Polachek’s bored delivery of “Dang” feels like the pleas of low-level workers drowned out by an uncaring boss waving them off. “Aww, you don’t have enough to provide for your family? Dang. Get that spreadsheet on my desk by noon.” No wonder Polachek, in this live performance on The Late Show, is presenting an unconventional powerpoint, including but not limited to diagrams about “how many wolves are inside you” and a notes-app apology consisting of a paraphrased version of William Carlos Williams’ “This Is Just to Say.” (I’m wondering about the significance of replacing plums with grapes…maybe it’s not that deep?) Her music as a whole remains a bit too pop-polished for me, but I have nothing but respect for her unconventional spin on it—and her vocal range. The shriek beginning at 1:51? Autotune or not, either way, it’s enough to convince me that this is unedited:

good for you, Caroline…put those geese in their place

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Machinehood – S.B. Divya – corporate disinterest and neglect, with a dose of S.B. Divya’s signature weirdness (and a Christopher Nolan-style thriller).

“A Country Dance” – Joanna Sternberg

I write this as a light snow is falling outside my window, and even though this song was released in August (as was the film it was written for, Between the Temples), it’s so distinctly placed in that period between autumn and winter for me, as far as the sound. “A Country Dance” has a gentle, intimate warmth to it that could only come from the embers of a fireplace in late November or mid-December. It lands on the opposite spectrum of The Shins’ “Black Wave,” which I spoke about around a year ago; seasonally, it’s at the same time, but “Black Wave” feels more like huddling around a fire, exposed to the elements. “A Country Dance” is comfortably cozy, without any notion of the snow biting at your cheeks. For me, good folk music gives you the feeling that you’ve just eaten a stomach-warming, rich holiday dinner—maybe some kind of stew or soup—and that warmth stays in your bones long after you’ve digested it.

I fully thought that “A Country Dance” was a cover—it sounds like it could’ve come out of the ’60s or ’70s, but this is a Sternberg original, and that timelessness is hard to capture—it feels very ’60s and Adrianne Lenker at the same time. (Their music teacher voice certainly contributes to that effect as well.) As the leaves fall off of the trees, this track feels like the perfect antidote to the coming chill—warm, tucked inside of a log cabin, half-asleep and wrapped in woolen blankets. Not every Joanna Sternberg song captures me, but “A Country Dance” honestly makes me feel like the Celestial Seasonings Sleepytime Bear, and that’s not something I’d say about just any song.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Any Way the Wind Blows (Simon Snow, #3) – Rainbow Rowell – Even if it is tumultuous in places, the quiet Christmas scenes here invoke this song.

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

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

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: 11/3/24

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

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

This week: next stop, Big Feels™️ central…totally haven’t been anxious for the past week and a half, how’d you guess?

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 11/3/24

“Promises of Eternity” – The Magnetic Fields

I had the privilege of seeing The Magnetic Fields a second time last weekend; this year marks the 25th anniversary of an album that (from what I’ve heard) is not so much an album but a great balancing act of music itself: 69 Love Songs, a triple album consisting entirely of songs about love. (Make no mistake, they’re not all romantic. See: “How Fucking Romantic,” “Yeah! Oh, Yeah!” “I Think I Need a New Heart.”) I’ve yet to find the time to set aside a whole three hours and listen to the album in its entirety, but even a glimpse at around half of it over the course of my lifetime leaves me in awe of how Stephin Merritt and company pulled this off. Especially Merritt, as he wrote every single song—his songwriting never falters, but to not sputter out after 69 songs is a feat as awe-inspiring as his vocal range.

Somehow, “Promises of Eternity” slipped by my notice, but it hasn’t let me go since last weekend. Sung by Merritt on the album and by Anthony Kaczynski live, it immediately stuns. In both mediums, the synths just bowl you over—they don’t play as much as grandly announce their presence with the flourish of the same velvet curtain that the song speaks of. That chest-clutching drama defines the rest of the song—all of the lyrics detail the hypothetical collapse of the world if the narrator’s lover did not love them back: “What if no show ever happened again?/No seven, no eight and a half, no nine and no ten?” Most of Merritt’s singing has a sarcastic current to it that almost makes you question if the guy really believes in true love (though “The Book of Love” disproves that hypothesis quickly), but the way that he belts out “What if the clowns couldn’t be clowns?”, of all lines, gives you the feeling that he’s just fallen to his knees and is begging straight to your face. Apparently, the absence of clowns will signal the end? Who’s to say, really? Along with the circus imagery, the organ sound created by the synth makes “Promises of Eternity” feel like an elaborate, gilded carousel of lovesickness, with instrumentals that wouldn’t be out of place at a fairground, but lyrics fit for Romantic (in the Keats way, not the general way) poetry.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Caraval – Stephanie Garber – circus imagery aplenty, as is the levels of drama being off the charts.

“Surgeon” – St. Vincent

In the age where you can make a synth—and most any instrument, really—make almost any sound you want it to, I shouldn’t be surprised at the staggering achievements that music has made in the simple terms of what noises we can make. What sounds like “the future” feels entirely subjective when we’re talking about anything past the 2010’s—electronic music had exploded, and plus, what sounds futuristic to me might not sound futuristic to you.

My waxing poetic about St. Vincent has mostly been directed to her self-titled 2014 album, which, ostensibly fits that description for me. But with each successive listen to “Surgeon,” I’m blown away at just how much this sounds like the future. This was 2011, and aside from the percussion, most everything on this track sounds utterly alien. Watching the 4AD sessions recording that I linked above was genuinely eye opening—every few minutes, I just found myself going wait, that’s the instrument that’s making that weird noise? The synths are manipulated to the point where they could just as easily be the vocalizations of a children’s choir from another planet. Even the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it trill of a flute turns into a glitch in some kind of code. I can see the threads of Björk—especially Homogenic—throughout, yet it’s so distinctly Annie Clark. By far the most masterful of these manipulations should be obvious: Clark’s guitar solo beginning at 3:36 feels like she’s almost reached the extreme of what the instrument can sound like. It’s hardly even a solo anymore—it doesn’t just sound like a synth, it sounds like some kind of creature whose consciousness has been trapped in a computer and is howling to be freed. If you were to somehow visualize this music, I’d fully believe it if it came out fleshy and trailing with electrodes.

Oh, to spend a day in her mind…

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Freshwater – Akwaeke Emezi – stagnation, grappling with identities beyond the human, and the desire to free that identity with help of a surgeon.

“Oodles of O’s” – De La Soul

Is it possible for De La Soul to have a bad song? Well…okay, I haven’t gotten into their later catalogue, which seems to have a worse reputation (I don’t know, though, “Snoopies” is pretty fantastic), so that’s up for interpretation. But for me, De La Soul are one of those bands where almost every new song of theirs I find feels like digging up buried treasure. At least in the ’90s, their creativity seemed to come to them as easy it is for the average person to breathe. The lyrics? Deadly serious, but still full of whimsical, silly rhymes—nothing but De La Soul. The best part is that every single line ends in an o sound—quite literally oodles of o’s! The samples? That Tom Waits bassline sample is something to behold. This is my kind of hip-hop. Can’t say if their entire catalogue is perfect, but “Oodles of O’s” is. We need to bring back the word oodles. Carry on the spirit.

At the end of the day, it’s beautiful that this got the video that Dave wanted it to have, now around a year and a half after his passing. Maybe it’s not the grittiness he envisioned, but a donut shop more than makes up for it.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Geekerella (Once Upon a Con, #1) – Ashley Poston – admittedly, a much fluffier take on fame, but an exploration of how it reduces you nonetheless.

“Anchor” – Soccer Mommy

With the workload I’ve been swimming through this semester, I’m not sure if I’ll get around to reviewing Evergreen, but rest assured—I LOVED it. After a few listens, Sometimes, Forever remains on top, but Evergreen is special. There’s a matured, bedroom-pop-grown-older familiarity to it, but as with every successive album, Sophie Allison always has something new to offer. Her fourth album is a cartography of grief, detailing the tangled web of loss, healing, and pining after your Stardew Valley wife, as it turns out. As with every one of her albums, it’s her introspection that shines—with every kind of grief that she experiences, it feels like a flag planted in the ground, a recognition of every hill and valley of the harrowing trek she’s been on, but recognition that it’s not the end, no matter how much of it is behind her.

In contrast to the largely acoustic (or at least traditionally guitar-driven) landscape of Evergreen, “Anchor” instantly singles itself out as the black sheep of the bunch. Though it covers some of the same ground as the rest of the album, the production doesn’t jump out at you so much as it pounces on you like some creature going after your ankles in the dead of night. I should’ve expected that Allison would retain some of the sound from Sometimes, Forever, but with how the rest of Evergreen sounded, it was a surprise—and a 100% welcome one. With synths and bells that wouldn’t sound out of place in a Chelsea Wolfe track, it has a jaggedness and fear that the rest of the album lacks. In a song about feeling so unmoored in the face of loss, it’s one of the most creative stylistic choices on Evergreen to me. In the same way that a simple object or scent or song can trigger a domino effect of memories that takes days or weeks to recover from, “Anchor” comes out of nowhere with its instrumentation. It has the static and crunch of watching yourself bolting through the woods through the lens of a trail cam, and that’s how grief can make you feel—cornered and in the dark.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Hell Followed With Us – Andrew Joseph White – “When we left the harbor/I was certain of my path/There’s no turning back/Now I long for something that/Could stop me in my tracks/An anchor to cast…”

“Remember My Name” – Mitski

Knowing that “Remember My Name” was released so close to the time that she almost quit music (back in 2019) really puts this song in perspective. Mitski’s still battling being in the spotlight, but this song presents the other side that’s been waging that war; deep down, she harbors a desire to be musically immortal, even at the steep cost: “I gave too much of my heart tonight/Can you come to where I’m staying/And make some extra love?/That I can save ’til tomorrow’s show.” With its crunching guitar riff that’s begging to be sampled and the way that the chorus consumes you in the same way that watching an approaching tornado on the horizon does, there’s so much urgency and volatility packed into just over two minutes. The best of Mitski speaks to that part of me that is so easily overcome by emotion and gives itself over to its throes—sometimes, whatever the situation, you do feel like you need something bigger than the sky. What works so well is that Mitski is dead serious—every song is an explosive, cathartic release. Of course, again, that’s probably what attracts so many parasocial weirdos to her shows, but I at least have the tact to not yell “MOMMY” at her, much less anybody else. That’s exactly the price of the fame she speaks of—she places her heart on a platter, people tear it to shreds, and the process repeats itself every day. I’m just glad that after The Land is Inhospitable and So Are We, she’s repaired that volatile relationship with music, or at least started to. Much as I love a good Mitski explosion, her best music comes when she’s healed, or at least processing it.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Shadow and Bone – Leigh Bardugo – “I need something bigger than the sky/Hold it in my arms and know it’s mine/Just how many stars will I need to hang around me/To finally call it Heaven?”

Since this week’s 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: 10/27/24

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

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

This week: if I had a nickel for every year that I’ve had a bright green Sunday Songs color scheme right before Halloween, I’d have two nickels, which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it happened twice…bon appetit.

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 10/27/24

“This Town Ain’t Big Enough for the Both of Us” – Sparks

Because all you musicians totally want my unsolicited advice, I’ll offer it up: this is peak walk-on music. Imagine the band coming onstage the minute the drums kick in after the gunshot sound effect at 0:35. Come on.

In my glacial but nonetheless exploration of Sparks, I realized that I sort of knew this one—it’s one of their most popular and enduring songs, but I knew it from the cover that Siouxsie and the Banshees did, which should tell you all you need to know about how I was raised (read: a hipster). I think my desire for somebody to use this as walk-on music stems from just how punchily theatrical it is. It demands dynamic movement, silk, and finger guns fired into the audience of an opera house. Even though I’d place it well on the outskirts of glam (somewhere near Brian Eno ca. 1974), it walks that line between pure rock and full-face theatre. The Mael Brothers’ brand is significantly tighter than the spandex that their counterparts were (probably) wearing, but the constrained, cagey feel of it adds to the suspense, however thickly they laid it on—it certainly fits with the anecdote about the zoo animals in the first verse. Yet for the slimness of it all, they lean into how over-the-top it is. Case in point: said Wild West gunshot sound effect during the chorus. Brilliant.

Other than Siouxsie, a fair share of artists have covered “This Town Ain’t Big Enough for the Both of Us” over the years. I found out that the most recent happens to be The Last Dinner Party, who…admittedly, other than “Caesar on a TV Screen,” I haven’t exactly liked much, covered it as well, and…eh? The overwhelming vibe I got was that they were trying to go for over-the-top, but, as with…well, everything I’ve heard of theirs, they were trying way too hard. It sounds tight, but there’s hardly any fun in this. And how do you cover Sparks and not make it fun? Siouxsie and the Banshees made it their own—the flow is more dynamic and not as punctuated as the original, but it’s got that theatrical urgency that gives it the oomph that’s necessary to cover the song. The Last Dinner Party restrained themselves so much…and I hate to harsh on them, but they’re missing the whole point! The spirit of “This Town Ain’t Big Enough for the Both of Us” is to go dramatic! Go big or go home! I AIN’T GONNA LEAVE!

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Good Luck Girls – Charlotte Nicole Davis – another—but very different—twist on Westerns.

“The Big Ship” – Brian Eno

me when I’m in a “making incredibly soothing but also innovative music” and my competition is Brian Eno:

Brian Eno can really do it all. He glammed up the ’70s with Roxy Music, then struck out on his own and glammed some more…and eventually came to be the person responsible for both coining and creating the genre of ambient music. He’s a master of both the lyrical and the instrumental; Another Green World contains both, but is considered by many to be part of his transition to almost exclusively making solo, instrumental ambient music. Even if he did mold the genre, however, I wouldn’t call “The Big Ship” ambient. Compared to something like “1/1,” it has an unmistakable feel of rising action, as in a novel, instead of the former’s soothing plateau. It’s unassuming at first glance, but judging from the outpouring of emotion in the YouTube comments—and its use in deeply emotional scenes from Me and Earl and the Dying Girl and The End of the Tour—”The Big Ship” is anything but. Author David Foster Wallace even said this in his posthumous novel, The Pale King:

“This song is making me feel both warm and safe, as though cocooned like a little boy that’s just been taken out of the bath and wrapped in towels that have been washed so many times they’re incredibly soft, and also at the same time feeling sad; there’s an emptiness at the center of the warmth like the way an empty church or classroom with a lots of windows through which you can only see rain in the street is sad, as though right at the center of this safe, enclosed feeling is the seed of emptiness.”

I don’t think I’ll be able to articulate anything about this song better than Wallace. I don’t think anyone ever could—he really did chip away the truth. You feel all of it. You can touch that drained eggshell’s core of emptiness, but you can see the pinprick of light made by a needle at the top. Whatever you imagine the big ship to be, the gradual rise of the song produces imagery that leads you to believe that this ship could be arriving just as well as it could be leaving. “The Big Ship” is a door ajar, but whether or not you see the light retreating or impending is entirely up to the flip of a coin.

In my mind’s eye, there’s a gargantuan, city-sized ferry, perhaps fueled by a pair of unseen wings on the hull. Like a kind knife through melted butter, it cleaves a path through a roiling sea of fog, curls of mist tracing the polished metal like child’s fingers. It moves slowly, glacially, taking its time to pave a path through the billowing clouds, into whatever lies beyond. I love the title of Another Green World, and even though I haven’t yet listened to all of it, I immediately relate to the concept of the Green World in literature; I was introduced through it by Shakespeare and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, where Athens functions as the world grounded in reality, whereas the realm of fairies, governed by magic, whimsy, and glamour, is the Greener. It is the “false” world, but also the world of innovation and real magic that we strive to create. Like a sprout, it is ripe with possibility, things yet to come to fruition. Perhaps that’s where Eno’s big ship has charted its gentle course.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The World of Edena – Mœbius – somewhere, across temporal boundaries, I can imagine Eno and Mœbius creating art together—the latter to create the brightly-colored, simple landscape, and the former to soundtrack the gentle humming of its engines.

“Finding Feeling” – Black Belt Eagle Scout

Ten years ago, Katherine Paul self-released their debut EP on Bandcamp as Black Belt Eagle Scout. A decade later, and Paul has brought this artifact of her career to streaming, letting the world see the infancy of this project. Like Eno, it’s a soothing exercise, sculpted from handfuls of reverb and sparing percussion. Now, I can see the remnants of this sound that later permeated into their debut album, Mother of My Children; it flows as easily as water, but in those early days, they were prone to get caught up in the current and let the same phrase repeat itself for quite some time. It’s not that it’s bad by any stretch of the imagination—Paul just hadn’t hit their stride yet, and didn’t know when to whip out the cutting board to make things more succinct. (“Finding Feeling” repeats itself for the first third of the song…which is six and a half minutes long.) The lyrics lack the artistry that Paul would later learn, but time has proven that her voice has always been as crystal-clear and cooling as still water from the mouth of a glacier. “Finding Feeling” almost describes itself as you nearly get lost in the repetition, but the payoff, though long-earned, is the seed of what would become a soaring talent.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Sea Change – Gina Chung – “I go home in the evening/I don’t feel a thing/I don’t know nothing/I go home in the evening/I don’t see a thing/I don’t have anything…”

“I am a Scientist” – Guided by Voices

It’s baffling that this version of “I am a Scientist”—from the 1994 I am a Scientist – EP—never made it onto the album that the original version did (Bee Thousand); the original, as good as it is, screams “demo,” muted in every way. While I’m all for the scrappy, understated recordings (see: everything Car Seat Headrest did until about 2016), the full band backing the EP version makes it into the triumphant march that it was always meant to be. And what a perfect slice of ’90s indie-rock this is—it’s Pavement from an alternate universe, one where they decided to churn out multiple albums a year for the rest of the foreseeable future. I’m no judge of how good said prolific output is, as this is one of two songs I’ve listened to, but if the talent displayed on “I am a Scientist” and the acclaim that their ’90s albums have gotten, I can only assume that said talent hasn’t dried up.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Flux – Jinwoo Chong – an unraveling mystery between men, generations, television, and time travel. (Was it always successful? No, but I enjoyed enough of it. I’ll always applaud the ambition of it.)

“All You Need is Love” – The Beatles

I didn’t conceive of Sunday Songs consciously to put them on Sunday—the alliteration was just there, and it worked. But this week feels fitting that it’s on Sunday, and I’m glad I stuck this song at the end.

Here. Take a moment to breathe. We have miles and miles of anxiety ahead of us and miles and miles of horror behind us. But that is not all there is in the world. You see the spinning earth at the end of this video, animated in silence, and remember that there is love. Even if they were summoned into a studio, you can see all of the people gathered together, covered in flowers, and remember there is love. Millions of miles gives way to the possibility of endless cruelty, but if you look hard enough, you will know that our planet was never molded from just that. Whatever happens, there will always be love, and there will always be someone to embody love. Take a seat. Let the confetti brush your cheeks, let the sound lift you into the air.

All you need is love. I’ll take this into the week, I’ll keep it against my breastbone like a locket until the silver wears into my skin. Will you?

All you need is love.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Battle for WondLa (The Search for WondLa, #3) – Tony DiTerlizzi – love is all you need.

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: 10/20/24

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

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

This week: we regret to inform you that the All Born Screaming brainrot has persisted for 6 months. It may be terminal. Please stand by.

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 10/20/24

“Reckless” – St. Vincent

So. Almost 6 months later, and All Born Screaming remains etched onto the folds of my brain. I already talked about how the climax of this song hit me like a train in my review of the album back in May, but rest assured that time has not dulled its potency. 2024 has been a spectacular year for album intros (see: “IDEA 01,” “Wall of Eyes,” and, I’ll preemptively say it, “Lost”), and All Born Screaming’s “Hell Is Near” rightfully claims its crown in those ranks. But “Reckless” feels like the rightful evolution of it—I’d even to as far to say that it would be stunning as a whole track. Imagine that, combined into about 8:06 of a suspenseful, cinematic build. That’s perhaps the only thing that could make the sonic lightning strike at 2:38 even more explosive. Like a well-shot film, suspense is what drives “Reckless” to its pinnacle of art—every lyric is a footstep down a pitch-black hallway, constantly wary of the faulty wiring in the ceiling that’s ready to burst. Knowing that Clark has opened every setlist for this tour with “Reckless” makes the salt in the wound that SHE DIDN’T COME TO COLORADO ON THIS TOUR even saltier. WHY HAVE YOU FORSAKEN US, ANNIE? YOU WENT TO IDAHO, FOR GOD’S SAKES!

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Death’s Country – R.M. Romero – “If your love was an anchor/And I am lost at sea/I hear the riders calling/They’re calling for me…”

“Look What They’ve Done To My Song, Ma” – Melanie

I came here from the wonderful show We Are Lady Parts (highly recommended if you need a laugh and also want to see some Muslim punks being badass and very vulnerable on TV); it’s a fitting soundtrack for the bitter disappointment of the band at the end of the first episode of season 2 as they watch their hit song being covered by newcomers, only for said newcomers to get the bulk of the praise and applause from the crowd.

Given this song’s partial legacy of being butchered for commercial jingles (confirmation that corporate executives never listen to lyrics), there’s something predictably depressing about “Look What They’ve Done To My Song, Ma” becoming exactly what the lyrics talk about. In an slow lament that slants towards an older Broadway standard, Melanie sings of how her music has been dragged through the mud: “Look, look what they’ve done to my song/You know, they tied it up in a plastic bag/And then turned it upside down, oh Mama/Look at what they’ve done to my song.” That kind of Broadway feel is the ideal form for this song—it begs for a spotlight on a sordid character with mascara running down her cheeks as she belts her sorrow into a rapt crowd. The more I think about it, I feel like it’s one of the premier victims of the ’60s-’90s fadeout in music—why, why, why would you start turning the volume down right when she hits the most impassioned belt of the whole song? Melanie specifically wrote it about how her producer (who also happened to be her husband) would often halt her creative process in the studio, diverting her from her vision when he saw what he wanted to be a hit.

“Look What They’ve Done To My Song, Ma” has been covered a slew of times over the years, most notably by greats such as Ray Charles and Nina Simone (!!). Sometimes, with a song that covered, it’s simply a matter of fame, but it taps into what might be one of the most universal fears of anyone in the arts: trying to put yourself out there, but then getting your vision sanitized and reshaped for mass appeal. It’s always at the back of my mind. Being unreceptive towards any criticism is one thing, but I’m always afraid of what I put out there being somehow not right for what publishers want. Whatever finished products I eventually publish will have to be rigorously edited, of course, but it would kill me if there were key parts of my stories I had to dilute just so I could sell more copies. Of course, careers in the arts are often…not the most well paying, to say the least, and I almost fear having to succumb to diluting my vision just because of money more than I fear the dilution itself. Would I be able to live with myself? We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. No, if. I’ve gotta have a little faith. If this song—released in 1970—was able to break through the constraints of producers and the music industry at large, maybe it isn’t all as bleak. Melanie did get the last laugh, from what I can tell, eventually gaining more creative control and outliving her husband. Sadly, she passed away this January, but her legacy precedes her. I’ve only been familiar with Melanie for a woefully short time, but I hope she’s resting easy.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Not Here to be Liked – Michelle Quach – “Look at what they’ve done to my brain/Well, they picked it like a chicken bone/And I think that I’m half insane, ma…”

“Final Fantasy” – TV on the Radio

Picture this. You open up Instagram. TV on the Radio has posted an ominous picture of their logo on their page. They’ve been on hiatus for almost a decade. When the world needed them most, TV on the Radio returned…

…just to play a few shows in New York, LA, and London.

They’re at least reissuing Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes for its 20th anniversary and we got “Final Fantasy” out of it. Hopefully the slow creep of the bass and the ominous, razor-sharp lyrics are enough to distract from the fact that we’ve been sidelined…again. I’m just telling myself that they’re cooking up something new, just so I can sleep at night. You can’t just rise from the dead like that only to play…what, nine shows in only 3 locations? Come ON.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Some Desperate Glory – Emily Tesh – “You’ve made a family/Now kill ’em dead/Oh it’s not me Ma/It’s what the TV said…”

“Like Humans Do” – David Byrne

When I heard this in the background of a post on Instagram earlier in the week, I got hooked through the screen—you ever just hear a 10-second snippet of a song and are immediately impelled to download it? It’s so delightfully hooky. No wonder Microsoft chose this song as one of the samples of music for their Windows XP Media Player. It’s now widely accepted as the unofficial “Windows XP Anthem”—the radio edit, that is; Microsoft used the radio edit, which cut out the following line: “I never watch TV except when I’m stoned.” (They replaced the line with “We’re eating off plates and we kiss with our tongues.”) Either way, even though I never got to experience “Like Humans Do” in that context, thank you to whoever decided that David Byrne’s music would be the flagship of Windows XP.

Byrne wrote the song as an imagined perspective of a Martian watching humans interact; the lyrics have a simplistic, domestic calm to them, placidly and warmly recounting the everyday normalities of human life that we take for granted: “For millions of years, in millions of homes/A man loved a woman, a child it was born/It learned how to hurt and it learned how to cry/Like humans do.” With its clanging, light percussion and that classically funky, Talking Heads groove, it’s a jangle that really does embody one of its more delightful lyrics: “Wiggle while you work.” You bet I was IMMEDIATELY wiggling when I first heard this song…and on every subsequent listen. And it feels exactly like the kind of song Byrne would write. It’s in that same vein of Björk’s “Human Behaviour,” but with more of a calm appreciation rather than baffled curiosity on the subject. Relating it back to Byrne’s autism diagnosis later in life doesn’t explain everything, but as with Björk, who said that she “may be semi-autistic” in an interview in 2011, it does make sense for Father Autism himself to take on this kind of subject matter. Of course, you can zoom this lens out to apply this observational mentality to anyone on the fringes of normality, but it does feel like a role I’ve embodied as a neurodivergent person myself. You watch others to learn how to act, and sometimes, you feel like you’re another species collecting enough information to try and blend in. Of course, the freedom comes when you realize that there’s no point in blending in, but for me, at least, there was never a shunning of neurotypical behavior—simply a realization that I would never fully be able to imitate it, and I’d found enough people who understood and words to explain why I am the way I am. “Like Humans Do” feels like the calm epiphany of discovering difference once neurodivergent acceptance becomes reality.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Beautyland – Marie-Helene Bertino – listen, I try not to double-dip on book pairings, especially since I paired this book with “Always Crashing in the Same Car” last week. But…the alien observing humans connection is right there!

“Breaking the Split Screen Barrier” – The Amps

Normally, I take a liking to any given Kim Deal-related song fairly quickly. But “Breaking the Split Screen Barrier” wasn’t so instantaneous for me. The beginning sounds like a series of false starts layered on top of each other. The prolonged space between each chord doesn’t just feel like a ruse: they pile up on top of each other so much that you feel like you’re being served three courses of red herrings. And I hate to say that about The Amps! I don’t think I’m that impatient of a listener, but I’m used to them getting straight to the point (see: “I Am Decided”).

After a few listens, however, you realize how much that slow build pays off. Every instrument has more crunch and crackle than a wadded-up ball of tin foil. In between the gravel and abrasion, Kim Deal murmurs her borderline surreal lyrics into a void curtained by echoing near-abrasion. Maybe I am guilty of being one of those damn gen z-ers with an attention span shorter than that of a minnow, but I think I can be patient—especially when Kim Deal is concerned. It paid off for “Breaking the Split Screen Barrier.”

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Brightness Between Us (The Darkness Outside Us, #2) – Eliot Schrefer – “I know you’re not sane anymore/That doesn’t mean you’re fine…”

BONUS: the great Jim Noir has a new album Jimmy’s Show 2, out on November 5th! He released a music video to accompany the lead single, “Out Of Sight,” this week:

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: 10/13/24

Posted on by madeline @ The Bookish Mutant

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

Apologies for the lack of a Sunday Songs last week and a Book Review last week—midterms are one helluva drug. Either way, I have been able to read some fantastic books, so expect a fun review next week. For now, here’s my graphic from last week:

10/6/24:

This week: MOM!!! MOM, MADELINE’S GOING AFTER THIN WHITE DUKE APOLOGISTS AGAIN!

Enjoy this week’s songs!

SUNDAY SONGS: 10/13/24

“Instant Psalm” – The Smile

Unprecedented opinion by me: Cutouts, the second album from The Smile in 2024, was…a slight disappointment. Are all of the songs good? Absolutely—this is The Smile we’re talking about, remember? And yet, even though the talent is all there, well-crafted songs don’t make up for an album lacking in cohesion. If they knowingly named the album Cutouts for this reason, it might make sense, but it really does live up to the name; these are the scraps, but for a band as artfully skilled as The Smile, the scraps will be treasures. Even if Cutouts meanders this way and that without the direction of A Light for Attracting Attention, the moving parts are spectacular.

Take “Instant Psalm.” I love when I just have the gut feeling of knowing that a song will rearrange my molecules after only listening to a 30-second snippet of it. From the minute the strings sunburst into existence, you feel that light blooming in the back of your mind. To say that this song only starts would do it a critical injustice: it awakens in the same way a flower does, the same way a cloud of spores puffs from a stomped mushroom, all of its glistening tendrils erupting in slow motion after the joyous moment of birth. “Instant Psalm” lyrically contains about the same existential dread as any other The Smile track, but I’d place it somewhere near “You Know Me!” in terms of siblings; these glistening tendrils have heralded the manipulation that the former track ushered in, and now, all is left is a kind of mental automation where your mind knows that what it’s doing is wrong, but cannot let go of what’s coiled around it: “yes is not a real yes.” It’s so calm in its submission, and that “Instant Psalm” feels like sparkling dust blown into the eyes, the kind that clogs them up enough that they no longer see reality. If there’s anything highly specific that The Smile has excelled in, it’s making songs about submitting to corrupted, outside forces sound so soothing and sleepy. Again: precisely the point.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Annihilation (Southern Reach, #1) – Jeff VanderMeer – “We can slide through this narrow gap/The narrow gap that you leave us in/And we feel you near/But so close that you disappear…”

“Sick of Goodbyes” – Sparklehorse

Listening to It’s a Wonderful Life prompted me to return to one of my many depressing high school lovers: Good Morning Spider, the album that preceded the former. I thought “Sick of Goodbyes” was okay back then, and given how much I suckled on that album like a baby bottle, “okay” is harsh. Compared to the irresistible draw of the melancholy of “Sunshine” and the adrenaline-blooded screech of “Pig,” this one stuck out like a sore thumb. Why is it so twangy? And my God, is it actually…upbeat?

To be fair, it really does stick out oddly in Sparklehorse’s catalogue, and for how odd Sparklehorse sounds, that really is saying something. It somehow lies at the crossroads of alt-country and punk, where scratchy guitars meet the place where Mark Linkous hefts his Southern twang into the spotlight. It’s got a vigor that few other songs on Good Morning Spider have (save for “Pig”), but the emotion behind it is no less of a punch to the face than the rest. Linkous’ specialty has always been stirring the surreal into his lyrics like a witch tossing strange objects into a cauldron, and “Sick of Goodbyes” has what I think may be one of his best weird one-liners: “no one sees you on a vampire planet.” No beating that, right?

But beating between lyrics like that is one of the sparer sentiments, but there’s no making it flowery: “I’m so sick of goodbyes.” It is sad in the way that a Sparklehorse song typically is, but the fury behind it makes it seem almost intent on healing. It’s a recognition of wanting to free yourself from the wallowing that you’ve been doing, and saving up all of the energy to declare as such. It’s not lost on me that the final belt of the chorus cuts off at “I’m so sick,” but I can’t not see the momentum. There may be no motion yet, but all of that energy has formed legs that are willing to stand, legs that are willing to rise from the muck and power forwards. “I’m so sick of goodbyes” feels like that spark of energy after you’ve gone through the first, ugly period of your grieving and realizing that you’ve spent so much energy on the dead that you have forgotten to go on living.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Many Half-Lived Lives of Sam Sylvester – Maya MacGregor – “If I could just keep my stupid mind together/Then my thoughts would cross the land for you to see/No one sees you on a vampire planet/No one sees you like I do…”

“Not My Body” – Indigo De Souza

“Not My Body,” with De Souza’s intro, starts at 8:02.

While I ping-pong on whether or not I should listen to Any Shape You Take or All Of This Will End in my ongoing Indigo De Souza journey, I watched their Tiny Desk Concert, taken from the period of the latter. When introducing “Not My Body,” she said this about the song: “I think that when I die…what I want is to be composted and to become soil, and for that soil to be used to plant a tree, and I want that tree to be so big and strong. I don’t know what kind of tree yet—still thinking on it—A tree that people can visit and be like, ‘This is Indigo!'” Thus, she joins Peter Gabriel and his oak tree in what I imagine is a growing forest of reincarnation. It’s a soothing thought, to be reborn in the cells of something so sturdy.

Do you ever get those moments where you stop and have this realization that out of the billions of people on this Earth, that you are you, and by some roll of the dice, this is your life, this is your body, and this is who you are? It’s been a recurring thought lately. Those memes about gaining consciousness at age 4 in the middle of a Chuck-E-Cheese honestly hit the nail right on the head. For whatever reason, it’s been a recurring thought as of late. Not ideal for when I’m supposed to be listening to lectures, but it is a humbling reminder. As disembodying as those moments are, they remind me that yes, I do have the reins on this body. De Souza describes “Not My Body” as an ode to nature, and it taps into that feeling of being so conscious of your existence yet, for a moment, a spectator of it: “I’m not my body although you see me/Making moves and walking freely.” Nature, for me, is the missing key in this equation; the redwood tree that De Souza wants to be is the ultimate symbol of groundedness and connectivity—it is rooted in the earth, but its roots connect to all points in the wide world above and below it. There’s a happy medium between awareness and not feeling like you’re adrift in space, and nature has figured it out. And what better way to end such a sentiment than the last third of “Not My Body?” The way De Souza fashions their voice like a theremin, those echoing electronics that almost sound like dolphin calls, the gentle collapse of all the instruments into a single, coalescing being?

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

A Hero for WondLa (The Search for WondLa, #2) – Tony DiTerlizzi – without spoiling anything…Eva Eight arc, perhaps?

“Always Crashing in the Same Car” – David Bowie

If you mistook the title of this song for a commonplace idiom, I wouldn’t blame you. Frankly, it should be one. It’s memorable, it’s effective, and it’s a Bowie reference.

Low came at a deeply fraught time in David Bowie’s life. His Berlin trilogy of albums came on the heels of his darkest period, one where he committed actions that he disavowed until his dying day. Hence why I’m always suspicious and disdainful of Bowie fans who think that the Thin White Duke is somehow the “deepest” of his personas. Oh, okay, do you think you’re cool because you like the Bowie who was taking so much cocaine that it addled his brain enough to the point that he had a brush with Nazism? This is the period that Bowie spent the rest of his life thereafter vehemently swearing off (see: “Under the God“), and every clip from that era shows that he was clearly not of sound mind and body. Taking a critical look at the period is one thing, but being so uncritical about a period that Bowie so clearly wanted to forget takes a certain kind of thickheaded edgelord, in my humble opinion. It took him years to return to reality, and the Berlin trilogy chronicles his long and rocky journey towards healing, not to mention getting clean.

The circumstances surrounding “Always Crashing In the Same Car” are a fragment of Bowie’s period of addiction, an instance where, high out of his mind, he rammed his car into the car of his drug dealer. Yet there’s such a calm to this track, both warm and cold. It’s as though Bowie is watching his own life as a spectator, watching the car spiraling out of control from high above the clouds. His voice is placid, restrained, as he resigns himself to the song’s title, doomed to make the same mistakes. Apart from the crooning towards the conclusion, his voice never leaps—what does is the soaring guitar riff that seems to unfold Bowie’s ladder into the sky, from which he can watch his life from a safe distance.

Even if I haven’t gotten to such extreme lows in my life (please hold an intervention if I somehow do, good god), that kind of distance what makes the message of the song land. Breaking out of cycles and unhealthy habits is one of the hardest things a person can do, in my opinion. The effort it takes to change is outweighed by the ease of staying stagnant. You know you’re crashing in the same car, and yet your hands grip the wheel anyway. A few months, I made a commitment at the beginning of the month to stop being consumed by trivial thoughts, and I found myself trapped in an even worse cycle of anxiety just days later. The internal work I did that month was some of the most mentally strenuous that I’ve had in a while—it was far too easy to fall back on ineffective, harmful coping mechanisms than to put in the work to claw myself out of that pit of misery. I’m still working on it. But I’ve put in work. It’s taken a lot of clawing, but I’m growing the armor. Listening back to “Always Crashing in the Same Car” after all that mess gives it a whole new meaning—maybe the triumph I feel from that truly glorious guitar solo is symbolic of how it feels to climb through the sunroof, out of the wreckage, and into the light, knowing that the hard work of breaking these patterns is done.

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

Beautyland – Marie-Helene Bertino – the narration of this novel feels the same as Bowie’s singing here: a kind of cool, matter-of-fact distance through which the world is observed, but not without some warmth.

“Sprained Ankle” – Julien Baker

From all accounts, it seems like Julien Baker has something new cooking up post-boygenius, and…hoo, boy. Am I ready? Nope. Nevertheless: I will listen. I will cry. (I already love “Middle Children” and “High in the Basement,” what can I say?) It seems simultaneously like ancient history and the blink of an eye away from when I first discovered Julien Baker, when, halfway through junior year during COVID, I listened to Sprained Ankle while I was a miserable puddle of grief and burnout. Whether or not that’s the only state you can properly listen to Julien Baker without curling up in a ball and crying is debatable, but…the only way out is through. Dramatic expression for weathering an album, I know, but there’s something gratifying in knowing that I’m a happier, stronger, and more healed person than the person I was when Little Oblivions came out in 2021. To my mom: consider this a formal apology for making you sit through almost a-capella Julien Baker depression while driving to school while it was barely even light out.

In the barest sense, Baker was working with what she had. She didn’t have any backup instrumentalists and recorded this in college at age 20, so there wouldn’t be any accompaniment other than what she played herself until Little Oblivions, alternating between guitar and piano. Yet there is no other way that “Sprained Ankle”—or any of the songs on Sprained Ankle—could have been made. It’s a lonely, self-deprecating, and wound-stingingly raw album, and outside of the lyrics, it sounds lonely. Like the bare, unadorned background of the album cover, many of the tracks feel like being in a cramped room with only the sound of your negative thoughts to keep you company. I realize how awful of an endorsement of Baker that is, but in that dreary state of 17, that was just what I needed. (To be fair, it can get to be too much—“Go Home” was exceedingly hard to listen to even back then, which is really saying something.) In the sparse, Baker creates a kind of confessional solace. Confessions are how “Sprained Ankle” starts off, after all: “I wish I could write songs about anything other than death.” There’s a self-awareness to the sadness, but like “Always Crashing In the Same Car,” the engine is running on borrowed fuel, and the marathon runner is sprinting on sprained ankles. Beyond the metaphor, Baker’s voice is meant to be the loudest thing on this record—like the cramped room, it echoes off the walls it’s given, an oral manifestation of the feeling of knowing that all you’ve got is your body. It would take a few years for it to reach the soaring heights of “Claws In Your Back,” but from the start, Baker always knew she had an anchor in her music—the instrument of her wobbling yet lighthouse-beacon piercing voice.

Now that I’ve mentioned “Claws In Your Back,” I can’t not link this dazzling performance from Baker with the National Symphony Orchestra…dare I say I haven’t felt goosebumps quite like this in years?

…AND A BOOK TO GO WITH IT:

The Ghosts We Keep – Mason Deaver – “I wish I could write songs about anything other than death…”

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!