2017, in music: Part I (Jan. thru June)

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2017 Selected albums
2017 Mid-year playlist
2017 Releases featuring Yours Truly

“The suspension of time is an important element in escape and recovery.”
– Mark Edward Achterman (from his essay “Brian Eno and the Definition of Ambient Music”)

“I think that when you make something, you offer people the choice of another way of feeling about the world … and as soon as people start practicing another way of feeling about the world, they actually create that world. As soon as you acknowledge the possibility of a certain type of being or a certain type of environment, you create that environment, because you tend to select and nourish those facets of that environment.”
– Brian Eno (quoted in a profile published in the October ’82 issue of Modern Recording and Music)

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Eno, Conny Plank, Moebius, Roedelius, and other voices of the ’70s movement to bring experimental tropes into pop music—throwing open doors that had been knocked on by the innovators who preceded them (Steve Reich, John Cage, Gavin Bryars…). Pictured here: Ambient 1: Music for Airports by Brian Eno; Cluster 1971-1981 box; No Pussyfooting by Fripp & Eno.

As both an avid consumer and a modest composer/producer, I spend a staggering amount of hours in any given week absorbing recorded music: scouting new sounds on BandCamp and YouTube; listening to newly acquired records (new and old releases in equal measures); working on demos and vocal contributions for various projects… But there have been times—watching the seemingly unending cycle of bad news unfold; placing frantic phone calls to my Senator; processing the latest terrorist attack, mass shooting, or sanctioned homicide by police officer—that I’ve pondered the ethical implications of spending as much time as I do (and I do) in this loop of musical digestion and creation. An essay I stumbled upon recently (written by Pauline Kael in 1967, on the then-novel phenomenon of televised motion pictures) seems to validate some of my running concerns, if transposed from the subject of film to that of music:

“If they [viewers of films on television] can find more intensity in this box than in their own living, then this box can provide constantly what we got at the movies only a few times a week. Why should they move away from it, or talk, or go out of the house, when they will only experience that as a loss? Of course, we can see why they should, and their inability to make connections outside is frighteningly suggestive of ways in which we, too, are cut off. It’s a matter of degree (…) Either way, there is always something a little shameful about living in the past; we feel guilty, stupid—as if the pleasure we get needed some justification that we can’t provide.”

One thinks of a time before recorded music, when performance, transcription, and interpretation were the only primary means to enjoy compositions of musical interplay. And whether interpreting (or writing) a song firsthand, or attending a live performance, it is inevitable that one should interact with a greater scope of external variables than what one encounters when listening to a recording: in fact, early innovators of recording technology were driven (at least, in part) by the limitations imposed by indirect transmission of musical ideas. But to echo Ms. Kael’s sentiment, the private enjoyment of a recording, from the safety and comfort of one’s own home—or one’s automobile; or iPod; or work computer—is, in a certain regard, “frighteningly suggestive of ways in which we… are cut off.” Which begs the question: must the suggestion at hand be inherently frightening? Is there not a rich tradition (in film, music, and—if one traces the lineage even farther back—the evolution from oral narratives to written texts) of individuals connecting to something bigger than themselves through all recorded mediums—let alone, the social phenomena that have since arisen from the communal enjoyment of records and television programs? Or is this tradition indicative of how we’ve settled for isolation tactics, considering the dwindling viewership of films in movie theaters, and diminishing attendance of live music performances? I suppose, if one were to carry the debate out to its natural conclusion, one might surmise the answer to be nothing more than “a matter of degree.”

Isolation vs. connectivity; outside interaction vs. inner-spatial reflection. It boils down to a question of ethics, I suppose: in what proportion ought an individual to invest time in the development of inner space, versus investing in an external network of connectivity to the “world at large?” Does seeking respite (at times, admittedly, escape) from the horror of current affairs—by delving into the vast universe of recorded music, or a film retrospective, or a book—constitute a deflection of reality, or is it nourishment for one’s wellness and empathic faculties? Is writing about such matters an exercise in intellectual wanking, or might such an exercise bring the inquiring mind closer to some meaningful conundrum at the heart of such a debate?

This line of thought has gained some nourishment from a book I’ve had my nose in recently, titled Oblique Music—an anthology of in-depth essays, exploring the boundary-shattering work of Brian Eno over the past forty-odd years. In one of the most compelling essays I’ve thus far encountered, the writer (Mark Edward Achterman) espouses his theory that Eno’s approach to ambient music is akin to J.R.R. Tolkien’s approach to the fairy tale: in his view, they both serve(d) (implicitly in the case of Tolkien, and explicitly in the case of Eno) the purposes of “fantasy, escape, recovery and consolation.” Instead of conveying a calculated message for the listener/readeror operating in the muddy terrain of allegory (which Tolkien openly despised, despite some misguided acolytes)these are works intended to help the inquiring mind achieve some respite from the drudgery and chaos of everyday life, with the sole caveat that they oughtn’t to provide “permanent desertion” (p. 90). Approached from this angle, Eno’s seminal series of ambient records, released during the late ’70s to mid-’80s, perceptibly coincided with Tolkien’s outlook: they proposed unrealized worlds and landscapes through aurally experimental atmospheres, while deliberately avoiding the structural archetypes of traditional “song”writing—archetypes which lend themselves all-too-readily to deconstruction by the listener with a predilection for in-depth analysis (which may, in turn, lead to a form “permanent desertion” when carried to extremes).

With that in mind, must it follow that only the music that is open in its outlook (vast yet precise; tonally dynamic, yet structurally ambiguous) should warrant our attention? If so, how does one explain the failure of ambient music to overtake pop music in critical and consumer appeal? Granted, many of the ideas underlying ambient music have burrowed their way into a variety of pop music forms (from the dreaded New Age music years, to the stripped-down production aesthetics found throughout recent top 40 charts), but the forms themselves have remained fairly consistent: case in point, much of Eno’s most-beloved work remains scattered throughout his more “conventional” outings—his four song-based/vocal studio albums from the ’70s, his collaborations with other pop vocalists (David Bowie, Karl Hyde, David Byrne, to name a few), and his production work for high-profile acts such as U2 and Coldplay. (Though Eno himself lamented at the end of the ’80s: “I don’t get the feeling of discovering new worlds from pop music that I used to get, just of being shown old ones over and over,” quoted in Tamm’s text Brian Eno: His Music and the Vertical Color of Sound). Of his own accord, Eno somewhat recently returned to an overt appreciation for the singing voice as an end in itself—at the same time that he returned to more traditional forms of song in his solo endeavors: during a 2010 Paul Morley interview, he went so far as to disclose that he went out and joined a gospel choir(!) Pressed further on the subject, the artist explained: “They know I am an atheist but they are very tolerant. Ultimately, the Message of gospel music is that everything’s going to be alright … Gospel music is always about the possibility of transcendence, of things getting better. It’s also about the loss of ego, that you will win through or get over things by losing yourself, becoming part of something better. Both those messages are completely universal and are nothing to do with religion or a particular religion.”

Indeed, it goes without saying that music carries (within a given set of parameters) certain healing properties: whether by passive involvement (listening), or by active participation (performance), people can be consoled by music in certain forms. It also goes without saying that other forms of music operate counter to these intentions: either by conveying a pre-determined message, or incorporating sonically jarring elements (a subjective perception, but a perception nonetheless), other forms draw our attention to the idea of the music being performed—or, when ineffective (in this writer’s opinion), to the idea’s execution. In my own travels and travails, having collected and digested music(s) from around the world (and throughout the span of history), I’ve found most all of it to carry a modicum of beneficial qualities. And as much as quality itself tends to be a subjective experience—frequently trapped in the eye, or the ear of the beholder—it follows there must be something objectively appealing in these forms to justify their universality.

In his wonderfully entertaining book, Let’s Talk About Love, Carl Wilson bravely (and humorously) explored the subjectivity of people’s taste in music: at the end of his text, he surmised that a lot of cultural debate over the virtues of various musical forms—and most specifically, the debate over what constitutes “good” pop music—stems from a social division between those who have settled upon cultural capital as an identifiable (and often strictly defined) asset, and those who’ve developed a natural, easy-going relationship with the idea of music itself. One could say it’s a difference between a top-down hierarchy (where the listener is captivated by the journey from music as an idea, to music in a specific form), and bottom-up processing (wherein one’s focus is on connecting a specific sample of music to its original, platonic form).

In keeping with the all-encompassing reality of subjectivity in taste, Wilson makes it clear at the end of his book that he still generally dislikes the music of Celine Dion—which he willingly set out to understand, and to appreciate in greater depth at the book’s start. He reminds the reader that it is possible to straddle both of these positions outlined above: to have a concrete, cognitive appreciation for the cultural significance of music—but also to appreciate music as a sensual, topical, and ultimately popular form of amusement. To these viewpoints, we can add Achterman’s notion that music might also be a vehicle to explore as-of-unfulfilled possibilities: that beyond mere amusement or cultural zeitgeist, music can provide the sort of restorative peace that readers throughout the past century have found in Middle Earth—or that Brian Eno found in a gospel choir.

Whys and wherefores aside, music remains my greatest passion; and new music, my greatest anticipation. And every time I question my passion—along the lines of Pauline Kael’s critique of cultural hermits—I remember the way Mavis Staples comes in at the start of “I’ll Take You There;” and the guitar solo that tears “Sweet Jane” open at the start of Rock and Roll Animal; and the way PJ Harvey’s voice soars throughout Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea. The unstoppable propensity of Devo’s “Uncontrollable Urge,” and the spoken song-poetry of Talking Heads’ “Seen and Not Seen,” from their Remain In Light album (with backing vocals and production by Brian Eno, nonetheless). The indecipherable dreamworld of Heaven or Las Vegas, and the plaintive future-music of Plantation Lullabies. The way the first Goldberg variation on Glenn Gould’s 1981 re-recording comes charging in, immediately after the mournful final notes of the opening Aria have died off; the majestically arpeggiated dance-floor propensity “Bizarre Love Triangle” and “Temptation.” The bass line to Nick Cave’s “Stagger Lee.” The sound of Marianne Faithfull’s voice disintegrating in the ’70s, and finding new life (in a subterranean register) during each of the subsequent decades. The way “Maggot Brain” stumbles into earshot following George Clinton’s ridiculous and prophetic monologue, as though it were crash-landing from a grimey dimension next door. The meaninglessly meditative interplay between John Lydon, Keith Levene, Jeanette Lee, Jah Wobble, and Dave Crowe on Second Edition

When seeking the justification that Pauline Kael asserts “we can’t provide” ourselves, for privately enjoying art, I am reminded of these. I’m also reminded of the fond memories accrued throughout the years, attending concerts by (at least) some of the above artists with friends and loved ones, or swapping custom-made mix tapes and word-of-mouth suggestions. I can further attest to the reality that the following musical highlights—all of which were released over the course of the past, chaotic six months—have helped to keep me from going totally fucking insane this year.

2017records

An incredible year for new music, and a troubling time for humanity. Let’s not convince ourselves these are mutually dependent clauses.

2017 Selected albums (so far/no particular order):

Room 29 by Jarvis Cocker and Chilly Gonzales
Pure Comedy
by Father John Misty
Slowdive
by Slowdive
50 Song Memoir
by Magnetic Fields
No Plan
EP by David Bowie
Crack-Up
by Fleet Foxes
Damage and Joy
by the Jesus & Mary Chain
“Drunk”
by Thundercat
Memories Are Now
by Jesca Hoop
Awaken, My Love by Childish Gambino
Common As Light and Love are Red Valleys of Blood by Sun Kil Moon
Reflection by Brian Eno
Halo by Juana Molina

Room 29
by Jarvis Cocker and Chilly Gonzales
(Deutsche Grammophon)

Written from the perspective of a room in L.A.’s world-renowned Chateau Marmont, the songs on this album are simultaneously agoraphobic and exploratory: they capture the “furniture music” mentality of Satie’s gymnopédies, or Eno’s ambient recordings, while at the same time venturing on a conceptual journey through time—within the designated space of the album/room. The high water mark of the record, “A Trick of the Light,” achieves the aural impact of a silver screen masterpiece, as the orchestrated accompaniment carries the introspectively omniscient narration into a visceral dimension that, ultimately, envelops the album itself. Is it a self-contained exercise in creative solipsism? Assuredly. But fresh air arrives in the form of narrative detachment, which prevents the songs from getting bogged down in the sort of reflexive exasperation of, say, a Roger Waters concept album. Also, “Daddy, You’re Not Watching Me” has to be one of the most brilliantly unsettling achievements in ambiguous song narration ever committed to record.

Pure Comedy
by Father John Misty
(SubPop)

A clear-cut nominee (and easy win) for “most thematically relevant record of the year,” alias J. Tillman’s third full-length (a sometimes indulgent double-LP listening experience) is so culturally on-the-nose it frequently proves itself to be more than a tad discomforting. As he croons magnificently about his on-going fascination with religious fanaticism and cultural idiocracy—with a sensuousness that sounds as authentic as it appears plastic—Tillman here runs the gamut from academic, post-modern pop synthesis (“Total Entertainment Forever” and non-LP b-side “Rejected Generic Pop Song March ’15 #3”), to long-form autobiographical folk song (“Leaving L.A.;” “So I’m Growing Old On Magic Mountain”), to existential philosophizing (“Things It Would’ve Been Helpful to Know Before the Revolution;” “Ballad of the Dying Man;” “Two Wildly Different Perspectives”), to something between narrative surrealism and romantic balladry (“Smoochie;” “Birdie;” “In Twenty Years Or So”). At times too smart for its own good, the record thaws itself out as it gradually unfolds the entirety of its canvas; by the end, we’re in a bar with a live pianist performing “Naïve Melody (This Must Be the Place),” and it truly feels like “a miracle to be alive.”

Slowdive
by Slowdive
(Dead Oceans)

Words can hardly do justice to the finest moments on this record. If you have any reason to doubt this, have a listen, then read the inadequate words I’ve strung together on behalf of “No Longer Making Time” in the section below.

50 Song Memoir
by The Magnetic Fields
(Nonesuch)

Ambitious and disarmingly un-pretentious, Stephin Merritt’s assignment from Nonesuch to pen an autobiography in album form has yielded some of the most direct and entertaining songs in the Magnetic Fields oeuvre. From the opening notes of “’66: Wonder Where I’m From,” to the closing synth tones of “’15: Somebody’s Fetish,” 50 Song Memoir is incisive, strange, sad, and hilarious. Although—in technical terms, at least–a shorter undertaking than the well-loved 69 Love Songs, Meritt’s latest opus reveals a more versatile range of musical ideas than any of the collective’s previous outings. I had the distinct pleasure of witnessing the live 50 Song Memoir experience at the Lincoln Theater in D.C., over the course of two nights this March: the performances were impeccable and buoyant.

Prior to the first evening’s performance, it was announced that Chuck Berry had died of cardiac arrest. Before launching into the already locked-in opener for the evening’s second set (“’79: Rock’n’Roll Will Ruin Your Life”), Merritt mumbled into the microphone: “this one’s for Chuck.” Someone seated close to the stage howled out in response: “Chuck Berry’s the greatest!”—to which Merritt winced, raising a hand to his ear and silently reminding the audience of his hyperacusis condition. As he drolly delivered the brilliant refrain (“Rock’n’roll will ruin your life/Like your old no-goodnik dad/Kill your soul and kill your wife/Rock’n’roll will ruin your life/And make you sad“), the non-irony was lost on no one.

No Plan EP
by David Bowie
(ISO/Columbia)

Though everything on the No Plan EP was already available on the double-CD/triple-LP soundtrack to the off-broadway production of Lazarus, the EP is such a timely release that it fully warrants consideration on its own terms. Hearing the haunting refrains of “Lazarus” in 2017 is no less affecting than it was, heard at the close of the first side to last year’s un-surpassable Blackstar; one might even argue that it carries a greater weight now, considering the painful awareness—reinforced by time’s passage—that Bowie will not be returning to his followers in bodily form (much less, recording more pearls like the ones contained in this moving P.S.). But in keeping with the transcendence of his entire body of work, there is an unbounded freedom in the mournful strains of “Lazarus:” when he sings “this way or no way/you know I’ll be free/just like that bluebird/ain’t that just like me,” it cuts through the air like the brightest firework in the night sky, and we’re left gazing upward in wonder and sorrow.

Just as, when “No Plan” kicks in after the opening track’s fade-out, one might think of the music video released in support of the title song this January—depicting a small crowd of passersby, assembling in front of a shop’s window display (the shop’s sign reads Newton Electric, in reference to the character incarnated by Bowie in The Man Who Fell to Earth—and later, by Michael C. Hall in the stage production of Lazarus): the display is comprised of a stack of television sets, all tuned in to the same frequency, cycling through abstract, static-laden footage, and isolated words from the song’s lyrics. “All of the things that are my life/My desires, my beliefs, my moods/Here is my place without a plan.” In the age of 45, the words hit increasingly close to home; and the daydreamers among us may be prone to fantasies of stumbling upon such a window display, begging for the static to suck us in (not unlike the woman in “TVC15”); fans of Twin Peaks may also think of the electrical currents that link the “real” world to the other realms in the show’s universe—which, coincidentally, contain a trapped David Bowie alias (the character Phillip Jeffries, first encountered in Fire Walk With Me). It is also worth nothing that, in the new season of Twin Peaks produced for Showtime, Jeffries has been alluded—even spoken—to on multiple occasions; fan rumors abound that Bowie may have recorded yet-to-be-aired scenes for the series, which would surely be a cherry on top of an already-rich televisual return.

The final two original songs on No Plan, “Killing A Little Time” and “When I Met You” (both written for the Lazarus stage show, recorded here with the Danny McCaslin-led Blackstar band), present a powerful one-two punch—reminding us that Bowie was never one to linger in a state of despair. The former is easily the most aggressive piece of music to be released from the Blackstar sessions: “I staggered through this criminal reign/I’m not in love, no phony pain/Creeping through this tidal wave…” It’s a lurching, hair-raising throttle of symphonic brutalism; as he builds up to the cathartic chorus, one thinks inevitably of Bowie’s final days, and the 21st century clusterfuck we’ve been left here to contend with: “I’m falling, man/I’m choking, man/I’m fading, man/Just killing a little time.

One at least feels a sense of gratitude at having the perfect soundtrack to accompany it all (from “The Width of a Circle,” to “It’s No Game,” to “I’m Afraid of Americans”…). “This is no place, but here I am.

Crack-Up
by Fleet Foxes
(Nonesuch)

As though it were strategically released to coincide with (former Fleet Foxes drummer) Father John Misty’s Pure ComedyCrack-Up is a quietly meditative sound poem that is—to put it mildly—unlikely to play well with others in a mixtape setting. (Also like Pure Comedy, this is the third full-length in the Fleet Foxes discography; and although Tillman and the remaining Foxes are no longer be on speaking terms, Tillman released a warm statement in support of their latest endeavor: “an incredible album and a group of people I love and miss.”) It’s a record that washes over the listener—like the waves painted on the outer jacket, crashing against the dry terrain; dark clouds lingering on the horizon. I couldn’t name you a single song title or recite a single lyric, though I could hum any number of melodic fragments from the record, if prompted. In this regard, it’s an endeavor that comes quite close to Achterman’s definition of ambient music as “painterly:” “challeng[ing] musical convention and definition, presenting an approach to sonic construction and to listening in some ways wholly new” (p. 88). Also in keeping with Achterman’s (and Tolkien’s) views on pure, restorative art, Crack-Up sounds like a calm meant to coincide with the cultural storms of 2017. The record culminates in a wash of horns and strings, with (lead singer/songwriter) Robin Pecknold pleading: “All I see, dividing tide/Rising over me/Ooh wait/Oh, will you wait?” If there’s more where this came from, then gladly.

Damage and Joy
by The Jesus & Mary Chain
(Artificial Plastic Records)

Nineteen years have passed since the release of the last JAMC studio album—the under-appreciated double-LP endeavor MunkiDamage and Joy finds the Reid brothers picking up where they left off, and pretty much staying in the same place (musically speaking); and I mean that in the best of ways, because they deliver exactly what we’ve wanted—maybe even yearned for all these years. A chunk of the songs on this record were previously released as singles and soundtrack stand-alones: they’ve here been re-worked and re-recorded, to capture the impression of a cohesive whole, and the rehearsed-ness pays off beautifully. For there isn’t a wasted minute to be had throughout the entirety of Damage and Joy—a lean double-LP, with an average of 3-4 songs per side—and there’s just the right amount of production on it. One could argue there is nothing new to be had here, or (worse) that it’s an unnecessary reiteration of everything they’ve accomplished more succinctly on Darklands and Automatic. But even if one were to take such a stance, it’s hard to argue with the licks and moans of this record.

Like AutomaticDamage and Joy is so chock-full of Billboard-worthy single material, it’s damn near impossible to single one out for consideration. “All Things Must Pass” gets my vote on most days, but there are times when I want to shut everything else out and spin the Sky Ferreira duets “Black and Blues” and “The Two of Us” on endless repeat. Other times, the arm of my turntable gravitates towards “Presidici (Et Chapaquiditch),” in which Jim prefaces the chorus by insisting “Behind black eyes/My mind is fine.” It’s almost as if he had described the entire JAMC credo, in seven words.

“Drunk”
by Thundercat
(Brainfeeder Records)

I love Thundercat’s music. A compulsive noodler, this guy is so full of ideas—yet so precise in his viewpoint—that it’s hard to not be carried away by the enticing fumes of his retro-futuristic (one minute lounge, the next minute avant) jazz funk oddities. “Tokyo” is like Steely Dan on speed (and I always thought Steely Dan was Steely Dan on speed); “Show You the Way” (featuring Michael McDonald, and Kenny Loggins on vocals—no joke) serves up undiluted yacht rock ecstasy; and “Walk On By” (featuring Kendrick Lamar) captures the contemplative moodiness of a lonely late night stroll. Like Common As Light…, “Drunk” sometimes meanders a little more than one might like, but the disorientation pays off.

Memories Are Now
by Jesca Hoop
(SubPop)

Her first solo outing since last year’s beautiful collaboration with Sam Beam (a.k.a. Iron & Wine), Memories Are Now is easily my favorite Jesca Hoop record to date. Sparsely arranged and rhythmically loose, the songs on this album are smart, fresh, and startlingly energized. There’s a moment on the second track, “The Lost Sky” (around the 1:04 mark), where Jesca segues suddenly from a hypnotic, run-on verse into the unexpectedly inevitable chorus: “When we said/the words ‘I love you’/I said them ’cause they are true/Why would you say those words to me/If you could not follow through?” It’s the stuff dreams are made of.

Awaken, My Love
by Childish Gambino
(Glassnote Entertainment Group)

Awaken, My Love is one of the finest things to have been released in 2016, but I imagine I’m one of many who wasn’t able to appreciate this reality until recently. Having been released digitally in early December, and not having received a proper vinyl release until April 2017, the album is likely to find itself in limbo for inclusion on year’s end “best of” lists. That said, it deserves all the accolades it’s able to lay claim to. Like a sponge that soaked up all the finer elements of Maggot BrainThere’s a Riot Goin’ On, and Here, My Dear (with a dash of The World is a Ghetto thrown in for good measure), Glover’s third full-length emerges as a fully formed, post-modern R&B marvel.

Common As Light and Love are Red Valleys of Blood
by Sun Kil Moon
(Caldo Verde)

It’s fairly safe to say (and perfectly acceptable to ignore) that Common As Light and Love are Red Valleys of Blood is not going to make anyone’s top 10 list this year. To put it mildly, the record sounds like a calculated epitomization of everything most critics hate—and sometimes embody: disorganized, bloated, pretentious, self-righteous, unpleasant; and worst of all, there’s nary a hook in earshot. Added to that, it’s over two hours long (which is likely to resolve the above dilemma, seeing as most critics won’t even bother themselves with it; which is, perhaps, best for all involved). But as tempted as I am to dismiss this quadruple studio album as an unforgivable exercise is self-indulgence, there’s something here that can’t be shaken off easily. One thinks of Lou Reed’s Berlin (which, furthermore, is referenced in Kozelek’s other 2017 release with Jesu): at the time of its original release in 1973, the record was dismissed unilaterally; Stephen Davis wrote in Rolling Stone that it was a “disaster.” (Ironically, as I write this, I find myself flipping through an RS back-issue from a stack of magazines on my coffee table, and I’ve stumbled upon a surprisingly optimistic write-up for Common As Light…) Many years later, Berlin was more fairly reassessed by critics around the globe, who finally caught up with the Brecht-by-way-of-Fassbinder spirit of the undertaking: a song like “The Kids,” which once sounded unreasonably sadistic and psycho-dramatic, eventually resounded with an audience that could recognize it as a microcosm of universal themes.

Likewise, I’m under the current impression that Common As Light… will find an audience (if not now, then someday) that recognizes it for what it is: an aural road movie that feeds on the blood of American true crime and (North & South-ern) gothic folklore. Although its founding conceit may be its generous (or merely indulgent, depending on the listener’s perception) length, this is, in and of itself, something unique—dare I say, even (somewhat) new: a sustained narrative album that structures its song components like fully-formed, interlocking scenes—free of the obligation to re-state its musical themes at key moments, since every moment is painted to be a key moment, and the individual listener’s experience of its widescreen totality is what lends the thing perspective. For it is impossible to absorb everything on this record in a single sitting; the album comes with no listening instructions, but both physical format releases (vinyl and CD) hint that it is meant to be experienced as a two-part sound film—preferably, with an intermission in between.

Recurring themes include Richard Ramirez (anthologized previously in Benji), among a litany of other murderers and serial killers; the open road (epitomized in the cyclical texture and roaming structure of every song); Kozelek’s wife, Caroline; terrorism, natural disasters, and Donald Trump—in other words, the usual Kozelek-ian kaleidoscope of current events; David Bowie’s death… Most prominent among the album’s themes, however, is the act of writing: Kozelek constantly interrupts himself on this record, giving himself directions like “go back to the other part now,” and reading aloud an extensive write-up on the murderer of Dad Rock Slowhand Simpleton. While the act of self-interruption in a studio performance is nothing new (not only has Kozelek become prone to reading entire fan letters midway through a song, the trick itself can be traced back at least as far as 1970’s Nilsson Sings Newman), the pervasiveness of the act in the already meandering soundscapes of this album highlights its on-the-road mentality. During its most powerful moments, Common As Light… offers the distinct impression of visiting a hotel room in which some terrible crime or other took place; in its weaker sections, it all feels like a prolonged afterthought.

I challenge the willing listener to think of the record more along the lines of Satie and ambient music (or a distant, dysfunctional relative to Room 29): put it on and do some housework around it. You’ll find sections that draw you in momentarily, but then dissipate into a sonic texture that may blend nicely with running water in the kitchen sink. Because as indulgent as the premise may seem, this record often gives off the impression that Kozelek is knowingly taking the piss and (for a change) not taking himself too seriously. When the balancing act pays off, we find ourselves being genuinely affected by the serious stuff (and when it doesn’t—as in the breakdown section of the eye-roll inducing “Vague Rock Song”—we only feel a mild sense of embarrassment at having derived some amusement from it).

Just the other month—and in keeping with his astounding rate of productivity—Kozelek released a second collaborative full-length with the experimental British group, Jesu: it’s a far more accessible ordeal, and features at least one of my favorite songs of the year (to date), but I have yet to reach the level of comfort required to offer an un-assuming write-up. That said, I’ve no doubt it will rate more favorably.

Reflection
by Brian Eno
(Warp)

Tranquil, restorative, and thoughtful. Eno’s latest (the first ambient record he has released since 2012’s Lux) is a proverbial breath of fresh air. Released on New Year’s Day in an array of physical and digital formats, Reflection is available as a stand-alone 54-minute record, or as a digital app experience that offers up curated, self-generated permutations of the album’s musical leitmotifs on a seasonal basis. I recall putting this record on, for the first time, about a month into the administration of 45; it was a time of great confusion and disheartenment, and the ambient riverscape of Reflection provided a much-needed salve. It’s a great record to read or meditate with, and at that, it may prove to be the most utilitarian record of 2017. Regardless of how one perceives it, Eno has provided further validation (as if it were necessary) of the very real terrain outlined in Achterman’s essay on the restorative powers of ambient music.

Halo
by Juana Molina
(Crammed Discs)

I still remember taking my lunch break at my desk (as usual), and opening an email from a friend and musical collaborator, suggesting I check out an NPR Tiny Desk concert by Juana Molina. I grabbed my headphones and clicked on the link, and almost instantaneously forgot to fetch my food from the break room. The opening number of this performance, “Eras,” remains one of my favorite numbers of Molina’s that I’ve yet heard: a mind-bendingly fluid, totally unpredictable organism of a song, the performance draws you in unlike anything this side of the Krautrock years. As for Halo, it’s a dark, vast, slow-burning triumph of atmosphere-over-regiment. The arrangements are clean, sophisticated, and elemental; not unlike the music itself.

image3 (1)

Some favorites, so far: “Shadow” 12″ by Chromatics; Awaken, My Love by Childish Gambino; No Plan by David Bowie.


2017 Mid-year playlist:

  1. [listen] “Room 29” by Jarvis Cocker and Chilly Gonzales
  2. [listen] “Floor Machine” by Company Man
  3. [listen] “Total Entertainment Forever” by Father John Misty
  4. [listen] “Cassius, -“ by Fleet Foxes
  5. [listen] “Our Destiny / Roadhouse Garden” by Prince & the Revolution
  6. [listen] “Redbone” by Childish Gambino
  7. [listen] “Die 4 You” by Perfume Genius
  8. [listen] “Memories Are Now” by Jesca Hoop
  9. [listen] “Get the Sparrows” by Lioness
  10. [listen] “No Longer Making Time” by Slowdive
  11. [listen“The Greatest Conversation Ever in the History of the Universe” by Sun Kil Moon & Jesu
  12. [listen“Shadow” by Chromatics
  13. [listen] “Casual Backpiece” by Brian Baker
  14. [listen] “All Things Must Pass” by the Jesus & Mary Chain
  15. [listen] “Andy Warhol’s Dream” by Trevor Sensor
  16. [listen] “New York” by St. Vincent
  17. [listen] “Brutalisteque” by Final Machine
  18. [listen] “Arabian Heights” by Afghan Whigs
  19. [listen] “Paraguaya” by Juana Molina
  20. [listen] “Chili Lemon Peanuts” by Sun Kil Moon
  21. [listen] “Controller” by Hercules & Love Affair (feat. Faris Baldwin)
  22. [listen] “Reassuring Pinches” by Alison Moyet
  23. [listen] “’83: Foxx and I” by the Magnetic Fields
  24. [listen] “Down Endless Street” by Fleetwood Mac
  25. [listen] “Show You the Way” by Thundercat (feat. Michael McDonald and Kenny Loggins)
  26. [listen] “In My World” by Lindsey Buckingham and Christine McVie
  27. [listen] “Omnion” by Hercules & Love Affair (feat. Sharon Van Etten)
  28. [listen] “Smoke ‘Em Out” by Cocorosie (feat. Anohni)
  29. [listen] “Dr. Mister” by Company Man
  30. [listen“Reflection” by Brian Eno
  31. [listen“No Plan” by David Bowie
  32. [listen] “April 10th” by Alison Moyet

Dr. Mister” / “Floor Machine
by Company Man, from Endless Growth
(Overthought Musik)

It creeps in on a wave of oscillating feedback, then leaves you in a pop-ishly experimental (or experimentally pop-ish?) mock-up of an exotic island retreat. The soundscape of “Dr Mister” occasionally calls to mind Jon Brion’s scoring work on Punch-Drunk Love—or Badalamenti and the private office of Dr. Jacoby in Twin Peaks. Whatever your mind may see, yours ears will grin. A similar effect can also be achieved with the album’s opener, “Floor Machine:” I challenge you to find a better verse re-entry point, elsewhere than the 1:27 mark in this uncontrollable hip-shaker.

Our Destiny / Roadhouse Garden
by Prince & the Revolution, from Purple Rain (Expanded Edition)
(Warner Music)

This unexpected 3 CD/1 DVD reissue of one of the most highly celebrated and beloved records of all time delivers the goods, plain and simple. And while it’s a treat to finally have all the B-sides and extended mixes bundled together on a single, official disc, the real loot lies in disc 2—containing previously unreleased material from the Prince vault (much of which hasn’t even been available on any of the countless bootlegs circulating since its original release). I’m hard-pressed to pick a favorite, but I’ve found myself most frequently revisiting “Our Destiny / Roadhouse Garden:” with its open, unhurried arrangement and unpolished veneer, it offers an illuminating glimpse inside the late artist’s working methods, and more-than-occasionally takes my breath away.

Redbone
by Childish Gambino, from Awaken, My Love
(mcDJ Recording)

Quite easily the song of this year’s Summer season, “Redbone” is an out-and-out funky miracle. I first heard the song performed on the Late Night with Jimmy Fallon show (whose only consistent saving grace appears to be his distinct selection of musical guests): if you have not had a chance to experience it yet, I advise you to treat yourself.

Die 4 You
by Perfume Genius, from No Shape
(Matador)

The fourth studio album by Mike Hadreas (alias Perfume Genius) is a fairly direct continuation of the sonic palette that comprised 2014’s Too Bright. But what it lacks in differentiation, it more than compensates for with beauty—as one might well ascertain by giving this album single a spin. Further listening: lead single “Slip Away.”

Get the Sparrows
by Lioness, from Time Killer
(Magnaphone)

The first full-length by the Dayton, OH-based collective Lioness is an eclectic and lively charmer. The album’s second track, “Get the Sparrows,” provides ample validation to support this assessment—with its Arthur Lee-reminiscent melodies, startlingly playful background vocals, and mariachi-esque violin parts. The entire gamut of Time Killer can be streamed on the band’s official BandCamp page.

No Longer Making Time
by Slowdive, from Slowdive
(Dead Oceans)

This song is so bloody good, it almost makes me angry when I hear it. It contains everything one could hope for from a 28-year-old dream pop band: ambience, unexpected curves, finely sculpted parts, and a hook so simple and modestly delivered that your jaw hits the floor, trying to understand how something so basic could summon feelings so complex. I recall listening to the record for the first time and thinking, as the song re-starts itself for a final run-through: “Gee, this is a really good song, too!” All I can say is the past 22 years (the gap between 1995’s Pygmalion and this, their 4th studio full-length) must have served them well. Further listening: the entire album.

The Greatest Conversation Ever in the History of the Universe
by Sun Kil Moon & Jesu, from 30 Seconds to the Decline of Planet Earth
(Caldo Verde)

The follow up to last year’s marvelous Sun Kil Moon / Jesu album, this year’s 30 Seconds… retains the same refreshing spirit of the collaboration’s debut (which ranked high on my list of last year’s favorites). This song, in particular—wherein Kozelek reflects upon a dream he once had, in which he sleepwalked through the house of Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson—is a gem. The Jesu-directed, triumphantly arpeggiated backing track provides a distinctly surreal, fittingly melancholic backdrop for Kozelek’s verbose song-poetry: when he talks about the performance he gave on the day of Lou’s passing, commenting that “what his album Berlin meant to me, I’m not even going to try to explain it to you,” he succeeds by not even trying (just as, when he tells anyone critical of his inclusive songwriting style to “fuck off and listen to ‘bye bye Miss American Pie,'” he succeeds in letting us laugh at and with him simultaneously). To echo the closing sentiment of the song: Thank you, Mark; I’m forever grateful for your music. (Further listening: “Twentysomething,” the hilariously moving tribute to the frontman of a U.S. indie band, titled after the kid’s self-penned paperback novel. It’s painfully gorgeous one minute, laugh-out-loud funny the next, and a living reminder of why Kozelek is one of the greatest American songwriters alive today.)

Shadow
by Chromatics, from Twin Peaks (Music from the Limited Event Series)
(Italians Do It Better)

Originally released in 2015, “Shadow” first reached my ears during the end credit sequence of the Twin Peaks limited-run Showtime series premiere. Johnny Jewel (whose solo/instrumental work is also showcased, elsewhere in the series) and his band can be seen performing the number in the Bang-Bang Bar at the close of Part 2, and I don’t know if I’ll ever shake the spine-tingling sensation that accompanied that first viewing. The series is, to put it mildly, one of the finest reasons to be living in 2017; and this song, along with other soundscapes for the show (including the timeless Badalamenti score, which received a stellar vinyl reissue by Mondo last November, followed by the even-superior 2xLP Fire Walk With Me score this February), is a four minute capsule of dreamy, synth-driven perfection.

Casual Backpiece
by Brian Baker, from Glue Stick
(not on label)

There’s a section in “Casual Backpiece,” around the 2:01 mark, that features one of the most perfectly anticlimactic pop song breakdowns I’m able to recall. I love everything about this track, and the synth run-out that carries the final minute to a close is pure joy. (Further listening: “Junk.” With its wonderfully downbeat, accidental chorus: “So many reasons to go wrong/So many reasons to go high/So many reasons to go crazy,” it’s a self-produced gem.)

Andy Warhol’s Dream
by Trevor Sensor, from Andy Warhol’s Dream
(Jagjaguwar)

I first heard of Trevor Sensor in a Jagjaguwar newsletter, announcing his debut full-length release (carrying the same title as this song). While the album cover was striking in its own way, I was caught off guard by what I heard after I clicked on the music video for the lead single, “High Beams:” a seemingly forced, grotty moan—howling something about angels, high priests, and mother’s milk (my partner pointedly observed that it sounded like a back-up singer for the Lollypop Guild). I’m still trying to separate some of the vocal stylings from the songs themselves—which perhaps is unfair to the guy, on my part—but it’s safe to say that the title track is one of my favorite things it has to offer. From the piano motif that fills the opening bars, to the gated reverb drum fills (kicking in around 0:38), it’s arguably the freshest-sounding arrangement on the record, and the song is modest but deceptively smart. Curious to hear where he goes next.

New York
by St. Vincent, stand-alone single
(Loma Vista)

St. Vincent’s latest single is a breezy piece of synth-pop balladry. Clocking in under three minutes, it’s catchier than just about anything on her previous full-length, and feels refreshingly bright and un-tortured. It also contains one of the most smartly phrased lyrical uses of “motherfucker” in recent memory.

Brutalisteque
by Final Machine, from rec_6
(not on label)

Roger Owsley (alias Final Machine) has been productive: with 5 separate new releases already under his belt this year (following the 5 EPs dropped in 2016), he’s continually proven himself to be a stalwart practitioner of what he loves; and what he loves is sound. One can surmise this simple fact from hearing any of his works on the official Final Machine BandCamp page. “Brutalisteque,” off the rec_6 EP, is a shining example of Owsley’s uncanny knack for toying between the extremes of experimentalism and trance-ism; it also would fit nicely on this year’s special compilation release of songs that inspired Nicolas Winding Refn’s The Neon Demon (The Wicked Die Young).

Arabian Heights
by the Afghan Whigs, from In Spades
(SubPop)

The Afghan Whigs remain a band that I admire more than love, but In Spades comes closest of any of Dulli’s projects I’ve yet heard to winning me over resolutely. “Arabian Heights” is a monster of a track, both living up to the gothic splendor of the album’s artwork, and showcasing their knack for masterful arrangements. (Also, some of the chording points ever-so-subtly to the similarly-named and insurmountably perfect 1981 Siouxsie & the Banshees single.)

Controller” / “Omnion
by Hercules & Love Affair, advance singles from Omnion
(Atlantic)

When I find myself feeling low, there are several pockets—mostly “guilty” pleasures—of my music library that I’m prone to digging in for consolation: Andy Butler’s shape-shifting music collective is one such pocket, and I’ve been eagerly anticipating their fourth full-length (their last one, which featured several terrific vocal contributions from the great John Grant, was a thirst-quenching foray into dark synthwave clubbing territory). If these two lead singles are any indication, it’s not likely to disappoint. “Controller” features the vocal slither of Faris Baldwin (The Horrors), and “Omnion” provides an unlikely showcase for the beautiful voice of Sharon Van Etten. Like everything that has preceded them in the H&LA catalogue, both are the equivalent of perfumed offerings to the nightclubbing gods.

Reassuring Pinches
by Alison Moyet, from Other
(Cooking Vinyl)

Alison Moyet is an artist I both greatly admire, and am frequently perplexed by. Incredibly smart, inventive, and articulate (which is to say, she has the ability to convey the first two virtues), she has dedicated a substantial set of her post-Yaz(oo) career to projects that sometimes test the limits of saccharine production, and the sort of songwriting that beckons from another era; in fact, on a recent studio album titled Voice, she was focused intently on covering the likes of Bacharach, Gershwin, and Brel. But much like the other revered British interpreters of Brel (Scott Walker and David Bowie), Alison Moyet seems to have kept something for herself throughout all these years, and one is bound to remain intrigued by trying to figure out what that something might be.

In Other, Alison delivers the most directly audible echo of her early Yaz years: the production is slick, but it carries some sharp edges and more than a few twists and turns. (The lead single, carrying the album’s namesake, was an alarming precursor: a percussionless, downbeat, understatedly mournful ballad, it’s a Pandora’s Box of possible interpretations. It also features some of the most hauntingly beautiful lyrics I’ve ever felt compelled to listen to.) In contrast to the more traditional Moyet solo fare mentioned above, “Reassuring Pinches” sounds both like an homage to the years of “Situation” and “Goodbye Seventies,” and a continuation of the themes heard on 2013’s The Minutes. Guy Sigsworth (who previously lent his producer’s ear to some really fine material by Madonna and Björk) matches Moyet adeptly at her ambitious and experimental musical game: a song like “April 10th” proves itself to be a brilliant synthesis of pop music theory from days gone by, while simultaneously pointing far out on the horizon of possibilities still to come.

Down Endless Street
by Fleetwood Mac, from Tango in the Night (30th Anniversary Edition)
(Warner Music)

Though slightly less so than last year’s long-awaited Mirage reissue, the bonus material on this Tango in the Night anniversary set contains a number of surprising gems. Foremost among them, for this listener, is this Lindsey-penned piece of surrealistic nostalgia (originally released as a B-side to “Family Man”), which often sounds like the missing link between the ’50s-inspired arrangements of Mirage and the crystal clean production of Tango. (Further listening: the beautifully simplistic “Where We Belong (Demo),” and strictly on YouTube, the neglected Stevie demo for “Joan of Arc,” which inexplicably did not get polished up for this deluxe package.)

In My World
by Lindsey Buckingham and Christine McVie, from Buckingham McVie
(BMG)

A friend of mine observed, upon hearing there was to be a Christine McVie/Lindsey Buckingham side-project this year: “This is either going to be really great, or it’ll be the most maple syrup-y thing ever.” As one might expect, the finished outcome manages to be both things at once. While at times over-wrought (production-wise; thanks, Lindsey), there’s an undeniable pop brilliance to the songs on Buckingham McVie, and “In My World” is one of the more solid Fleetwood Mac songs of recent memory not to have made it onto a Fleetwood Mac album. Further listening: the stomping opener, “Sleeping Around the Corner“—so infectious that not even the tortured embellishments of Sir Buckingham can hold it back.

Smoke ‘Em Out
Cocorosie feat. Anohni, stand-alone single
(not on label)

File under: “great guilty-not-guilty pleasures of 2017.” (Further listening: the Paradise EP by Anohni—a follow-up to last year’s stunning, post-transition Hopelessness).



2017 Releases featuring Your Truly:

ulter nation
by Dirty/Clean
(DirtyCleanMusik)

Our second full-length studio endeavor, ulter nation, is available to stream/download/order on our BandCamp page. Also, a playlist is available to stream on our YouTube channel, featuring a series of videos produced in support of the songs.



Art Will Not Fix This EP
by Plasteroid
(Overthought Musik)

The first EP by a new collaborative project, featuring Yours Truly on vocals. All of the music on Art Will Not Fix This was written by the brilliant Derl Robbins (Company Man—see above—Motel Beds, Peopleperson), and I’m proud to have been invited to recite some words on top of his arrangements.


lionel barrymore, james stewart, jean arthur & edward arnold - you can't take it with you 1938

In Frank Capra’s You Can’t Take It With You (1938), Lionel Barrymore (left) and Edward Arnold (right) are brought together from opposite ends of the socioeconomic spectrum, by the true love of their offspring. © 1938, Columbia Pictures.

If you’ve seen the wonderful, Frank Capra-directed film version of You Can’t Take It With You (1938—adapted from a 1936 play by George Kaufman and Moss Hart), chances are the last twenty minutes will stick out in your memory. As the compulsory happy ending unfolds, we find an unlikely merger taking place between the super-wealthy president of an arms manufacturer (played by Edward Arnold), and the self-employed, stamp-collecting patriarch (Lionel Barrymore) of a farcical, freewheeling family. They are brought together, of course, by the fateful romance that has blossomed between the son of the former, and the granddaughter of the latter; their union also stands out in explicit contrast to a merger that was meant to take place previously in the story—between Arnold’s parent company and a series of smaller arms manufacturers on the East coast. In this film, not only does love conquer all: it is seen as a force powerful enough to deflate the yearnings of profit-driven war-mongers, awaken the dormant humanity of a Scrooge-like millionaire, and yoke him with a ragtag family of American peasants (complete with a crow named “Jim,” in protest of long-standing segregation laws).

Released today, the film would be deemed a failure on any number of counts: its sentimental social commentary; its use of fable-like storytelling devices to convey the universal plight of humanity; its cartoon-ishly exaggerated sense of humor; its well-meaning, but nevertheless stereotype-laden approach to issues of race and ethnicity. Most notably, however, the film could not possibly resonate with an audience that would recognize the core premise to be wholly incompatible with the reality of 21st century America. To be sure, love still brings the families of disparate paramours together (in more or less equal proportion to the number of times it tears them apart); but the foremost conceit of the play’s narrative—that even the most wealthy and privileged weapons contractor can be brought to his senses, if confronted with the recognition of the human(e) experiences he is missing out on—is every bit as untenable today as it may well have seemed possible then (in a time before WWII, the atomic bomb, the Vietnam War, the Gulf War; 9/11 and 9/11 conspiracy theorists; climate change awareness and climate change deniers; InfoWars…).

So let’s fast-forward 80 years, to the age of 45. American film is no longer a matter of any real significance: the people have spoken, and moviegoers have—somewhere along the line—collectively chosen to settle for a never-ending trough of superhero blockbusters (most of them remakes or sequels; or sequels to sequels; or remakes of remakes), with a parallel diet of expensively produced television programs showcasing an increasing array of cinematic tropes (that way you don’t have to spend $10 to support the latest Paul Thomas Anderson opus: instead, you can stream Fincher’s House of Cards as part of your monthly Netflix package, and not risk the disappointment of having been challenged by an art-house movie that may provoke you to have a critical conversation with your fellow moviegoers). Of course, we still have the à la carte “independent” film menu, which is sure to sate the palate of viewers in need of a feel-good (or, as though determined by producer’s coin toss, a feel-bad) small-town story about two (or three) people from different worlds who are brought together by some unfortunate circumstance or other—a car accident or medical tragedy typically does the trick—and subsequently learn a valuable life lesson about themselves.

Forgive me if I come across sounding embittered; it’s just that it’s been almost a year since the last worthwhile American independent sensation (Moonlight) captured my attention, and I’m starting to feel that itch I’m increasingly prone to these days. It’s the itch that comes from loving movies (and the craft of movie-making), but finding oneself adrift in a sea of movies and moviegoers who, by and large, appear to lack any vested interest in an independent barometer for quality and content. One might frame it as a chicken-or-the-egg dilemma: is it the movies that died on us first (through the de-creativizing process of “high concept” production strategies, a cult of personality culture, and an endless stream of unnecessary CGI conceptualization), or have moviegoers—true, dyed-in-the-wool moviegoers—simply become an endangered species? In a supply-and-demand economy, one might conceivably argue for either side of the equation.

jp-enlightened-jumbo

Mike White appears opposite Laura Dern in his self-penned, limited run HBO series Enlightened. The show was canceled after two seasons, due to a combination of factors (including low ratings); it thematically explored some of the motifs reprised in Beatriz (directed by Miguel Arteta, who also collaborated with White on Enlightened). © 2011-2013, HBO.

Miguel Arteta’s Beatriz at Dinner (2017), written by Mike White (The Good Girl, HBO’s Enlightened) and starring Salma Hayek and John Lithgow, could be presented as a sample of what’s wrong with independent film-making these days: over-wrought, wince-inducing, and capped off by one of the most dissatisfying endings in recent memory, I’m sure the film will be dismissed by many (if not most) critics and viewers as a quintessential slice of feel-bad art-house cinema. And while I might be inclined to nod in agreement with a selection of their critiques, I would have to interject that it could easily be—shortcomings and all—one of the only significant movies in theaters at the time of this writing. Because unlike the beautiful-to-look-at-but-hollow-on-the-inside, white girl power chic of Sofia Coppola’s The Beguiled (which is, shockingly, a step back from her problematic-but-entertainingly-relevant The Bling Ring), Arteta’s film offers us something, as opposed to simply being a film about something. (Though considering how Coppola’s masterclass in natural lighting didn’t even have that much going for it, I suppose I ought to reel in my expectations).

While I wouldn’t go so far as to call Beatriz the You Can’t Take It With You of its time, a comparison between both pictures—each reflecting the moods, attitudes, and beliefs of their respective eras—may serve to highlight the irreconcilable gap between where we were then, and where we are now. To begin with, the lines that were drawn in sand by Kaufman and Hart, have been painted onto concrete by White and Arteta. As appalled as the wealthy parents in You Can’t Take It With You are by their son’s selection of life partner, they readily accept the bride-to-be’s invitation to visit her family’s earthy home for a modest dinner party (just as, years later, the arch-conservative patriarch in La Cage Aux Folles eventually warms up to the flamboyancy of his son-in-law’s gay parents). In Beatriz at Dinner, there is no romantic involvement or parental approval to be sought, because there is—quite simply—no romance: there is only the romantic pessimism of White’s quasi-poetic screenwriting, as he endeavors to write himself out of the corner he’s placed himself in—vis-a-vis the film’s subject matter.

Beatriz at Dinner is the first (somewhat) mainstream motion picture to take the bull by the horns in addressing the great political divide of 2017. As the reader will realize by the conclusion of this essay (which will, out of sheer necessity, contain a spoiler or two—so be forewarned), White and Arteta eventually let us down by letting go of the horns in the film’s final act. But they give us plenty to consider before the shift to creative self-defeatism, and they deserve a pat on the back for even trying in the first place. Put simply, they’ve given us the film equivalent of a convenience store in a food desert: while it doesn’t carry the full range of ingredients the shopper might be hoping for, it at least provides some form of nourishment (as opposed to the now-year-round superhero movie buffet—serving the cinematic equivalent of artificially flavored chalk).

In short, Arteta’s film divides our present-day culture into two basic archetypes: on the left, we have Beatriz—the Mexican-emigrated healer who spreads her work between a cancer ward and a roster of private clients; on the right, there is Doug—the remorseless, passionless, ego-and-finance-driven CEO, who might easily stand in for any number of real-life figures in the one percent bracket (from the Koch brothers, to the president, to the president’s cabinet…). Although the script is structured in such a way that the viewer is encouraged to sympathize with Beatriz from the outset, White and Arteta (and Lithgow) have made a perceptible effort to paint Doug as a person: in keeping with the liberal penchant (or weakness?) for trying to understand the inner workings of any given character—no matter how overtly despicable—Doug comes across as the callow Republican asshole he is meant to represent, but is never caricatured to the point of becoming an easy prey. In fact, this arises as one of several primal dilemmas at the film’s core.

Beatriz at Dinner

John Lithgow represents a figurehead of unchecked capitalism in Beatriz at Dinner. © 2017, Killer Films.

For how is a film-maker (or any artist, for the matter) to depict a real-life villain as omnipresent and disgusting as 45, and not just write him out completely by the second act? Arteta and White appear to have tackled this quandary by book-ending their film with scenes exclusive to Beatriz’s point of view—with special emphasis placed on the opening sequences of Beatriz working with her patients in the cancer ward and making over her pets at home. They first present us with a close-up study of the protagonist’s idyll/ideal, so we might then gradually submerge ourselves in the murky waters of the villain’s hilltop lair.

While narratively appropriate (at least during the first part), this structural approach may age more effectively than it is likely to strike viewers living through the reign of 45; which is to say, it presents the fairly unrecognizable experience of waking up and not being confronted, straightaway, with some newly egregious atrocity perpetrated by the president, his minions, or his acolytes. The film shows us a world in which an adult woman could be so suddenly offended by the reality of oafish white men caring only about themselves and their wallets, she might be provoked to the brink of sudden madness and self-immolation. It’s a laughable notion, viewed from a distance, and it draws our attention to other missed opportunities throughout the film’s text—such as the half-formation of Beatriz’s (and Doug’s) character, or the repeated on-screen absence of her friends (one of whom she merely leaves a voice-mail for; the other we never see or hear). In hindsight, one will feel tempted to re-read the movie as a defense of Beatriz’s fateful action at the film’s close; if attempted, I can only hope the viewer will not be mollified by what they find herein.

Ultimately, the most compelling and timely dilemma explored by Beatriz is the irresoluble divergence between the two viewpoints embodied by its main characters. Namely: while both Beatriz and Doug share an awareness of the finite-ness of life and earthly resources, Beatriz has chosen to dedicate her life to making these resources last, and to helping others get by; Doug, on the other hand, has chosen a half-heartedly hedonistic form of nihilism—only finding pleasure in strippers, politics, profit margins, and the “hunt for big game.” Cognitively speaking, both characters share a realistic appreciation for the dire straits in which their planet now finds itself (due to man-made problems of pollution, carbon gas, waste disposal, etc.); but whereas Beatriz has jumped on the wagon of “let us all work together to make it a better place,” Doug has taken the less affable (but more lucrative) stance of “let me get the most out of this, while I’m still alive; planet be damned—it’s dying, anyway.”

Many editorial pieces have been written on the great divide in our country’s political landscape; counter-arguments are now emerging, even—such as a piece in the Miami Herald, asserting that folks ought to stop commenting on the divide itself, and should instead focus on how the GOP has completely lost command of its marbles. It is worth noting here, as far as party politics are concerned, that the lunacy of the Grand Old Party is no recent development; from this writer’s perspective on the subject, at least, commentary on such matters is on-point but asinine. For at least as far back as the “Party of Reagan,” Republican government entities have made a routine habit of foregoing any sense of decency (failing to even acknowledge the HIV/AIDS epidemic; insisting on the graphic examination of Clinton’s sex scandals, and conversely, offering a defense of sexual misconduct in the notorious Anita Bryant case), disregarding common sense (“trickle-down” economics; war for oil; the ignored memos detailing an imminent attack by Osama Bin Laden in 2001), and manipulating elected officials in office well after they’ve passed over to the side of clinically impaired cognition (as was the case during Reagan’s final years in office, which are now understood to have been lived under the shroud of Alzheimer’s). So whereas it may appear topical to comment on the increasingly overt insanity of present-day Republicans, it behooves one to keep in mind the reality that this is nothing new (for a genuinely new development, one can direct their attention to the smoky realm of “alternative facts,” and condoned acts of treason). Because, much like Doug Strutt, real-life Republicans and conservatives have a well-established tradition of ignoring issues of common interest in favor of advancing their personal needs and wants: carried to their natural conclusion, such patterns of self-serving “manifest destiny” invariably lead to a schizophrenic break with the rest of society—and the development of sociopathic tendencies as an intuitive defense mechanism.

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Beatriz raises a toast. © 2017, Killer Films.

Which brings us back to Beatriz, and the core dilemma therein: How does one attempt to improve, or to restore justice to a society that has—for decades—routinely rewarded sociopaths with hedge funds, and punished mindful citizens by dismissing them as “snowflakes?” Is it even possible, at this point, to incentivize the pursuits of social justice and ecological preservation—when one may more consistently be rewarded (in financial terms) by foregoing such pursuits? I’m reminded of an opinion piece a friend informed me about recently, in which the writer pointedly—albeit self-righteously—inquired of her GOP-sympathizing readers: “I don’t know how to tell you that you’re supposed to care about other people.” The predicament sounds insane; but that’s because it is. And this is the corner that Mike White has written himself into here (and from which he’s surmised a totally inadequate escape): for while having the protagonist respond to insanity with insanity effectively points out elements of futility in the matter at hand, it minimizes (or outright ignores) the reality sustained by millions of people who experience daily injustices within a sociopathically administered society. Just as the notion of a grown (Latina, nonetheless) woman being so shocked by the pathology of a xenophobic chauvinist that she decides suddenly to “end it all” is totally unconvincing, the emphasis placed on the triumph of conscience-free capitalism over our more egalitarian impulses may read like a slap-in-the-face to those who (like Beatriz) have dedicated their lives to addressing social issues and fighting for just causes. (To further compound the “unconvincing” factor, one is left scoffing at the notion that such an overtly humanitarian, animal-loving protagonist would commit the selfish act of leaving all of her remaining pets to fend for themselves.)

But Beatriz at Dinner should not be seen because it is a great movie (it isn’t): it should be seen because, in the vein of all zeitgeists, it represents a Rorscach test of our present reality—enabling each viewer to project their own anxieties and insights into the mix, and provoking necessary conversation. Hayek’s unbesmirchable performance fits the material so snugly, she carries the entire picture on her shoulders without drawing any undue attention to herself (not unlike Beatriz). Most notably, the film invests a refreshing amount of effort into representing the human characteristics of its elite characters, so that we are genuinely disappointed when they display their inherently despicable traits (because making them out to be champagne popsicle-licking monsters from the start, while totally defensible, would’ve seemed facile and ineffective). Beatriz’s employer, in particular (an affluent housewife, played impeccably by Connie Britton), comes across as a credible, conflicted individual—torn between the creature comforts of her mansion on the hill, and a developing awareness of the holistic impulses she is actively suppressing. Ironically, the characterizations populating this film are, by and large, less plastic and stereotype-laden than the characters in Frank Capra’s films—though the overarching narrative is less cohesive and convincing.

Viewers are left with a distinct impression of the disorienting despair that permeates our age—as we struggle to adapt from a world which deemed it possible for a corporate crook to reform himself into a decent human being, to a world in which men and women (but mostly men) perpetually commit themselves to a life of insatiable greed and bottomless corruption, without the remotest desire (or any consistent external motivation) to return to a state of relative modesty. Having cornered the market on popular appeal—by way of the Hiltons, the Kardashians, the Trumps, the “Real” Housewives, and other affluent personality cults-in-the-making—the grotesque idea of wealth-for-its-own-sake (and more distressingly, the concept of notoriety without any recognizable cause) is now one of the most ubiquitous signposts of 21st century America.

Jumping into the ocean to escape all of this is hardly a conducive form of retaliation, but I suppose the notion isn’t entirely without its charms.

“It’s affected me in a way that I don’t understand, so that my reactions to things aren’t, um… the same as they used to…”
– Nick Cave in One More Time With Feeling

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Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds performing “Girl in Amber” on June 3rd, 2017, at the Masonic Temple in Detroit.

Trauma changes people.

Some of the changes it brings are seemingly minor: maybe we become a little more aware of our surroundings, or we no longer crave the food we were eating around the time of the traumatic event. Many changes tend to be life-altering—as captured by John Cale and Lou Reed in their final collaborative tribute to Andy Warhol, following the pop artist’s tragic death at the age of 58. Their achingly composed musical eulogy (Songs For Drellaculminates with the unforgettable impression of a train—never mentioned in the words of the song, but depicted vividly in the rhythmic chord modulations hammered out by Cale on piano. As assorted memories of the Factory (its characters and its products) flow together in an increasingly persistent stream of consciousness (also recalling the image of a train), Cale intones: “The whole thing quickly receding/My life disappearing/disappearing from view/Forever changed, forever changed/I left my old life behind and was forever changed.”

In the most memorable couplet of the song, he insists that: “Only art can see me through/Only heart can see me through.”

And I defy the world to challenge his conclusion.

* * *

“I’m transforming
I’m vibrating
Look at me now”
– “Jubilee Street,” by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

On July 14th, 2015, Arthur Cave—son of the prolific and revered singer/songwriter Nick Cave—fell to his death from a cliff at Ovingdean, near the family’s home town of Brighton. The following year, a documentary film (One More Time With Feeling) was released in conjunction with the 16th studio album by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, titled Skeleton Tree. On the night of the film’s worldwide release (initially indicated to be the only opportunity the general public might have to see it), I attended a screening at a peculiar little “independent film multiplex” in Columbus, Ohio, accompanied by my life partner and a pair of of dear friends—one of whom had turned me on to the annihilating merits of Cave and his extraordinary band, some years back. The screening took place Thursday, September 8th. The infamous U.S. presidential election of 2016 was nearing its anxiety-ridden apex, and I recall sitting there in a perplexed and tired state of in-between-ness. Before the film had started to roll, I found myself thinking of the river Styx, and of an earlier Nick Cave album, The Boatman’s Call—titled after that Mythical figure that is said to accompany departing souls, as they venture from this life into the underworld.

I remember the lights going dim in the theater, and the usual procession of “if you like this, you might also enjoy…” advertisements, which (unfortunately) seems to accompany every human experience these days. I then recall hearing the voice of Warren Ellis, before his face had even appeared on the screen—big and dear as life itself. At the film’s start, he is doing his part in an interview with the film’s director, Andrew Dominik. He describes the opening track of the as-of-yet-unheard album, and recalls a sense of eeriness while listening to the completed album with the band; for this first track is said to begin with someone falling out of the sky, and crash-landing to the ground. The filmmaker presses Warren slightly, inquiring whether he would be interested in describing the incident in greater detail: there’s a hint of tabloid journalism in Dominik’s request, but his inclusion of the question (along with Warren’s respectful refusal) seems to indicate a latent understanding of his own faux pas. Warren proceeds to explain: “I can’t imagine how you navigate such a thing… um, and, you know, I just can’t even fathom it… and watching this thing happen, just, to people that you love is… um, it doesn’t even… I don’t think it even makes you any… gives you any insight, really, into it. Because there’s a step with it you can’t… you can’t go.”

Shortly after making this hesitant—yet perfectly lucid—statement, Dominik encounters some technical difficulties with the 3-D technology of the film’s format (a recurring motif, as we soon realize); both he and Warren step out of the vehicle in which the interview is being conducted, leaving the focus puller to work his magic on the 3-D camera. The screen goes dark again, and we hear the sound of irritability merging with conscientiousness, as Warren explains (in a somewhat terse tone) that he is struggling to find the right approach when fielding some of the deeply personal questions being posed by Dominik. As the remainder of the film unfolds, the perfection of this introduction reveals itself to the viewer, seeing as how no one who is interviewed herein—much less Cave himself; or Susie, his wife—seems to be in any position to offer expert insight into the trauma lying at the core of the film (which, appropriately enough, remains unspoken throughout the majority of its running length).

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Warren Ellis, working on songs for the Skeleton Tree album in Andrew Dominik’s film One More Time With Feeling. © 2016, Picturehouse Entertainment.

What we are left with, in lieu of analytic comprehension, is a crystal clear perception of the change this tragedy has brought about in the lives of all those involved. Perhaps the most telling observation of all is disclosed about an hour into the documentary, when we hear Cave expound briefly on the link between Arthur’s passing and the Skeleton Tree album: “great trauma isn’t actually, uh… a very good thing. Sometimes, you know, we all wish we had something to write about… Trauma, I think, in the way that this happened, and the events that happened, um… it was extremely damaging to the creative process.” (He later expands upon this observation, explaining how the trauma came to occupy such a vast space, there was scarcely any room left for the creative process to unfold.) And indeed, looking back on the performances showcased throughout the film, the viewer can trace the troubled evolution of the eight tracks on the album—notably, perhaps, the shortest and least verbose of all the Bad Seeds’ studio albums to date. We see a fledgling attempt by Cave and Ellis to find their way into the title track, which is here performed as a pensive (if confused) dirge—Cave sticking to a downward progression of minor chords; Ellis fidgeting with different patches on the effects pedal for his violin, sounding jarringly electric in counterpoint. As we discover at the illuminating close of the film, this is a startling contrast to the finished result: a vast, pastoral, gorgeous fusion of words and music—made of the simplest (and by extension, the truest) chord progressions, now placed in the hopeful harbor of a major key.

As Cave repeats meditatively, in a recitation from an earlier scene in the picture: “There is more paradise in hell than we’ve been told.”

* * *

It’s nearing midnight on a Monday in June, and I just finished watching Richard Linklater’s second entry in the Before film trilogy, Before Sunset. I first saw the film at my local art theater, at the time of its initial theatrical run (during the Summer of 2004); I had seen it one or two additional times on home video, but seeing it tonight felt like seeing it for the first time. Perhaps it was the companionship of my life partner—absent from that initial viewing, as we had not yet met—that made this screening so different. Maybe it was the fact that we had, in fact, seen the final entry (Before Midnight) together in 2013, in the very same theater that I had seen the second entry with a friend some years back. Or maybe it was the simple fact that I have grown older; that my relationship to the film—which is, ultimately, about time’s passage—is evolving. Like those oscillating paperweights (the ones with metal rings, ranging in size, that sway concentrically around each other), swinging incessantly within themselves. Finally, I am struck by a recognition of how I, myself, have been altered by trauma; and how this change, in addition to the changes of time (and the change of one’s relationship status) inevitably alters our perception of life itself.

I find it significant to note that trauma comes in different shapes and sizes. For instance, there is the immediate trauma of being assaulted; there is also the profound trauma inherent to the premature death of a loved one. There is the equally profound, but frequently more scattered trauma of a natural disaster—or an act of terrorism. Then there is the experience of vicarious trauma, whereby individuals are exposed to a series of traumatic incidents (or, conversely, bear witness to a singular and majorly traumatic event). In all instances, the individual is affected irrevocably—on the psychological, the emotional, and even the physical level. Of course, this isn’t to say that recovery from trauma is implausible; for if this were the case, the trauma of leaving the womb would be an experience we humans could not recover from (then again, some will argue this as the injury at the core of the human condition). Nonetheless, trauma changes us; and like the oscillating rings of a paperweight, we must re-calibrate—in order to swing back towards that initial point of divergence. Unlike the paperweight, though, we never return to the exact point of origin in recovering from a traumatic experience: we cannot, for it is no longer there to be recovered. In such instances, and as the late David Bowie memorably sang at the start of his 2002 studio album, Heathen: “Nothing has changed/Everything has changed.”

I was struck by a variety of moments throughout the course of Linklater’s film, my mind and soul renewed as I reacquainted myself with its beauty at this later age. One moment that struck me as particularly memorable occurred towards the film’s start, as Jesse (Ethan Hawke)—one of the film’s two protagonists—fields questions at a book signing in Paris. Asked about the possible subject of his next book, Jesse explains how he is intrigued by the notion of writing a novel that takes place within the length of a pop song: one single song that could encompass “the sum of all the moments of our lives” (a quotation of Thomas Wolfe’s). It reminded me of something Nick Cave talks about near the start of One More Time With Feeling—something about the elasticity of time, and an email exchange on the subject between himself and a friend: Cave recounts how this friend was fascinated by the idea “that all things were happening, all the time;” that neanderthals are copulating at the same time that scientists are planning to colonize Mars; or if one were to connect this idea with Jesse’s reading of Thomas Wolfe (or Borges’s reading of Zeno’s paradox; or Joyce’s Ulysses), that a pop song might contain the entirety of human experience. Cave jokingly scraps the idea in his voice-over: “That is encouraging, right? And I think he meant well, but… it’s not true, because… if everything was happening now, I wouldn’t be sitting here waiting for the film crew to work out how to work this ridiculous 3-D black and white camera.” He completes his counter-argument by asserting drolly: “Right now, nothing is happening.”

 

It’s an argument one could easily level against Linklater’s trilogy of films—a trilogy about the miracle of human connection, the melancholy of separation, and the inscrutable phenomenon of time itself: for apart from the walking, the talking, and the arguing, very little actually happens. But as I lay there on the couch, enraptured by the pure poetry of film—seen through the eyes of Linklater, Hawke, and Julie Delpy (our other protagonist)—I could not bring myself to accept Cave’s simplified negation of such a beautiful idea. As though to reinforce the idea’s validity, the film ends with Jesse putting on a Nina Simone CD in Celine/Delpy’s Parisian apartment: the song is “Just In Time,” recorded live in 1961 at Village Gate in New York City. It transports both of our protagonists back to the time of their initial meeting, which was depicted in the first part of the trilogy (on a train, nonetheless—that most symbolic of all transportation modes); it simultaneously transports them to the more recent memory of Simone’s passing in 2003, at the premature age of 70. Jesse bemoans the fact that he never had a chance to see her in concert; Celine recalls having seen her twice in Paris, and then proceeds to expound upon the brilliance of these shows—re-enacting her memory of Simone’s performance while listening to a recording from decades prior (even re-creating Simone’s slow dance away from the piano, confronting the audience in one of her renowned acts of self-interruption). Celine then brings us back to the present, as she teasingly observes that her old flame is about to miss a scheduled flight back to the U.S. Jesse shrugs; the camera’s eye turns back to Celine dancing, eventually fading out into the end credits.

I’m reminded of another anecdote about Nina Simone, recounted by Warren Ellis in that other recent Nick Cave documentary, 20,000 Days on Earth. During a casual conversation with Cave around his kitchen table, Warren Ellis recounts a performance of “Dr. Simone”’s that they had both attended some time prior: Cave recalls the legendary artist taking a wad of chewing gum out of her mouth at the start of the show, sticking it on the piano; Warren one-ups his friend’s recollection by explaining that he retrieved this same wad of gum, and has preserved it in the cloth that Simone used to wipe her brow during that night’s performance. Cave asserts his jealousy, and Warren proceeds to recall how Simone had been brewing in her dressing room before the performance, “looking really pissed off and not wanting to be there:” when asked by a stage hand if there was anything she needed, she memorably responded, “I’d like some champagne, some cocaine, and some sausages.” He prefaces the anecdote by explaining that her performance was “one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen.”

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Everything happening all at once, during Cave’s live rendition of “Skeleton Tree.”

Having never seen Nina Simone perform live (or David Bowie, for that matter) during the artist’s time on this planet, I am comforted by the notion that everything is happening at once. That while the world is being assaulted by a vast array of traumatic events on an hourly basis, I am simultaneously in the audience of Simone’s powerful Carnegie Hall performances, recorded in the Spring of 1964 for her In Concert album. And I am also in the crowd of David Bowie’s concert performances from the Spring of 1978, each time I dust off my copy of Stage. On the more mournful side of this incalculable equation, I find myself recalling Nick Cave’s performance of songs from the Skeleton Tree album (and beyond) during a recent concert I attended at the Masonic Temple in Detroit. I close my eyes, recalling how I had lost myself during the performance of “I Need You,” tears streaming forcefully down my cheeks—collecting in the palms of my hands. As Cave intoned each perfect word in the song—which includes such unfathomably gorgeous phrases as “I saw you standing there in the supermarket/with your red dress falling;” and “a long black car is waiting ’round/I will miss you when you’re gone/I’ll miss you when you’re gone away forever”—I inevitably thought of Arthur. And of David, and of Nina; and of a world in disarray, spinning away from its axis. I thought of my loved ones—my partner sitting next to me; my hand moving to his side, bracing for support. And I fall apart in the beauty and the sadness of it all: the entirety of life’s sorrow, contained within the length of a pop song.

Several hours before the show’s start, we were alarmed to read the headlines of a developing news story: another terrorist attack in England, this time directed at unsuspecting pedestrians on London bridge. As we sat in the balcony, waiting for the show to begin, there was a strangely oppressive tension in the air (exacerbated by the disorganization of the venue, which was clearly under-staffed—swarmed by confused attendees, searching in vain for their assigned seats): a few minutes before the band took the stage, one attendee (who we assumed to be struggling with some form of mental illness) started screaming irrational profanities at the top of her lungs. She kept at it throughout the concert, and we wound up migrating to a different set of seats by the fourth song. But driving back from the event, a friend who had joined us for the pilgrimage remarked upon how “surprisingly calm” he felt by the show’s end (the reader should here bear in mind that the penultimate track of the night was the exuberantly vulgar and intense “Stagger Lee”). Indeed, it was a shared sentiment. For there was something in the way Cave had wandered out into the crowd for the closing number (“Push the Sky Away,” an anthem of resiliency in the face of conformity and complacency). Even with his forceful request—directed at his band—to “start the fucking song,” the performance comprised a lasting moment of utmost serenity. “I was riding, I was riding home/The sun, the sun, the sun was rising from the field…”

Here was a longed-for point of convergence—a union between life’s sorrow and joy: the oscillating rings of human experience in a place of rest, at last. And now the tables have turned, and it is we who are pushing away at the horizons that attempted to shake us from ourselves.

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A panoramic view from above, as Nick performs the set’s closing number (“Push the Sky Away”) within the embrace of the crowd.

Upon returning to our hotel room, and endeavoring to put our perceptions of this earth-shattering performance into some kind of perspective, we found ourselves inescapably remarking upon the change we both recognized (between this and the previous two occasions on which we had the joy of seeing this band perform live). I commented on the palpable distance during the first two numbers of the night—“Anthrocene” and “Jesus Alone,” both off Skeleton Tree. Whereas in past concerts, Cave made clear from the outset the current of electricity between himself and his audience, this introduction felt more contained; more internalized. Much of “Jesus Alone” (the song that begins with the description of a figure who “fell from the sky/crash landed in a field/near the river Adur”) was performed with eyes closed—a ghostly projection of Cave’s face spread against the backdrop of the enormous Temple stage. “With my voice/I am calling you,” he mourned.

I cannot, with any degree of certainty, pinpoint the exact moment when the dam broke—when the artist gave way to the starved energy of his fans. All I can say is that it felt less like an act of possession than an act of submission; as if, for the first time in my experience of his live performances, Cave actually needed us as much as we needed him. He went on to assert, at several intervals throughout the performance: “I love you all… and I mean it.” He even commented playfully on how “beautiful” Warren Ellis was, as a person, pausing to remark upon the loveliness of his violin solo during “The Weeping Song.” And when he merged with the crowd at night’s end, it bore little resemblance to the time he advanced menacingly upon us, during an especially cacophonous performance of “From Her to Eternity” in Louisville. Instead, he seemed to be offering us what we had craved the most: a sense of unity. Unity of mind and spirit; unity of the individual self with the collective of humankind. We both remarked upon how Cave had provided a more explicit level of band-leading throughout the evening, directing Thomas to play more softly during “Tupelo”—or asking George to “take it easy” when re-booting “The Mercy Seat” (after an initial misfire): Craig observed it was as though he was “herding the rest of his flock, after having lost one of the herd.”

And as I lay my head down to sleep for the night, I thought of the final moment in One More Time With Feeling—when the credits roll over an otherworldly recording of Arthur, singing Marianne Faithfull’s beautifully maudlin “Deep Water:” “I’m walking through deep water/It’s all that I can do/I’m walking through deep water/Trying to get to you.” I thought of the river Styx and The Boatman’s Call—songs of mourning that Cave had released some twenty years prior. And as I sit here in the midst of this moment (and the eternal moment that contains all moments—present, future, and past; the latter two having been postulated by Borges [see pp. 123-139] to be entirely conjectural, and therefore irrelevant), I return to the beautiful words sung by Nina Simone in 1961:

“Just in time
you found me just in time
Before you came/my time was running low
I was lost/them losing dice were tossed
My bridges all were crossed/nowhere to go
Now you’re here
Now I know just where I’m going”

* * *

Towards the end of Dominik’s film, Nick confides (with a tone of cautious optimism) that he and Susie have “decided to be happy… like an act of revenge, of defiance; to care for each other and the ones around us.” Earlier on, he recites a movingly humorous piece of ad-libbing (titled “Steve McQueen”), wherein he observes that “everyone out here does mean, and everyone out here does pain/But someone’s got to sing the stars, and someone’s got to sing the rain… And someone’s got to sing the blood, and someone’s got to sing the pain.”

I still recall the drive back from that first screening of the film, this last September: the four of us were frozen in a state of contemplation, imagining aloud what the album might sound like on its own terms. The following morning, we rushed out to our local record store the minute it opened. Upon returning home from work, Craig and I put the needle on and absorbed the songs, basking in their simple openness—still haunted by the memory of the telling interviews laced throughout the documentary, and those final images of the cliffs at Ovingdean. And as I look back on the film, the record, the concert, and Simone’s song, time folds in on itself. Inexorably, I find myself returning to the labyrinthine writing of Borges, as he contemplates eternity in the all-encompassing moment:

“When we can feel this oneness, time is a delusion which the indifference and inseparability of a moment from its apparent yesterday and from its apparent today suffice to disintegrate.”

And yet again, everything is happening, all at once.

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Nick Cave at the piano in One More Time With Feeling. © 2016, Picturehouse Entertainment.

Indigestion’s a pain.

I found myself in the midst of an especially bad bout last night, tossing and turning in bed, struggling to fall back asleep. In such instances, I occasionally find myself achieving a heightened level of awareness and concentration: as if hyper-awareness of one’s natural (or unnatural, as the case might be) biological functions carried with it an increased sensitivity to other surrounding circumstances.

In this instance, I found myself dwelling upon a recent essay in-progress, which seems to be going nowhere slow. The subject of my reluctant essay is the suburban experience (more specifically: American films that have explored suburban themes in a Mythical vein). It’s one of those frustrating instances where the writer knows what he wants to convey—even how he wants to convey it—but once all the pieces are lined up together, they no longer convey what was meant to be conveyed.

I’m reminded now of a startling incident that occurred earlier in my workday, as I was driving a client back to her residence—which was located in a somewhat run-down suburban neighborhood. As we drove past some smartly structured houses, I offered some casual observations to break the silence of the drive—small talk about some of the more striking residences, many of which featured alarmingly pointed rooftops. It was then that my client interjected a most unexpected anecdote: “Yeah… A lady shot her two kids in the head last night, over there by that school. I guess she had told the cops the world was a terrible place, and she didn’t want them living in it anymore.”

Understandably, I found myself at a loss to form a suitable response. I’m certain I said something nominal and insufficient, something along the lines of “that’s horrific,” or “how terrible.” It was a jolting reminder of just how fleeting and cruel this life can be. It also underscored the inadequacy of my writings on suburbia, which paled in comparison to this shocking anecdote—having failed to represent the surreal perversity of the suburban experience, in its full scope. A recently released Sun Kil Moon record came to mind, as well. In the opening track, “God Bless Ohio” (a follow-up, of sorts, to the preceding “Carry Me Ohio”), songwriter Mark Kozelek pays tribute to the Northern gothic elements of Midwestern living, touching upon a range of suburban issues: alcoholism; A.A. meetings; the loneliness of being a child; nursing homes; psychotherapy; human trafficking; mass killings.

Maybe I should just scrap my essay and let Kozelek’s song speak for me, instead.


Sleeplessness has been a recurring motif of 2017 for me. During the day, I frequently find myself struggling to concentrate on basic tasks—easily distracted by the latest development in the investigation of our president’s relationship with Russian oligarchs and government operatives, as well as the on-going toll of devastation mounted by a conscience-free Congress and an administrative agenda fueled by corporate greed, short-term private gain, and a stiff middle finger to the vast majority of our country’s population. I was struck by a recent episode of Bill Maher’s show on HBO, in which Dr. Cornel West and David Frum were guest panelists. In an exchange that was (admittedly) cringe-worthy at times, Maher and West sparred on the subject of the 2016 election: West, who was outspokenly opposed to another Clinton presidency, stood by his idealistic decision to not vote for either of the primary candidates; Maher challenged his decision with an itemization of some notable areas in which the two primary candidates differed from one another, with an emphasis on the compounded harm being inflicted upon minority groups by 45.

Hearing Cornel West’s voice rarely fails to bring me joy: his combination of humor, zeal, and intellect is unsurpassed by his few peers, and his perspective is fiery but reasonable. Watching him spar with Maher on this issue brought to light the deeply personal nature of his investment in politics, and I found myself torn between two equally impassioned points of view. As I think back on the debate, I’m struck by the awkward correlation between religion and politics in this country. Apart from the obvious investment of religious power in American politics, it strikes me that politicians in this country are frequently placed on a similar plane to religious leaders: they are often evaluated as much on abstract moral principles (or lack thereof), as they are on competencies and qualifications. West makes it clear during the debate that his opposition to Hillary Clinton was of a moral nature—a perceived “lack of integrity,” as he defined it. On the flip-side of the argument, we find the pragmatism of the vehemently atheistic Maher, who is able and willing to look past the character flaws of a given politician in order to hone in on the practical, real-life outcomes of their stances and actions.

Setting aside my love of Dr. West (and that tremendous laughter of his), I cannot help but feel a sense of exasperation at our country’s obsession with bringing religion into all facets of life. I’m reminded of an observation shared by a philosophy professor I had in college, who attended multiple symposiums at home and abroad, only to find that European nations have little (if any) of the political hang-ups our country has developed in this regard. Theories of evolution and creationism coexist peaceably; women, atheists, and non-Christian theists are allowed to hold public office without controversy; and outside the Vatican (a unique religious outlier, if ever there was one), it’s unanimously agreed that religion ought not to be a deciding factor in economic and social policy. I think of David Fincher’s American film masterpiece, Se7en, in which the seven deadly sins of Christian folklore provide the foundation for a rigorously coherent series of horrific murders. I think also of real-life horrors committed by the Ku Klux Klan (a white Christian organization); the so-called “conversion therapies” imposed upon gay people in Christian communities; the persecution of victims of rape, in an assortment of forms, under the alarming guise that their assaults may have been “God’s will;” the historical genocide of Native American people, performed in the name of a Christian God and country.

“God bless Ohio
God bless every man
Woman and child
God bless every bag of bones, six feet under the snow
God bless O
God bless O
God bless Ohio”

I think of the recent terrorist attack in Manchester, which stole the lives of 22 unsuspecting concertgoers and injured 120 others. (I will refrain from making mention here of the terrorists responsible for the attack, or the religion of which their organization is a perverse offshoot, seeing as how they have gathered sufficient negative publicity over the years—and it doesn’t seem to be helping any. Perhaps it is best to remove the plank from one’s own eye, first.) I think of all the different religions in the world that provide a foundation for the most appalling crimes against humanity, and I think of the unscrupulous support lent to our current administration by millions of American Christians. I think of that genius of early American cinema, Ernst Lubitsch—having just watched Trouble in Paradise for the first time the night prior. I think of the excruciating cleverness of Lubitsch’s characters; the hilariously amoral, yet totally functional relationships they foster and maintain with one another. I think of Jorge Luis Borges’s beautiful and unassuming essays, compiling assorted theories of eternity and ontology: the power of the human mind to overcome the self-inflicted impositions of religion—and the seeming refusal of the human spirit to embrace the assets of pragmatism. I think of Morrissey’s early song for The Smiths (“Suffer Little Children”) about two highly pragmatic, non-religious sociopaths from a separate, but equally dark chapter in Manchester’s history (Ian Brady and Myra Hindley). I think of the silence on the moors where their innocent victims were slaughtered; I think of the screams and explosions that jolted Manchester Arena on this god-forsaken Monday night. I think also of the solace offered during a non-religious vigil held in Manchester on Tuesday, to mourn lost lives and lost innocence; and the open gestures of solidarity extended by individuals and cities around the world—none of which required the pretense of religion to achieve their intended message.

Oh, human (t)error:
So much to answer for.


I’ve thought a lot (and continue to think) about the ways in which the jolt of last year’s election outcome sent shockwaves pulsing through every facet of the American experience—many of which we have yet to fully appreciate (or, in some cases, even to recognize). I’ve noticed tiny paradigm-shifts taking place in areas of everyday life, some of which are so minute they might be disputed as misperceptions. For instance, there’s the weekly program CBS Sunday Morning, formerly hosted by Charles Osgood and currently represented by Jane Pauley: previous segments on ecology and environmental issues have accentuated the well-documented, factual impact of climate change upon different parts of the planet (many of which provide source material for the show’s closing “moment of nature”). In the most recently aired episode, Jane visits the city of Amsterdam, where she is forced (as commentator) to acknowledge certain obvious changes in the landscape—including a visible rise in the sea level, and subsequent changes in irrigation. A phrase she uses in this segment has been stuck in my mind all week: “whatever the cause.” As in, “whatever the cause of these changes…” As if the matter were still up for debate.

I think of the shifts in media coverage that have historically accompanied drastic regime changes in different countries throughout the world. I wonder to myself how long it might have taken for Mussolini’s state-operated propaganda machine to fully infiltrate popular Italian knowledge, or for Lenin to convince his minions of the evils of Western living.

I imagine this essay reading like a poor man’s attempt at a Mark Kozelek ramble. I’m reminded, again, of my meandering essay on the suburban experience—and how truly difficult it can be to write about something when you actually have some pre-existing knowledge of it (in contrast to the old adage). In a way, such a task is even more difficult than writing about the unfamiliar: at least then, one can quite easily acknowledge and convey the limitations of one’s lived experience. But in the case of a subject that lies close to home, the writer is expected to have some sort of preternatural grasp on the topic—a near-omniscient, no-stone-left-unturned level of understanding. Maybe this is why so many Americans are turned off when a politician fails to publicly answer a question with utmost knowledge and understanding of their personal interests: instead, they’re expected to be godlike magicians, sauntering into town on the campaign trail and telling everyone exactly what they need (or, more commonly, want) to hear. God forbid a politician should ever be heard saying those three dreaded words: “I don’t know.” Far better to hear someone say: “I am your voice… I alone can fix it.

* * *

I think of the recent return of David Lynch and Mark Frost’s much-beloved television series, Twin Peaks. I think of what a tremendous joy it was, watching those first two hours of this new 18-part series—momentarily forgetting about issues of popularized ignorance and man-made atrocity (of both the religious and the non-religious variety). I’m grateful for creators—true creators—like Lynch and Frost, who seemingly have made it their lot in life to build upon and restore popularity to Myth (the only human creation that continues to transcend pure reason and pure religion). It makes me feel lucky to be alive, to witness the brilliant and awe-inspiring fruits of their efforts. I hope these efforts—and the efforts of other keepers of the flame—are ample enough to keep the Myth alive, for all the atrocities that are coming down the pipeline.

And I continue trying to shake my hyper-awareness of how terrible things have gotten. I continue trying to just live life, for what it’s worth, and not let it bring me down. But damn: indigestion’s a pain.

As the world continues to spiral into greater levels of global chaos, I find myself contemplating all of the common responses to the state of current affairs. In my previous essay, 45, Medea’s rage, and the sinking ship of American culture, I confronted the more nonchalant of these responses—that “nothing has really changed; it’s just business as usual.” This time around, I’d like to confront another common response that I’ve heard from several on-the-political-fence individuals—a contingent I often seek perspective and independent analysis from, taking into account the proposed neutrality of their socio-political stances. The response I’m referring to can be paraphrased as follows: “At the end of the day, we all want the same basic things for ourselves and for our loved ones. It’ll all work itself out.”

The first time I heard this response, I nodded in silent agreement, and thought to myself: you know? You’re right. What are we fighting for, if we all want the same basic things? But later, as I walked away from the individual providing this kernel of proposed wisdom, the flaw in their line of reasoning expanded—to the point where I could outline an entire chasm separating this pat observation from our observable reality. By the time I had thought it through from a variety of angles, the allegation seemed outright ludicrous. After all: is not the crux of political discourse that we don’t all agree on what we want for ourselves and our loved ones? Isn’t that why we (used to) teach civics in school, and have debate teams, and engage in reasoned dialogue surrounding the unanswerable but imperative question: How are we going to share in the direction of our society?

While I readily concede there are some basic human necessities we all share (food, water, shelter, and oxygen), I find it worth noting that even these universally accepted basics—the founding level of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs—are being called into question in our current state of affairs. Consider climate change—the most severe and defining issue of our time: the volume of individuals denying statistical evidence that our climate is changing, and that human beings are one of the biggest contributing factors (evidence that has now officially been removed from the EPA’s government website), indicates a disregard for the requirement of food and oxygen in the future. Likewise, passing legislation that would encourage and enable the contamination of our water supply (such as the decision to reverse policies preventing coal companies from dumping waste in our rivers) flies in the face of our shared need for potable water. At the end of the day, if we cannot agree that we need to conserve the planet, and preserve the natural resources that are essential to human sustenance (instead of flying off to Mars in one of Elon Musk’s space shuttles—where we may or may not find water); if we cannot agree on this, can we truly reach an agreement on anything? (And since when did the upkeep of planet Earth cease to be a non-negotiable for U.S. voters?)

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Thousands of protesters marched on April 22nd in support of evidenced-based reality; this is a snapshot of the rally held in Portland, OR. Photo by Alex Milan Tracy, courtesy of CNN and the Associated Press.

To build upon the foundation laid down in my previous essay (surrounding the two definitions of the word “myth,” which I will continue to differentiate as upper-case Myth vs. lower-case myth), it seems to me we are living through an era defined by myths. First, there is the myth that climate change (despite the overwhelming abundance of facts supporting its reality—let alone the observable reality of rising temperatures and increasingly erratic weather patterns) is a conspiracy developed by the Chinese, or by the liberal elite (the jury is still out as to which was the primary perpetrator, as I understand it). Second, the myth that we “all want the same basic things”—which once could have been categorized as an upper-case Myth, but as we can see from recent polls of public opinion, is no longer eligible for widespread consensus. Third, we have the dual myths surrounding issues of civil rights: on the Right, there is the myth that institutionalized racism, sexism, and homophobia (among other common discriminatory pretenses) do not actually exist; on the Left, the myth that prejudice can be wiped out by policing language and forcing the acceptance of cultural diversity through mainstreaming. In my own analysis, these are two of the most significant and detrimental of our current myths, so I’m going to devote another paragraph to defining them more clearly. In order to accomplish this, I find it is necessary to frame these myths in the context of the broader Myth they belie; by this, I’m referring to the Myth of freedom.

Like all (lower-case) myths, every Myth carries with it a note of unreality. The key difference between the two categories (M vs. m) lies in how the unreality is addressed. In the case of myths, the unreality inevitably provides a foundation for stupidity. Example given: a man believes in the myth that all young African-American males (especially those wearing hoodies) are up to no good—that they present a threat to the integrity of the community, and that this threat needs to be eliminated. This false belief leads to the callous and stupid act of murdering innocent young black men, under the horrific pretext of “standing one’s ground.” On the flip-side, Myths address the unreality by acknowledging the distance between reality and the Myth. For example: the Myth of freedom, as espoused by the founding fathers, indicates that it comes at a cost—that wars (civil and otherwise) are sometimes fought to preserve this abstract ideal, and to continually close the distance between the American reality and the American Myth. There is nobility in the Myth, even when it is of a purely quixotic variety, and even when it is pursued by erroneous means; there can never be nobility in myths, since they are fundamentally, intrinsically wrong.

Which brings us to the final, most devastating myth we are currently faced with: the myth (still held tight by many) that 45 is going to “Make America Great Again.” This myth can easily and readily be held up against the proven, objective reality that 45 cares for no one’s interests outside of his own, and that his own interests (which are profit- and ratings-driven) do not reflect the stated interests of his adoring minions. But just as with George Zimmerman and the late Treyvon Martin, the myth of the “great white hope” has provided the foundation for stupidity of a caliber we have not seen here in decades. And likewise, the liberal myth that mainstreaming diversity is not just a means to an end, but an end in and of itself, has proven fertile soil for many a stupid action and response on the Left. Ultimately, all of these myths present grossly miscalculated efforts to arrive at the Myth of freedom—without any of the legwork that history has proven crucial to its pursuit. They are wild goose chases disguised as shortcuts, and while at times the intentions of their travelers are entirely malevolent (as can be seen with 45’s “basket of deplorables”—the racists, misogynists, and ideological lunatics who congregate around the comparably ordinary and delusional Republicans at his rallies), one occasionally spots a kernel of good intent in a person wandering down one of these deceptive detours.

For instance, it appears to me that the current myth, “we all want the same basic things for ourselves,” is a desperate but worthy attempt—by concerned, confused citizens—to consolidate and process the disorienting array of recent events. It’s the nautical equivalent of clinging to a buoy in the middle of a raging hurricane, hoping it will provide a safe harbor; a beacon of stability until the storm blows over. At best, it’s an expression of solidarity: at worst, a cop-out. Ultimately, I suppose the very fact that so many people are turning to this same beacon for solace proves there is some legitimacy to its proposition. But seeing as how we can no longer really point to our basic necessities as positive criteria for our shared interest(s), we are left instead to interpret this expression of shared interest as merely a negative criterion—providing the outline for some vague, positive criteria which now require (re)defining. It is almost as if we were all trying to speak this shared interest into existence, but not recognizing that every person is speaking a different language and—in some case—speaking of different things altogether. In trying to reach a renewed consensus on our core priorities, a pragmatist (such as myself) may conjure something along the lines of a national town hall meeting—a symposium where every voting citizen gathers under one roof, to unilaterally vote upon what our shared interests are going to be, moving forward. “Do we want to have clean drinking water? Yay or nay? What about clean energy vs. coal energy? Or the planet itself: do we want the planet to remain habitable, or is that up for debate? What say you?”

Obviously, such a forum would be logistically unfeasible (to say nothing of the ideological lines drawn in the sand from the outset). But the idea of such a gathering—absurd though it seems—paints a clear picture of just how absurd our situation has become. I noted, in my previous entry, that ignorance was not always seen to be an admirable trait in dominant American culture: that citizens used to want its leaders to be smart, competent individuals—and that people used to seek out smarter folks than themselves, in order to learn from the experts and to advance in their cognitive growth (alas, such a pursuit is muddled these days by the dozens of self-proclaimed “experts,” seeking job security in professions for which they have no real conviction or proper qualification).

As I see it, we are at a tipping point in our nation’s history, and it is still unclear which way the full tilt will swing. Although the election of 45 is one of the most singularly idiotic and irresponsible actions our country has committed in recent history, the outpouring of public concern provides evidence to support the theory that folks might start to remember why intelligence and competency used to be given expectations in leadership. Considering how little is likely to be done, in the way of dismantling this administration anytime soon (since Republicans—well-known for prioritizing autonomy and authoritarianship over public concern—hold a Congressional majority in both the House and the Senate), we have at least two years of revered ignorance to survive, as a species, before our next given opportunity to redefine the tilt of our nation’s conscience. Put simply: we have two years (maybe less) to decide whether we want to be a country defined by a Myth, or a country defined by myths. One path leads to regeneration; the other to self-destruction.

* * *

Official music video for the title track of Father John Misty’s latest opus, released shortly after the inauguration of 45.

I want to shift gears at this point and spend some time talking about Father John Misty—formerly known as Josh Tillman, one-time drummer for the acclaimed indie folk/rock band, Fleet Foxes. Over the course of three immaculately produced albums (his most recent outing, Pure Comedy, was released this past month), Tillman/FJM has consistently and intelligently explored some of our country’s foremost concerns in the new millennium. On his first album, the practically flawless Fear Fun, Tillman embarked upon this quest with the apocalyptic sigh of “Funtimes in Babylon:” “Before they put me to work in a government camp,” he pleaded. “Before they do my face up like a corpse and say ‘get up and dance.’

Five years on from then, and I see no reason to believe he’ll be rounded up for government duty anytime soon. Case in point, Father John Misty appears to have finally arrived (on his own terms) to “the masses”—flown in on the wings of a typically impassioned performance on the resurgent Saturday Night Live, and heralded by the appropriation of a crucified Kurt Cobain impersonator in his most recent music video (to further drive home his renowned meta- factor, the Cobain stand-in is played by that lamented-yet-celebrated former child star, Macaulay Culkin). Interviews and radio features in support of the release have highlighted the polarizing dynamic of this latest offering, while taking care to note (and rightly so) that this is nothing new for Tillman. But while a few glowing reviews have emerged, and Paste Magazine has boldly named it the #1 album of 2017 (to date), the overall reception has appeared more lukewarm than that granted its satirical predecessor (I Love You, Honeybear). Of course, such things are subject to change at the flip of a coin, and I believe it both possible and likely that Pure Comedy will find its audience by year’s end.

Admittedly, the record is far from perfect. But flaws included, FJM Vol. 3 is a captivating and brilliantly executed double album—complete with odd little detours and a fascinatingly structured song sequence (the more full-blooded numbers are stacked towards the front; by the end of side 2, the energy has sunk into mellow contemplation—not unlike many a ’70s genre film/concept album. This appears, to me, in keeping with the original Misty spirit and aesthetic, which has always had one foot firmly planted in ’70s nostalgia). A glance at the obsessive liner notes (which unassumingly begin with a scripture from the book of Ecclesiastes) will inform the reader that Pure Comedy is to be heard from the mindset of a person slowly falling out of space, heading towards an extra-terrestrial planet occupied by a conjectured, half-formed species. This species, as one may expect from Tillman’s outspoken views on the state of the human race, is a doppelganger for homo sapiens. As with many a fable and experimental film, FJM has here removed the subject of his analysis from its natural context, and placed it in a stylized substitute context. The motives behind this literary strategy have been scrutinized by many a cultural scholar over the years, from an assortment of angles; one of the more common interpretations highlights the general understanding that by transposing a subject to a foreign environment, the subject is brought into greater relief for the spectator, and the Mythical truth of the subject’s existence is made clear. And if there’s one thing Father John Misty has been keen on from the outset, it’s the American Myth.

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Kirk Douglas embodies the Myth of the last great frontiersman in David Miller’s 1962 feature, Lonely Are the Brave © 1962, Universal Pictures

From name-dropping Joseph Campbell in the closing track of Fear Fun, to tackling the Myth of the Western lothario in “Only Son of a Ladies’ Man,” to dismantling the American Myth itself in I Love You Honeybear‘s “Bored in the U.S.A.,” Tillman has consistently emphasized the Mythical component in his work. At his most brilliant and incisive, Tillman’s alter ego comes across as the “last great frontiersman,” attempting to salvage something of the American Myth for future generations, while simultaneously pointing to the futility of Myth in the context of our present American landscape. Taken as a whole, his work calls to mind an early Randy Newman composition, “Cowboy,” best known as recorded by Harry Nilsson (whose vocal stylings are frequently echoed in Tillman’s own recordings); “Cowboy,” in turn, was inspired by the Kirk Douglas picture, Lonely Are the Brave—a filmed fable, depicting the Myth of the last great frontiersman. But whereas both Newman and Douglas embodied entirely different characters from one project to the next, Tillman has (for now, at least) made the bold decision to tether himself to this creatively engineered persona. One wonders whether his ideological commitment will prove the best use of his natural talents moving forward; one also marvels at the chutzpa required to make such a commitment in the first place. As far as his most recent outing is concerned, both appraisals seem valid. Let’s begin from a skeptic’s perspective.

One of the challenges that Pure Comedy presents for its creator is the Godardian effect—which Rainer Werner Fassbinder defined brilliantly by observing that his films “never get to the right audience” (as quoted in a 1969 interview with Joachim von Mengershausen). For as brilliant as Misty’s songs (and Godard’s films) truly are, it seems unlikely that everyday, disillusioned and misinformed Americans will connect with and/or relate to his deliberated, academic approach (just as the ramblings of Yours Truly are unlikely to ever reach this same, sought-out audience). That said, if ever there was an opportunity for Father John Misty to become a household name, that opportunity is now: the fact that he will be performing (and is already selling out) in proper theater venues across the world—as opposed to the smaller haunts of tours past—means he will be conveying his Mythical ideology to the broadest canvas of spectators yet available to him. Conversely, the rather downbeat quality of his latest offering (in comparison to album #1 and at least 2/3 of album #2) may present a challenge for those with a short attention span. Still, one hopes that at least a handful of dejected bigots will wander into one of these theaters and come out, in some small way, transformed.

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The Where’s Waldo?-meets-Bruegel album artwork for Pure Comedy, produced by renowned New Yorker cartoonist, Edward Steed © 2017, SubPop Records

The other, rather more apparent fly in the album’s ointment, lies is the complicated relationship between Tillman, his alter ego, his audience, and the press. Put simply, it is nigh impossible for any dedicated listener to appreciate the album (and its songs) on merits alone. Just as Warren Zevon’s and Harry Nilsson’s troubled lives often interfered with the audience’s ability to appreciate the pure craftsmanship and beauty of their songs (which they cranked out prolifically during their respectively chaotic careers), Misty’s flamboyant persona and his intentionally pompous approach to interviews—rather than illuminating the purity of his pursuit—often present barriers to the critical appraisal of his work. In part, his strategy appears to be rooted in shining a light on the self-obsessed, numbers-driven, and (frequently) clueless work ethic of present-day critics. But in order to effectively convey his critique, and to avoid the pitfalls of superiority-complex-guided sermonizing, Tillman has been forced to incriminate himself in these attacks. Ultimately, one could argue that his relentless entanglement with media journalists has diluted the clarity of the work itself (especially when he becomes overly self-conscious about how his persona is going to be perceived by the public). One wonders what he might be able to communicate if, like Randy Newman or Nina Simone, he were to throw off the shackles of self-incrimination and popular attention, and devote his energies to fully inhabiting the disparate characters in his songs—abandoning his ironic mission to convert the ignorant masses, and shifting back to the more purely narrative direction of Fear Fun. Sometimes, it seems that by dedicating himself to the perspective of an omniscient narrator, he’s actually taking the easy way out of the artist’s dilemma.

After all: if Tillman has an Achilles’ Heel, it would have to be his obsession with swallowing every cultural phenomenon in his vicinity and insisting on having the final say. To his credit, the focus of Pure Comedy on a conceptual journey (from outer space to a fictitious planet) provides the ideal framework to highlight his own frailty as a creator. It’s the sonic equivalent of a journey down the road to Compostela—or Damascus, or Canterbury: there are no great revelations at the end; no astonishing solutions. There is only the endless mystery of existence and the enigmatic process of self-discovery (epitomized in the gorgeous, 13-minute odyssey of “Leaving L.A.”). While it is difficult to imagine a more perfect album closer than Fear Fun’s “Every Man Needs a Companion,” “In Twenty Years Or So” provides a perfectly adept coda to the meta narrative of Pure Comedy—setting the finale in some unspecified piano bar, with the Talking Heads’ seminal “This Must Be the Place” playing somewhere in the background. As painstakingly developed as the album is, its finest moments seem to reveal themselves (as they do in this finale) when Tillman lets his guard and his pretense down. And at the end of the day, this vulnerability points to the most convincing message underlying his hyperbolic work: our artificial construction of “better-than-ness” (as defined in his self-penned liner notes) does nothing but interfere with our ability to be functional, decent, useful living creatures. And it is this pretentiousness—whether of artistic, political, or moral/religious superiority—that most explicitly interferes with our pursuit of Mythical freedom. This revelation is the album’s ultimate saving grace.

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Monica Vitti confronts the paradox of modern living in Antonioni’s Il Deserto Rosso © 1965, Rizzoli Films

These days, as Tillman has repeatedly observed, it is far more common for people to be seeking freedom from Myth, rather than running towards it. In the second (and stand-out) track from his latest album, FJM serenades the listener with the prospect of a civilization with “No gods to rule us/No drugs to soothe us/No Myths to prove stuff/No love to confuse us.” For an instant, it almost sounds enticing. And then we remember: this is the place we’re heading to. When listening to the record, I’m sometimes reminded of the quartet of divisive, ennui-fueled films (L’AvventuraLa NotteL’Eclisse, and Il Deserto Rosso) made by Michelangelo Antonioni during the early-to-mid ’60s. In these films, Antonioni (or Antoni-ennui, as one less-than-convinced reviewer christened him) explored the emerging struggle of modern man and woman in the latter half of the 20th century: namely, how will we adapt to a modern technological reality that renders many of our pre-existing human traits (close-knit friendships; emotional sensitivity; human kindness) seemingly unnecessary? Seen today, these films have a chilling, yet faintly comical quality to them: although many of his predictions appear startlingly prescient and somewhat profound, there is something undeniably absurd in the mannered movements and designs of his dystopic visions—which also call to mind the films of Jacques Tati; Playtime and Trafic in particular. Not unlike Pure Comedy, and the outrageous album artwork designed by Edward Steed (best-known for his regular contributions to The New Yorker), these mid-century filmmakers shared a common thread in their outlook: mankind is on the brink of a civilization with no need for civility.

It’s an assessment that puts us, as listeners and observers, in a curious position. While difficult to argue with, the finality of this assessment—which is essentially at the opposite end of the more cautiously optimistic: “we all want the same things”—precludes the possibility of a tenable paradigm shift. In “Ballad of the Dying Man” (and elsewhere on the record), Father John Misty directly confronts the dilemma of the modern-day progressive: he defines this dilemma in terms of our easy access to every hateful and ignorant remark perpetrated by ill-intentioned “trolls” (on the internet and in the press), and the apparent impossibility of doing anything about this without first becoming a contestant in their reality show (to further expand the meta- factor of the song’s narrative, its protagonist clearly calls to mind Misty’s own complicated relationship with millennial culture and clueless music writers). Put another way, the struggle of the contemporary conscientious objector can be defined by our having to acknowledge the existence of all these insignificant myths, in order to properly tear them apart and offer an alternative. And considering the pace of information technology and the seemingly incessant distribution of falsehoods, it is a hopeless and thankless task. It’s only fitting that Tillman should wind this song down with the following verse:

Eventually the dying man takes his final breath
But first checks his news feed to see what he’s ’bout to miss
And it occurs to him a little late in the game
We leave as clueless as we came
From rented heavens to the shadows in the cave
We’ll all be wrong someday.

But is that really all there is? One wonders. And the beauty of this album lies in its willingness to let us. Although replete with elements of finality, Pure Comedy is most easily distinguishable from its predecessors as a more contemplative and open-ended exercise in narrative songwriting. Tillman’s humbling concession at the end of “Ballad…” seems to stress this shift in tone, and it certainly makes one curious as to what his—and our—next move will be.

* * *

There is a song on the 1982 studio album by Bauhaus, titled “All We Ever Wanted Was Everything.” The lyrical counterpoint to this titular statement is: “All we ever got was cold.” As it stands, it seems that we Americans have gotten both outcomes over the course of this past century. While we remain one of the most wealthy and possession-obsessed countries on the planet, our voracious consumption habits and our extinction of humanity from popular culture have led to an expanding chill across the land. Some political commentators and historians have identified this as the chill of fascism; and while their assessment is far from groundless, the word doesn’t quite do justice to the magnitude of our socio-cultural problems. It seems more appropriate, in my view, to define this phenomenon as the chill of emptiness (which, oddly enough, has been amplified by the religious sector in the United States: a population that spent decades harping on about the spiritual dearth of their country, but ultimately committed the most spiritually vacant act of all by giving into the emptiness of 45). It’s enough to make any reasonable person question, with utmost sincerity: What exactly is it that we want?

At the close of this seemingly interminable nightfall on our nation’s conscience, maybe this will be the line of collective questioning that leads to the restoration of the American Myth—and the beginning of a new age. For if we cannot bring ourselves to dream of a better future, and to bring this future into the present, of what use are we?

“It’s getting dark/too dark to see.”
– Bob Dylan

It pains me to admit, but I continue finding myself caught in the whirlwind of current cultural affairs: forever flabbergasted by the institutionalized American virtue of ignorance; never willing to shake off my disappointment at how it’s all gone so wrong. As someone who has consistently relied upon (and benefited from) the once common cultural values of intellect, empathy, innovation, and reflection, I am growing increasingly disturbed by the environment I am existing in. I am mortified by the recent revelation that gay men are, as I live and breathe, being systemically rounded up in Chechnya: electrocuted, beaten, outed to their families, and—on several reported occasions—made the victims of horrific “honor” killings. My mortification is multiplied by the apparent refusal of our country’s leaders (that perspiring Senator from Florida notwithstanding) to even acknowledge these crimes against humanity—though I find it unlikely that any significant action will be taken in the immediate future, considering the convoluted relationship between this administration and the Russian government. Though not a pessimist by trade, finding shreds of optimism is difficult in a climate where the very notion of a shared human experience—one in which the assaults leveled against our fellow men and women are recognized, on some fundamental level, to be assaults against ourselves, as a people—is no longer certain. I think of those photos, proudly released during the campaign trail, of our current president’s sons posing with the bloodied carcasses of endangered animals. These images read to me as a microcosm of this diseased mindset, one in which living creatures are of no essential value outside their commodification as a trophy, a social hindrance, or an economic obligation.

There is nothing natural in nature.

While completing my undergrad degree in the field of social work, I invested much of my inquiry in the specialized field of research studies, and the hybridization of qualitative and quantitative analyses for (what I believed to be) under-reported contemporary social issues. When handed the assignment of developing an original research study proposal, I decided to focus on the representation of hate crimes by major media outlets—with an emphasis on internet and television sources. I recall my teacher raising her eyebrows when I initially informed her of my topic; it dawned on me, after our conversation, that she had feared I was speculating that such crimes were being exaggerated (in truth, my predictions were invested in the opposite direction). At the time, we were nearing the end of the first term in Obama’s two-term presidency, and a wave of social awareness was gradually washing over the nation: the idea of legalizing gay marriage was being discussed in concrete, achievable terms; the shootings of unarmed young black men were stirring a hushed but discernible dialogue about institutionalized racism; mass shootings in schools (among other public places) forced a superficial examination of the American obsession with guns, and shone a light on our society’s failure to incorporate mental health awareness in that elusive social construct known as the “American mindset.”

As I examined my personal bias, in an attempt to minimize its impact on my written proposal, I realized that I found this mindset to be most clearly defined by three basic criteria: an established focus on action (as opposed to underlying motive); the stubborn retention of hardened beliefs (as opposed to the recognition of fluctuating predispositions and disparate value systems); and an emphasis on the triumph of the individual (as opposed to the potential of the collective). I privately hypothesized at the time that this apparent wave of heightened—or, at least, heightening—social consciousness would eventually prove to be a mirage; that it would dissipate just as quickly as it seemed to arise, and that the bottom line of free-market capitalism, unbound by universal ethics or common-sense restrictions (e.g. keeping certain areas off-bounds: healthcare, the military-industrial complex, and the school/prison systems—seemingly intertwined), would triumph above this trend of recreational interest in the improvement of our society as a whole.

The 2016 U.S. election at once validated and provided a challenge to my hypothesis. Validated, insofar as the outcome of the election appeared (to me, at least) a testament to this country’s internalized indifference to issues of social justice and civil rights; challenged, insofar as the backlash to the election result—the rallies, the protests, the donations pouring into the coffers of civil rights organizations—hinted that the horse being flogged wasn’t quite dead yet. But three months into this new administration (which more closely resembles a New World Order with every passing news cycle), I find myself pondering a far more fundamental dilemma than the mapping of social progress. I find myself wondering: at what point is this ship—the ship known as American culture—going to become so dilapidated, so diseased, so leaky, that it will have no choice but to sink beneath the waters of its own fallacy? Put another way: is it possible we may, eventually, reach a point where there is little left on this ship that could be deemed worthy of salvaging?

* * *

To avoid having this read like a cynic’s exaggerated assessment of a totally workable problem (a consistent pet peeve of mine), I want to make clear the underlying concern in this line of questioning. First off, I am not particularly concerned about the ability of this country to swing its pendulum of political rhetoric back in the direction of popular liberalism—a direction that I find myself indisputably drawn towards, when forced to choose between the two extremes (and bearing in mind the unfortunate reality that, as a nation of people, we appear to be incapable of functioning outside of extremes). I also don’t doubt the ability of individuals to stoke the embers of “liberal” issues in their respective communities, preparing them to be brought to the forefront again once the pendulum makes its inevitable swing in the other political direction. What I am starting to question, though, is the efficacy—the integrity of this nation of people, which once (upon a time) provided a beacon of decency, altruism, and innovation to folks at home and abroad. And while I have yet to throw in the towel, I find myself grasping for a credible answer to this rather large and cumbersome question.

Much has been written about the (seemingly hypocritical, but arguably predictable) commitment of evangelical Christians to this totally secular, greed-driven, and unprincipled administration they helped to elect. Even more continues being written about the concerning involvement of the Russian government in our election, forcing one to question how the fabric of our democratic process can remain intact amid the shifting atmospheres of our digital age (taking into account the role that social media played in the distribution of propaganda and intolerance throughout the months leading up to voting season). Many of us have found ourselves posing the never-ending “why?” to this insane state of affairs, and the more information is disclosed to support an answer, the more insane it all seems. Personally, I find myself perpetually befuddled by the con job aspect of this global, political, and socio-cultural catastrophe. It goes without saying that, depending on one’s political leanings and selected information sources, the disclosed involvement of Russian trolls in the distribution of social media propaganda may (or may not) have been cause for concern in the voting booth. But one would be remiss in considering the possibility that any voters were not privy to the documented truth that our current president is both an incompetent businessman and a terrible person (or, to paraphrase an observation shared by David Sedaris at a book talk last night: “regardless of how someone voted, I assumed the fact that he was a deplorable human being to be a given”). Though white-washed by the vacuous talking heads at Fox News, the con jobs committed by our now-president were well-documented and well-publicized by most every other major news outlet. The disregard that was openly displayed towards these offenses by his ardent supporters surely transcended their hatred of Mrs. Clinton. It pointed to the underlying and unfortunate truth, which no one seemed comfortable admitting at the time: the appalling disconnect between his most zealous supporters, and any form of objective reality.

And this is where the road forks to the right of any historical precedent. Whereas every U.S. President elected (at least, in my lifetime) was voted into office under a quasi-Mythical pretense—using Merriam-Webster’s primary definition of Myth: a “story … that serves to unfold part of the world view of a people”—we are forced to accept that, at best, 45 was elected under the pretense of Webster’s secondary definition: “an unfounded or false notion.” Looking back, one finds that Barack Obama was elected under the pretense of his voters’ belief in the Myth that minorities will restore balance, integrity, and rejuvenation to a nation desecrated—time and again—by stupid white men. Or that W. Bush was elected under the Mythical pretense of restoring traditional family values to an office desecrated by the lustiness of his predecessor. Or that his predecessor embodied the Myth of the underdog, in the undeniably thrilling election of 1992 (documented memorably in the Pennebaker documentary, The War Room). One could also carry the underdog Myth over into the campaign of Mrs. Clinton, who represented (and to some, still represents) the Myth of the feminine as a source of social healing. (For all the naysayers’ protestations to her perceived arrogance and cronyism, those of us who had been around long enough to chart her career trajectory could appreciate her perseverance and her commitment to humane issues in the dirty field of politics, seemingly—and finally—against all odds). But no comparable Myth holds up to scrutiny in the campaign of 45, as his electorate fail to represent a coherent world view, or any coherent set of values. We have no recourse but to view the myth (def. #2) of white male supremacy as the most logical explanation for their choice of this otherwise totally unremarkable person to lead the country. And even this explanation remains tenuous, in my eyes—seeing as how much of their enthusiasm appears to be little more than a convictionless response to the perceived provocation of a diversified mainstream culture.

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George Stephanopoulos and James Carville remain living scions (for some, at least) to the Myth of the underdog in politics. Still taken from the D.A. Pennebaker documentary film, The War Room © 1993, October Films

The other possible explanation, which chills me to the bone and leaves me at a loss for words: a substantial portion of his voting base have renounced their commitment to any coherent system of values, and they are now collectively steering this country with a worldview that can be defined as maniacal—verging on sociopathic. The statistical fact that over 80% of self-professed Christians voted for—and most of them continue to support—this election outcome, indicates that things have taken a turn for the different (in contradiction to the voices who insist this administration is just “business as usual”). Whereas all the available evidence in the religious right’s nomination of Reagan and Bush (Sr. and Jr.) served to validate their conviction that these men might capably represent a “traditional” system of values, the plethora of evidence available for evaluating their selected candidate in the 2016 election indicates an almost by-the-book contradiction of every purported principle this voting block once represented. Interviews with these voters, and journalistic pieces published by a wide range of sources (from NPR, to USA Today, to the Washington Post), serve to corroborate the general understanding that many Christians are seeking to reclaim a cultural narrative, and their aim is not above supporting someone who practically embodies the Myth of the antichrist. Whether by hastening the apocalypse they so anxiously await, or by securing a super-conservative judge for the Supreme Court, or by simply not having elected Hillary Clinton, these voters—by and large—report that their decision has yielded a satisfactory outcome.

Some of these voters, as well as many a libertarian, will go so far as to insist that the contradictions are comparable among both parties; that Democrats overlooking the Clintons’ established history with Saudi oligarchs (a carry-over from the Bush and Reagan administrations) is equatable to Republicans overlooking the ludicrous overabundance of red flags surrounding their selected candidate. The term “false equivalency” was bandied about frequently by independent analysts during (and following) the 2016 election: while I have no intention of abusing its usage in this essay, I find this a fitting spot to plug it in. Because, as stated previously, the heinous disregard for any recognizable value system—unless we are to consider the love of ratings a value—which was reinforced at every twist and turn in our president’s campaign… well, that is a spectacle all its own, without any worthy synonym in the lexicon of our country’s history. Not only is this administration proving to be a bottomless mockery of its clearly outlined responsibilities (a fate which could have been predicted by anyone with a learned response system): it is proving to be the apotheosis of a culture in the process of collapsing—about to give way completely under the force of this maximal assault on sense and sensibility.

* * *

To recap: The Apprentice. The Kardashians. The Jenners. The televangelists. The morning talk show hosts. The prime-time reality television spectacles. The millions of self-made YouTube sensations, driven exclusively by the sycophancy of their viewers. All this incessant talking—and not a word of it meaningful. The emerging notion that value lies not within our hearts and minds, or within our capacity for relating to others in a decent and functional fashion (or in our skill level, and our capacity to achieve greatness); but rather, within a person’s conviction that such things are not worthy of one’s time—and ultimately, in the acceptance that this is the only conviction that counts.

Everything is sacred.

Seen in broader context, I should hope that everyone can recognize 45 as the pinnacle of a cultural malaise that has been brewing loudly and swiftly for well over a decade. It is this broader malaise—emboldening both the extremes of racist, sexist, capitalist fascism, and full-blown social anarchy—that provided the platform for this lunatic president to enter our vision’s periphery in the first place. It is ratings and recognition that our president has sought all along. While he presents a tragic miniaturization of the potential for one’s existence on this planet, his is an outlook shared by millions of other Westerners—all leading millions of separated, socio-culturally disintegrated lives. When viewing the internet as a vehicle for narcissism and cultural schizophrenia, a less deterministic individual might argue against throwing the baby out with the bathwater; personally, I find the entire social construct to be perched on a precarious edge, and the direction it’s sliding isn’t sky-bound. I suppose you could say, I still need convincing as to whether—years from now—any of our current cultural phenomena will even be worthy of human recall.

can attest to this, from my 30 years on the planet: being ignorant was not always a point of pride in dominant American culture. Although the troubled relationship with our own country’s history (specifically when it comes to issues such as slavery and genocide) has always been a point of contention for patriotic historians, the simple fact that history was deemed worthy of review pointed to a general recognition that within knowledge lay truth, and within truth lay value. Alas, as indicated by the recent protests in support of science (typing these words feels utterly surreal), knowledge is now culturally frowned upon—and by a growing contingent. The response by our current president to these protests provided a backhanded critique of knowledge, in and of itself:

“We should remember that rigorous science depends not on ideology, but on a spirit of honest inquiry and robust debate. This April 22nd, as we observe Earth Day, I hope that our nation can come together to give thanks for the land we all love and call home.”

Though I give points for this being one of the more superficially erudite statements made by the man in his brief political career, I shiver at the sheer volume of inherent hypocrisy—the incongruity; the unearthly detachment of his delivery (for after all, these are not his words: they are a teleprompter’s, which is to be expected from POTUS on occasion. I reckon 45 deserves a boost in ratings for this commendable step up from his previous, more amateurish m.o.). One must view this statement within the context of his first week in office, during which 45: reversed Obama-era protections preventing coal from being dumped in our rivers; wiped all climate change data from the White House website (only to have it restored, on the heels of voluminous protestations); denied (again) the statistically proven reality of climate change; alleged that millions of invisible admirers showed up for his inauguration—whereas the millions of photographically evident protesters did not, in fact, exist. And even before his inauguration, let us remember that 45 proudly proposed drilling for oil in our national parks (not to mention his silence on the newly implemented House rules which would allow the sale of national parks). It’s only fitting that a couple of days after this statement, in an Associated Press interview, the same president should proceed to dwell obsessively upon the significance of his viewership out-numbering the viewership of news coverage during the horrors of September 11th. Just as with the man himself (if one were generous enough to refer to him with the fully developed biological noun), it is a comparison at once repellent, mocking, and atrocious; ultimately, devoid of any value whatsoever. Unlike his invariably more dignified predecessors—who hid their private lives, their hardships, and their neuroses behind closed doors—45 has succeeded in making his neurosis, corruption, and reprehensible character a cause for celebration and worship.

I think, once again, of this sinking ship—once an enviable (and dare-I-say, admirable) nation of people. While there remain millions of decent American citizens, frantically endeavoring to keep the admirable embers of this society (along with its core sense of sanity) aglow, there is also an evident, emerging population of humans who have observably devolved from what once was expected to be our potential for greatness. And while this strain of devolution—which also extends itself to include the pre-emptively intolerant culture of many so-called “liberal” colleges—is taking no prisoners, it does seem to be taking sides. Because statistics (specifically, independent analysis of partisan opinion polls from before and after the inauguration of 45) indicate that it is predominantly Republican voters who have detached themselves from objective reality. Whereas many Democratic voters—when questioned about commonplace issues, such as taxes and foreign policy—have voiced their opinion in terms of observable similarities between Obama’s policies and those of 45, a much larger portion of Republican voters indicated a personal bias that extends the limits of available facts (seemingly to assail or praise the competency of the president in office at each given time). For instance, although U.S. tax rates did not vary between the tax years 2015 and 2016 (with the country still operating under the budget of the Obama administration’s final fiscal year), a recent Pew poll reveals that the public approval of tax rates among Republicans voters rose by 17% this year. On the flip-side, Democratic voters who were polled revealed consistent ratings of approval from year to year, in accordance with the stasis of our current tax policy. Likewise, whereas only 22% of polled Republican voters approved of Barack Obama’s proposal to strike Syria, a startling 88% now find themselves in agreement with our current president’s proposal to do the very same.

Ultimately, it is not our country’s ability to swing back towards popular liberalism that I call into question: it is our country’s apparent inability to swing back towards popular wisdom that I am deeply disturbed by. Because popular wisdom previously would have determined that a country ought not to place a proven con man in its highest office, much less expect a sudden change in character—or, more foolishly, expect this character to offer any viable solution to long-standing problems. And once-popular wisdom certainly would not have ennobled this culture of “famous-for-being-famous,” which somehow—although steadily eating itself—never appears to run out of itself. This is the diseased water seeping through the leaks in our ship: engulfing everything it can reach in a swamp of ignorance and intolerance, and drowning the lot of it in insignificance. Sure, this vessel could remain afloat for an indeterminate period of time; but unless it is patched and properly repaired, it will eventually—inevitably—prove itself unsustainable.

“It is useless. Nothing is possible now.”

The reader may be wondering about the block quotes I’ve sporadically inserted throughout this essay. They are from Pasolini’s film of the Myth of Medea—another of the director’s works that I’ve found illuminating in these times of widespread disorientation. These quotes provide a sort of mantra for the concerns I’m attempting to outline in this disoriented piece, and it seemed fitting to me that they should come from a comparably enraged film. The picture opens with the centaur recounting the Mythical history of the Golden Fleece to the infant Jason: the centaur observes that “there is nothing natural in nature”—referring to the paradoxical notion that we do harm to our own natural environment, whenever we take it for granted; and that the Mythical exists all around us, if we are only open to perceiving it. The centaur further recognizes that “everything is sacred”—an intentionally broad statement, which Pasolini manipulates to reflect his own fears of modern man having lost touch with sacredness in any form (religious or otherwise). The director went on to personally observe, in one of his final interviews, that people were appearing less and less to him as human beings, and more frequently as mere “machines bumping into one another.” Unfortunately, present circumstances offer much in the way of validation for Pasolini’s projected concerns. Because when even the most devout religious zealots are willing to renounce their own stated values, in order to hijack a cultural narrative (perhaps not realizing how their hypocrisy reinforces the disinterest and disdain of those atheist folks whose souls they claim to be concerned about)—and when even the most devout liberal activist is cornered by the hashtag- and selfie-contained activism of millenial “culture”—then truly, “we are all in danger” (the title of Pasolini’s final interview).

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Maria Callas takes on the role of Medea in Pasolini’s film of Euripides’s Myth. The narrative culminates with Medea’s decision to kill her own children, in lieu of having them suffer banishment by their father. © 1969, SNC

To be sure, one hopes that the core qualities of humanity (empathy, cognition, innovation, and reflection) will somehow survive in this hazardous environment; that they will eventually redeem this unsettling fall from grace, and restore some sense of balance to a reality that is—rather swiftly—rendering these very qualities vestigial. One certainly hopes we won’t reach the state of mind Maria Callas’s Medea assumes at the end of Pasolini’s film, when she slaughters her children and burns the castle down, screaming insanely into the camera: “It is useless. Nothing is possible now.” Yet the provocation underlying this film, and the provocation of these outlined concerns, remain of pertinence to the subject at hand—and they beg the question: Who among us is willing  and determined to prove these concerns unfounded? And how are we going to prove it?

PJ Harvey’s pre-apocalyptic North American tour

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View from above: taking in the stage set-up for PJ Harvey’s Massey Hall performance from the upper balcony.

“Water
Walking
Walking on water
Walking
Walking on for years, and years, and years
Taking it into my head
Living by the right lines
Reading what the very man said…”
– “Water” (from the studio album Dry, 1992)

It’s a Thursday night in Toronto, Ontario. I’m seated in the third row of the uppermost balcony in the legendary and historic Massey Hall theater, waiting anxiously for the show to unfold before me. While I await, I engage in some shameless people-watching—taking in the surprisingly diverse demographic range of fellow admirers. I find that I am compulsively adjusting my legs in the cramped space between my seat and the subsequent row; I remind myself that humans were of a somewhat smaller build at the time of this venue’s construction, but I am fairly confident this won’t prove detrimental to my enjoyment of the spectacle I’ve awaited eagerly for the past 13 years. I take in each component of the widespread set on stage (three separate drum kits; two keyboard rigs; a row of five vocal microphones; an array of guitars), and I tell myself one last time: you’re about to see PJ Harvey perform live in concert.

Pinch yourself.

* * *

It’s a trying task—writing about an artist whose craftsmanship and soul essence you’ve admired, studied, and (even, admittedly) obsessed over for a period of over a decade; objectivity is rather firmly out of the question (to put it mildly). Then again, one starts to wonder: is objectivity ever truly within one’s reach as an audience participant? Aren’t we all at the mercy of our individual whims, preferences, and fetishes when it comes to consuming a live performance—let alone being at the mercy of other attendees in one’s immediate vicinity? Subjectivity in such matters seems to me an inevitable and foregone conclusion.

I’m again reminded of Naomi Greene’s writings on the “free indirect subjectivity” permeating the films of Pier Paolo Pasolini: her excellent book, Cinema of Heresy, happened to be my primary reading material during this Canadian road trip. In hindsight, the correlations between these two seemingly disparate sources (Greene’s theoretical writings on one of world cinema’s most controversial and ill-fated legends, and the live performance of a living music legend) seem to me overwhelmingly prevalent. Walking back to our hotel after show’s end—in stunned silence; for what can one say, after achieving transcendence, that might add anything of possible merit?—the images of Pasolini’s final films (having just finished Greene’s chronological text earlier that day) converged aqueously in my mind with the overpowering imagery of the evening’s events. And I found myself replaying the borrowed chorus from the penultimate number repeatedly in my head: “Wade in the water/God’s gonna trouble the water…

I suppose some context may help to frame the following thoughts in a clearer light for the unfortunate reader of this (doubtlessly meandering) essay. For starters, a temporal framework: it is Thursday, April 13th, 2017. PJ Harvey is embarking upon an expansive (comparative to her 2016 outing) North American tour, starting in Toronto. In Canada, the Prime Minister is a doe-eyed populist liberal, beloved by citizens at home and abroad. The United States, meanwhile, has as its Commander-in-Chief a mentally unhinged populist autocrat, who may all-too-conceivably be accelerating the end of the world via any number of available means (nuclear holocaust; opportunistic climate change denial; a general inability to refrain from performing rash acts, with the apparent intent of continuously domineering the attention of profit-driven media outlets).

I’ve spent much of this year having pained conversations with friends, associates, and acquaintances from across the political spectrum—trying in vain to make sense of what is happening in the world; hoping against all hope that a deus ex machina will present itself and save the human species from the destructive urges of this latest assortment of clinically unstable world leaders. Earlier this week, news emerged of gay men in Chechnya being rounded up—some reported to have been murdered—for imprisonment in concentration camps. On the same day that Ms. Harvey’s tour is slated to begin, the Pentagon authorizes the deployment of the largest non-nuclear bomb at the disposal of the grandiose U.S. Military-industrial complex; it is reported that a total of 36 Afghan militants were killed as a result of the bombing. A week prior, the current U.S. president authorized the launch of Tomahawk missiles against Assad’s regime in Syria. And in the midst of all this chaos, American citizens anxiously await confirmation of well-founded suspicions that this very president colluded with Vladimir Putin and his legion of government cronies to influence the 2016 election—which would frame all of these happenings within the disorienting precedent of a traitor being placed in the highest office of the American government, and subsequently authorizing attacks upon foreign countries under the galling auspices of delivering democracy. One may find oneself drawn to the lines from one of Harvey’s songs on her newest album:

“Those are the children’s cries from the dark
these are the words written under the arch
scratched in the wall in biro pen
this is how the world will end.”

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PJ Harvey and her nine-piece band take the stage in Toronto to kick off their 2017 North American tour in support of The Hope Six Demolition Project.

I find myself propelled back into that uncomfortable seat, way up in the balcony of Massey Hall. Polly Jean Harvey is on-stage, decked out like an exotic bird, perched in heeled leather boots that—from a distance, at least—give the marked impression of a heron’s legs. As the second song of the night (and possibly my favorite track from her latest offering) begins to take flight, a curtain behind the stage unveils a new addition to the set. Rising from behind the vaulted proscenium, a massive, dimpled wall starts to loom increasingly (and rather forebodingly) large above the ten-piece band. I’m paralyzed by the intensity of the moment: the stunning silences between the guitar notes; the forced breathing of the keyboardist, adding sonic texture and punctuation throughout the number. Polly’s voice soars at the start of each verse—and this is but a warm-up for the night’s vocal acrobatics: “This is the ministry/Of defence/The stairs and walls are/All that’s left.

Two drummers, Jean-Marc Butty (a resident of PJ’s band since her 2009 tour in support of A Woman A Man Walked By) and Alain Johannes (a newer addition), are pounding out what I presume the opening of the seventh seal, as described in the Book of Revelations, might very well sound like. I’m both riveted by the sights and sounds that are overwhelming my senses, and forcibly reminded of the global events surrounding this occasion. After all, it was Polly’s visits to Afghanistan and Kosovo between 2011 and 2014 that initially spawned the “project” of this album’s namesake; it was her conscious decision to go “to the front line of the issue rather than picking it out of the newspapers” (as quoted by Billy Bragg in the May 2016 issue of Uncut) which resulted in this alarming approach to songwriting, as well as the brave selection of subject matter. Drawing a slight but noteworthy contrast between Ms. Harvey’s approach and that of Bob Dylan, Bragg explains: “Dylan wasn’t beaten up during the Civil Rights in America, but he read about Medgar Evers and he wrote about it. Whereas Polly seems to be much more like a war artist in the fact that she’s actually gone there to experience it and bring it back. It’s like frontline reporting.”

While the ostensible intent of this project appears to faithfully have been grounded in this attitude of “[wanting] to smell the air, feel the soil and meet the people of the countries I was fascinated with,” it’s worth noting that the finished outcomes of this pursuit (the book of poetry and photographs, The Hollow of the Hand; the album; the world tour) all carry a flavor that is noticeably removed from a purely journalistic outlook. A worthy anecdote to highlight this distance between the intent and the outcome of Harvey’s latest project (a distance which, I might add, is inherent to the realization of any creative project—though breadth varies from case to case) is the backlash the singer/songwriter received from Vincent Gray—the former mayor of Washington, D.C.—after releasing the album’s second single, “The Community of Hope.” Inspired by Harvey’s latest visit to the nation’s capital, which centered upon lower-income areas within Ward 7, the song contains lyrics alluding to a school that “looks like a shit hole;” a neighborhood resembling a “drug town” (“just zombies, but that’s just life”); and the renovation of an old mental institution into the Homeland Security base. Gray’s exact words on the subject, as quoted in an online article by DCist: “I will not dignify this inane composition with a response.” His Campaign Treasurer, on the other hand, chose to dignify the song with the following assessment, “PJ Harvey is to music what Piers Morgan is to cable news”—which leaves one in doubt as to whether this fellow would be able to pick Ms. Harvey out of a line-up, let alone being in any position to capably interpret her peculiar style of writing.

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Points of reference (clockwise from left): The Hollow of the Hand poem and photo book; the May 2016 issue of Uncut Magazine; Uncut’s Ultimate Music Guide to PJ Harvey; the studio album.

Although I personally beg to differ with the criticisms launched against this (and other songs) on the album, I find them of significance insofar as they point to the aforementioned distance between Harvey’s stated goal for this project, and the devastating result of her efforts. It’s a distance that Naomi Greene (or Gilles Deleuze, for that matter) might argue to have been marked by that same “free indirect subjectivity,” which forms the cornerstone of not only Pasolini’s work, but Godard’s, Antonioni’s, and Fassbinder’s as well. As explained by Pasolini, this form of subjectivity in writing can be identified as “the presence of the author who, through an abnormal freedom, transcends his film and continually threatens to abandon it, detoured by sudden inspiration—an inspiration of latent love for the poetic world of his own vital experiences… In short, beneath the technique produced by the protagonist’s state of mind—which is disoriented, uncoordinated, beset by details, given to compelling anxieties—the world constantly surfaces as it is seen by the equally neurotic author: dominated by an elegant, elegiac, and never classicist, spirit” (Greene, p. 119).

Elegant and elegiac. Two words that would befit PJ Harvey’s personae of the past decade most suitably. Ever since turning (yet) a(nother) page with the stark chamber pieces of 2007’s White Chalk, Harvey’s listeners and admirers have been privy to a somewhat different character angle than the one we identified throughout her ’90s output. Then again, when taken as a collected oeuvre, a dedicated student of her work may well reach the conclusion that her entire career has been predicated upon this same form of indirect subjectivity all along. One could feasibly take this observation further and argue that what her harshest critics have possibly reacted against is not her perceived “misanthropy,” or the seemingly perpetual darkness of her subject matter; their disapproval may instead stem from an (arguably justifiable) aversion to an artist who has chosen to specialize in the territory between her subject matter and her own creative self. For even in her most dedicated and visceral performances—the “Joan Crawford on acid” persona of the To Bring You My Love tour, or the lovelorn sensualist of Uh Huh Her—there exists an undeniable tension between the committed (forgive the pun) words and attitudes of her characters, and the mannered control of her own artist’s instinct. Not unlike Bowie, and yet the distance is even more pronounced—more arch (closer to Scott Walker territory, as far as comparisons go). With every new incarnation of her 25-year career span, it’s as though Polly Jean has been repeatedly pronouncing: “Here is a woman. She is not me, and yet she is.” (And with Let England Shake, this pronouncement stretched more broadly to incorporate the additional layer: “Here are the men who died in these wars. They are not me, and yet their blood courses through me.”)

This very same message emerged palpably and overwhelmingly at the start of her Massey Hall performance—as she emerged with her cohorts in the line formation of a marching band, and proceeded to chant the opening lines of the first number, “Chain of Keys” (which communicates on a far more imminently powerful level than in the studio recording): “Fifteen keys/Fifteen keys hang on a chain/The chain is joint/The chain is joint and forms a ring/The ring is in/The ring is in a woman’s hand/She’s walking on/She’s walking on the dusty ground.” The song makes reference to a woman whom she encountered on her travels in Kosovo—the keeper of the keys to fifteen houses owned by fifteen men she’s unsure if she will ever see again (the poem version of this song, as published in The Hollow of the Hand, includes the additional lines: “Numbers painted on the doors/posters on the locked-up church/in black and white, the recent dead./Now all I do is wait, she says.”) It is a shameless cliché, but I can think of no better way to describe the show’s introduction than to say it was electrifying.

Whereas in earlier outings, Polly Jean tended to slide rather directly into the skins of the characters sprinkled throughout her songs’ narratives, post-White Chalk PJ appears to have developed a keener dedication to maintaining (and even celebrating) the distance between herself as the artist, and the characters in her songs as autonomous beings. Which is part of what renders The Hope Six Demolition Project so rewarding upon repeat listening: the palpable, positive existence of the human beings who populate these eleven stories. Her perspective is with the subjects, but never totally within. And even this tenuous connection between herself and her characters is called into question repeatedly—most pointedly in the lyrics of “Dollar, Dollar,” where she finds herself “trapped” in the backseat of a car in Afghanistan, struggling to come to terms with the sight of an ill and impoverished child begging at her car window: “All my words get swallowed/In the rear view glass/A face pock-marked and hollow/He’s saying dollar, dollar.

These moments (alongside the militaristic psychodrama of “The Ministry of Defence,” with its cast of children who “do the same thing everywhere/They’ve sprayed graffiti in Arabic/And balanced sticks in human shit”) appear to me to parallel the observations of Gilles Deleuze, in reference to Pasolini and the notion of free indirect subjectivity on-film: “What characterizes Pasolini’s cinema is a poetic awareness which… is mystical or ‘sacred’… Here is the permutation of the trivial and the noble, the connection between the excremental and the beautiful, and the projection into myth that Pasolini diagnosed in free indirect discourse [seen] as the essential form of literature. And he succeeds in making it into a cinematographic form capable of grace as much as of horror.”

“…Lying on eleven years
Taking it into my head
Mary, Mary drop me softly
Been reading what your very man said
Lying on eleven years
Taking it into my head
Leave my clothes on the beach
I’m walking down into the sea…”

As with her earliest albums for Elektra, PJ Harvey’s music work continues to carry with it a cinematographic strain. This was rendered explicit with the release of the Let England Shake album, the unveiling of which culminated in a collaboration with filmmaker/photographer Seamus Murphy—who produced a short film for each one of the tracks on the record. Seamus has since contributed three original music videos to her latest project (as well as providing the accompanying photographs for her poems in The Hollow of the Hand), and one can only hope there will be more forthcoming. But beyond the produced visuals in support of the album, one is immediately drawn to the subjectively conjured visuals of Harvey’s indirect lyrics: the characters throughout these songs, nameless though they may be, remain with us for the album’s duration—and they don’t readily abandon us (or let us abandon them) after the end credits roll. There is such a truthful, mythical quality to the depictions of the people in these songs; it’s the type of truth that encompasses all the contradictions of reality, including the likelihood that her harsh description of certain locations (such as D.C.’s Ward 7) are both every bit as exaggerated as the former D.C. mayor would have us believe, and every bit as bad as she succeeds in making them sound.

But beyond these notions of indirect subjectivity and writer’s POV, there appears to be a more profound understanding at play within the subtext of The Hope Six Demolition Project and its supporting tour. Namely, the perceived wisdom of having fully accepted the limitations of what art can accomplish, while simultaneously reaching for the outer limits of what is capable. In short, by carving into the terrain of myth, which reveals itself to be sacred (while offering up equal measures of the profane) Harvey has set herself—and this work—apart from the more traditional forms of front-line reportage. In Cinema of Heresy, Greene also cites a previous text by Lino Micciche, in which he draws a comparison between the German philosopher Theodor Adorno, and the role assumed by Pasolini as a revolutionary film-maker: “Adorno is seen as the man who best described contemporary society as one in which the order of the Enlightenment turned into barbarianism, where thought ceased to think itself, where the destruction of the Myth… created the new myth of Reason (and its order of the ‘rational’). For Adorno, in fact, and in general for all ‘negative thought,’ the mandate of intellectuals and artists… [to] merely oppose what exists… winds up by reflecting… the barbarity of what exists” (p. 170). The rationalism of her critics is thus drawn into stark contrast with the unstated intent of her latest work (further outlined by her refusal to give any interviews on the subject—the interview being that most rational and, all-too-often, belittling of vehicles for the artist’s message): to bring us in direct contact with the unseen and unspoken terrain that lies beyond the imploding confines of twentieth century rationalism.

So not unlike Pasolini, with his mythic film quartet, PJ Harvey has ventured into that territory housing the origins of man-made myth itself: the lands of the Middle East. (Lines from “The Orange Monkey” serve to corroborate her intent: “…to understand/You must travel back in time/I took a plane to a foreign land/And said, ‘I’ll write down what I find.’”) Also not unlike Pasolini (who once remarked: “I do not place much faith in action, unless it is truly action”), Harvey is establishing a space for herself—as an artist—in which she can maintain an indirectly subjective rapport with her characters, all the while avoiding the self-righteous sermonizing of most social consciousness-driven songwriting. But what separates Harvey from Pasolini, as both a human being and an artist (among many of the latter’s character traits, not worth numbering), is the apparent, genuine empathy she reveals for the people she depicted in these songs. Unlike the Italian filmmaker, whose career ended on a note of the most profound and dour pessimism, Harvey appears to be at least containing—and quite possibly contemplating—the possibility of a happy ending. Whereas many critics, upon release, commented disparagingly that Ms. Harvey ought not venture into the world’s biggest problems without offering any solutions, I personally find their admonishment laughable and unwarranted—on at least two levels. First, since when has it become the artist’s responsibility to provide tactile solutions for the world’s most enormous social problems? (Morality aside, are competent artists generally equipped to become efficient policy-makers?) And second, couldn’t we all admit that one of the more substantial problems at-hand these days is the proliferation of individuals offering their self-proclaimed expertise on possible solutions, while never actually participating in the implementation of their propositions (or never having been an expert in the first place)? It appears to me, these days, that solutions to social issues are worked out and proposed without even considering the source problem from a multitude of angles. The irony of this faux pas, of course, is that the cultural notion of intentional, “solution-focused thinking”—featured in many an inspirational TED talk—has, in fact, failed to offer many tangible and long-lasting solutions to society’s broader issues. In part, this has been for a failure to comprehend, clearly and unanimously, the source(s) of the problems at-hand.

And so Polly Jean invites us to look. To really look, and to withhold from offering expert advice on something we’re not really an expert in. Her songs seem to be saying: “I’ve actually been there, and I know little more than I did before having gone. But here are the fragmented facts I can attest to; someone else has the rest of the picture.” It’s not just honest: it’s—dare I say it?—revolutionary, in proportion to the present-day worldviews of many writers. There is a genuine empathy inherent to these songs, and to their live performances, but it is all smartly packaged within the mythical/theatrical tradition of storytelling. It is both huge and small; conveyed with a Brechtian influence, and marked by occasions of unexpected warmth and humor (such as the ridiculous sax solos in “The Ministry of Social Affairs,” or the unexpected, highly rewarding inclusion of “50 Ft. Queenie” towards the live set’s culmination). Her current songwriting approach never quite enables us to get comfortable within the sketchy parameters of the scenes she is depicting: the work is clearly conscious of her—and of her likely audience’s—somewhat bourgeois milieu, and it refuses middle-class consumers the somewhat sadistic and classicist comfort of admiring the horrors of humanity from a safe distance. This approach reminds us perpetually that it “does not simply give a vision of the character and his world; it imposes another vision in which the first vision is transformed and reflected” (Deleuze, in reference to Pasolini’s use of the camera). And this is where Harvey most explicitly transcends the defined confines of the various mediums she is operating within (live performance; poetry; songwriting; recording), drawing our attention instead to analyze the intended purpose of the mediums themselves—and to recognize the endless sea of inherent subjectivity that envelops them. It is also significant to recognize here that, for the first time in her catalogue of album artwork designs, we are not delivered a crisply conceived, fine-tuned aesthetic. Announcing an immediate departure with the designer’s choice of the “Impact” font (which so many of us are likely to associate with the pedantic phenomenon of the “meme”), this newest album cover somewhat daringly mixes the personal—the crest being of family origin to John Parish, Harvey’s long-time collaborator—with the culturally vulgar. It is a product for creative consumption, and at the same time, it seems to be calling into question the integrity of its own conception.

In a highly reflexive, quasi-Godardian move, Harvey maintains a steady commitment throughout The Hope Six Demolition Project to not employing any emotional clichés, instead quoting from genre (the gospel blues of “River Anacostia;” the jazz-inflected plastic soul of “The Ministry of Social Affairs;” the barroom chant at the close of “Community of Hope;” the layered, live instrumentation of the tracks, loosely recalling ABCKO-era Stones) and inserting documentary-influenced observations throughout to achieve an almost endlessly repeatable cycle of sonic paintings. Appropriately enough, one of the stand-out pieces from the album (and a high point of her Massey Hall performance, garnering a standing ovation) is entitled “The Wheel:” it takes as its subject matter the thousands of children who go missing every year in the Middle East, leaving empty playground carousels spinning in the wind. Harvey never lets us forget that most of the characters in these songs are now—or have always been—ghosts, and she deploys language as a masterful weapon to conjure simple, timeless images in the listener’s mind of the chaotic, life-drenched, and death-soaked landscapes she has visited.

“…Now the water to my ankles
Now the water to my knees
Think of him, all waxy wings
Melted down into the sea
Mary, Mary, what your man said
Washing it all over my head
Mary, Mary, hold on tightly
Over water, under the sea…”

The back catalogue selections in her live set also reveal an astute awareness of the disparities and the similarities between her former selves, and her current outlook: by blocking the set with an initial chunk of songs from the new project, followed by a series of selections from the comparably poetic and politic-inflected Let England Shake, she then segues from the inebriated woman in a wheelchair at the end of Hope Six‘s “Medicinals,” to the woman undergoing an abortion in White Chalk‘s “When Under Ether” (with both songs also calling to mind the powerful presence of the woman holding the chain of keys to those fifteen abandoned houses—not to mention real-life issues of women’s rights, making global headlines on a daily basis). She then proceeds to weave, in a totally seamless and fluid fashion, numbers from To Bring You My Love and Rid of Me with the remaining pieces of her three most recent albums—alternating between the desperate child at her car window in “Dollar, Dollar” and the woman inviting “The Devil” to enter her soul “on a night with no moon;” between the blues of the beggars soliciting outside “The Ministry of Social Affairs,” and the self-confident swagger of the “king of the world” in “50 Ft. Queenie.” For an artist renowned for being (at times, overly) curatorial and selective in her live set sequencing, it’s an absolute joy to see her make full use of her biggest touring band to date, giving new life to older songs which fully warrant the panoramic treatment (did I mention that this band is phenomenally good?) In fact, two numbers from her most blatantly cinematic album to-date (and one of my personal favorites), To Bring You My Love, serve as a highly dramatic lead-up to the anticlimactic warning sign of “River Anacostia”—which closes out the set proper. Traveling from the woman who commits infanticide in “Down By the Water,” to the one who has “climbed over mountains” and “forsaken heaven/To bring you my love,” the set ends with a subtle return to the more prophetic overtones of the woman whose chain of keys first opened the floodgates. But something has changed between then and now: over the course of her transformative and bristling performance, she has come that much closer to fusing herself with the song’s narrator. She now beckons, with both a genuine urgency and the heightened drama of a Greek chorus: “What will become of us?/What will become of us?” As the band repeats the chorus of a 19th century African-American spiritual (another link in the chain, emphasizing the mythical proportion of the entire project), the wall that was erected behind the band at the start of the night sinks quietly to the ground—swallowed by the poisonous waters of the river in question.

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A towering wall looms large above Polly Jean and her band, as they provide both a warning sign of things to come.

As I left the theater and replayed that hair-raising performance of “River Anacostia” over again and again in my mind, I couldn’t help being reminded of the apocalyptic tone which overtook Pasolini in his final years—ultimately revealing its bleakest colors in the magisterial despair of Salò. I then thought of Harvey’s encore song selections: the broad, mythical canvas of Dylan’s “Highway 61 Revisited,” and the borderline-romantic (yet invariably gritty) depiction of her homeland, “The Last Living Rose.” I thought of this final moment of transcendent beauty, occurring at the end of this crowning number as she intones: “Let me watch the night fall on the river/The moon rise up and turn to silver/The sky move, the ocean shimmer/The hedge shake, the last living rose/Quiver.” With this final word, she goes through the motions of a mannered circle dance, calling to my preoccupied mind the ritualistic dance at the close Salò, which I’d found myself reading about that same morning. It was both a fitting finale, and a lingering reminder of the fragility inherent to this performance and its contents—let alone the fragility of the world’s survival in the troubling times we find ourselves living in. Once again, in contrast to Pasolini, Harvey doesn’t flatly deny us a happy ending: she seems instead to be denying the viability of any self-imposed ending to the vast and mythical narrative she has embarked upon.

Throughout the towering and unforgettable show Ms. Harvey has put together, she consistently makes us (her long-time listeners and admirers) fully, viscerally aware of the continuity stretching from the opening notes of Dry‘s “Oh My Lover,” to the cinéma vérité -inflected poeticism of her more recent projects—and she leaves us breathlessly wondering what might come next. Her magisterial performance serves as a humbling reminder that she remains in a league of her own, artistically speaking. One could reach for any number of comparisons with other poets/songwriters/performance artists (Patti Smith; Marina Abramović; Kate Bush), but when all is said and done, Polly Jean Harvey has cultivated a soil fully her own—which she is both modestly maintaining and ambitiously expanding from year to year. Her subject matter may have evolved over the course of the past two and a half decades, but it has retained the air of the mountain breeze blowing through the clothes of the protagonist in “Fountain.” The mythical body of “Water” that she walks on at the end of Dry emerges as the same water in which a child is drowned in To Bring You My Love—which is, in turn, the same sea her characters float in during the finale of Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea. The water from this sea now carries with it the poisons of “River Anacostia,” warning us (in a morally neutral tone) of the two most prominent threats looming over our present-day civilization: the devastating effects of climate change, and the contamination of our water supply.

As with Pasolini (widely regarded now as one of the greatest artists of the 20th century), Harvey ultimately calls to mind the “eternal return” of the Romanian philosopher, Mircea Eliade, who determined in his writings that: “Every sacrifice repeats the initial sacrifice and coincides with it… And the same holds true for all repetitions, i.e., all imitations of archetypes; through such imitations, man is projected into the mythical epoch in which the archetypes were first revealed. Thus we perceive… there is an implicit abolition of profane time, of duration, of ‘history’; and he who reproduces the exemplary gesture thus finds himself transported into the mythical epoch in which its revelation took place.” Likewise, Harvey has eschewed the self-righteous proselytizing of her pop music contemporaries, in favor of rooting herself firmly in mythical landscapes that—put in proper perspective—serve to dwarf the short-sighted and ineffectual efforts of modern man and woman.

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The audience dissipates into a crowd outside the venue.

And so we return to our hotel after this life-altering event, and we find ourselves at a loss for words. Because during the course of the past couple hours, we have transcended the boundaries of time and place, and we have experienced an authentic, humbling encounter with the likely origins of the world’s most widely debated (and frequently misrepresented) problems. We have been made hyper-aware of the vulgarity underlying the words of so many politicians, experts, and self-proclaimed artists—all vainly claiming to have found the solutions to these problems. But we can still see that revolving wheel, from which all those thousands of children have disappeared; we see “a tableau of the missing”—“a faded face/the trace of an ear.” And we “watch them fade out/and watch them fade out/and watch them fade out…”