Songs of the week 11/17/2023

Look into my eye.

REAL LOVE BABY | The Heavy Heavy covering Father John Misty Okay, just gonna rip the band-aid off now: Father John Misty gives me just a little ick. I hate saying that, since I know some of you guys out there like him, and it’s not that I’d totally write him off—“Hangout at the Gallows,” anyone? (thank you Quinn)—but there’s just a barefoot Jared Leto essence about him that I wish I could get over. Where his original “Real Love Baby” might sound stoned or sleazy, though, The Heavy Heavy’s 2023 take strikes the sincere chord I’ve always heard glimmers of in this song. This might just be my sixties affinity, but the second I heard this cover’s opening organ, I was hooked. The higher key, emphasized harmonies, and retro instrumentation here radiate the giddiness I’d expect from iconic lines like “I’m a flower, you’re the bee”—the first warm and syrupy fireworks of falling in love. As much as I’d expect a universality to that feeling, I often have trouble looking past my own ass and realizing everyone’s resonance is unique—everyone’s color vision is slightly different, so why would emotions or music be any different? It’s something I have a hard time with because I have a neurotic need to justify to myself why my sensations or taste or perspective are correct—read into that as you will, but while I try to get over it, covers as good as this are a must. In translating “Real Love Baby” to their style, The Heavy Heavy has emotionally widened the song’s reach—adjusting its resonance for pretentious fuckers like myself means that, for a moment, I can imagine what it’s like to resonate with someone else’s taste. It’s radically empathetic, and if that’s not real love, what is?

Pairs Well With: “Daydream Believer” (The Monkees), “Tell Me (What’s On Your Mind)” (The Allah-Las), “The Rain, The Park, and Other Things” (The Cowsills)

THE TOWER THAT ATE PEOPLE | Peter Gabriel If I dared to complain about Peter Gabriel’s Ball Arena performance this October—which I wouldn’t, this is entirely hypothetical, mind you—I’d say I was sad Denver missed a deep cut like “The Tower That Ate People,” which appeared on numerous i/O setlists. Last week, I really buttered the guy up for his well-earned bravery playing a concert composed of mostly new songs, and I think “The Tower That Ate People,” from a recent album, holds some of the secret to this success. I mean, before I say anything else, what a fuckin’ title, right? Such an evocative image deserves a soundscape only Gabriel could deliver, and deliver he does. From its first, ricocheting hit of guitar, “The Tower That Ate People” sets a stunning tone—a distinct, abstract sass that immediately had me missing this Peter Gabriel. In a way, he wears his signature on his sleeve, so much so that he seems to transcend genre. This might be why I see so little talk of how seamlessly this man moves from top ten ballads into industrial experimentation without losing his voice. While certainly striking, the piston-hissing instrumentation of “The Tower That Ate People” hardly sounds out of place in Gabriel’s wider discography, just as much cousins with hardcore selections like “No Self Control” as with hyper-hits like “Steam.” Even my space ghost idol, David Bowie himself, never sounded so uncannily himself across all eras—his industrial albums, while really underrated in their own way, were more a reinvention than a new perspective on the same reflection, as hard as that is to say. That’s the core of what makes “The Tower That Ate People” so good—it’s an abrasive, crunchy, near-industrial song that still couldn’t be more Peter Gabriel if it tried. Even the song’s themes feel from the self-same psyche. Lines like “Feel it building all around me / Like a wrap of armoured skin/ But the more we are protected / The more we're trapped within” are as psychological as ever, perhaps suggesting mankind’s relationship with technology is severing our heads from what keeps us grounded (Tower… of Babel, anyone? Or maybe Wall-E?). It’s a compensation, as always, for our conscious-to-a-fault culture—a reminder that severing ourselves from our emotional and earthly source might consume us in the end.

…okay, but if I dared to complain about “The Tower That Ate People”—and this may not be hypothetical—its expression of Gabriel’s recurring strengths also, for me, also highlighted a recurring weakness. I briefly touched on this in my review of “The Court,” but I’ve begun to notice that his harder songs have lately all cut their percussion for a more spacious, airier chorus, totally undercutting the song’s momentum in the process. It’s an effect that I can always rationalize from an artistic perspective—like, you know, tower that’s too high to connect with an emotional core, yada yada—but I can’t really summon that state of mind when I’m trying to rock out. I don’t know, maybe I’m missing the shamanic sagacity required for this one, but there often just isn’t enough build for it to coast on. That doesn’t mean I can’t still recommend “The Tower That Ate People,” because that’s exactly what I’m doing, but it’s still worth noting that this song has less energy than that opening riff might suggest.

Pairs Well With: “Road to Joy” (Peter Gabriel), “No Self Control” (Peter Gabriel), “Fame” (David Bowie)

MY FAVORITE PLUM | Suzanne Vega So, apparently, Nine Objects of Desire is the Suzanne Vega album for me—with “Caramel” and “Tombstone” (reviewed last Halloween, which further clinches it) already under my belt, “My Favorite Plum” completes a perfect trifecta of songs for spooky, stop-motion scenery. Obviously, I’m a little late for the one holiday where that’s socially acceptable—my plans got a little out of hand—but retail’s unified Christmas in November front can’t make a quitter out of me. With another banger of a title, “My Favorite Plum” lives up to its name with lurid strings and bass that embodies the word “spooky,” and I mean that without a hint of hyperbole. Maybe it’s the uncannily similar rhythm to Moose A. Moose and Zee’s defiant lament “I Don’t Like Candy Corns” [Reviewed 10/20/2023], or maybe it’s the evocation of a distinct moment in Danny Elfman’s “Jack and Sally Montage” from The Nightmare Before Christmas (specifically from 3:39 on), but whatever the science behind it may be, “My Favorite Plum” reeks of Halloween, and it’s wonderful. “My Favorite Plum” even twists a riff from prior song “Caramel” into an eerier tone, turning a graceful flirtation with angst into something more sinister.

Speaking of which, why is seemingly no one willing to admit how sinister Nine Objects of Desire can be? Better yet, why are there Nine Objects of Desire when the album has twelve tracks? That titular plum plays a deceptively prominent part in all this, of that much I am certain—the fruit Vega was supposed to hold on the album cover was originally meant to be a plum, in fact, but was replaced with an apple since those were in season. It’s crazy to find out that was just a coincidence after thinking this cover was a callback to Magritte’s Son of Man, probably because I can’t think of any other reason to give a granny smith apple the time of day. Of the few people who have written about “My Favorite Plum,” however, none have engaged with how obviously sinister this piece’s yearning is portrayed. Even to the tone-deaf, you can’t tell me Vega’s languid, leering lyrics aren’t oozing with ill intent, especially given her knack for character work. Like… just…

My favorite plum
Lies in wait for me
I'll be right here
Longing endlessly
You'll say that I'm
Foolish to trust
But it will be mine
And I know that it must
Cause I've had the rest, yes
And that is the one for me

How can you not see it?!

Pairs Well With: “I Don’t Like Candy Corns” (Moose A. Moose and Zee) [Reviewed 10/20/2023], “Jack and Sally Montage” (Danny Elfman), “For the Damaged Coda” (Blonde Redhead)

LUCINDA | A Certain Ratio You know, for someone who rags so much on post-punk (again, I ask: what does “post-punk” even mean? Have you ever met a punk who’d let you have the last word?), I’ll have to face the facts sooner or later: I think I really like post-punk. In all honesty, though, even with my still-nebulous conception of the genre, I’d have never included this funk/dream-pop Frankenstein within it. Of course, that makes “Lucinda” Exhibit Q in my exhaustive case against the current genre system—whether or not post-punk is a good fit for this song, I think I’d have missed out on this gem with such a label attached.

Instead, I first heard “Lucinda’s” fantastic bass from the playlist preceding the best Wilco show I’ve ever seen, powerful enough to cut through the anticipation and grab my Dad, sister, and I by our collective collar. Seriously, this isn’t just a bass line you notice—it’s one that stays strong through the entire song, providing both a solid skeleton and fabulous, funky fringe that claps just as hard as the percussion. The secret ingredient? A Certain Ratio is dual-wielding bass parts, though Jez Kerr is the only bassist I could find credits for. Without a doubt, this piece is potently funky, but I think its powers double when the bass grinds against Martha Tilson’s wilted vocals. While I’m not sure everyone will love Tilson’s intentionally-flat intonation, I think it’s the perfect delivery for such sparse, drifting lyrics, sounding syrupy and stoned. While definitely dreamlike, Tilson’s isn’t entirely out of place, with a tangible depth that I found surprisingly similar to Guerilla Toss’s own Kassie Carlson. As always, juxtaposition does magical things, and these hazy vocals dragged behind the acrobatic bass conjure images of being trapped in slo-mo while the rest of the world chugs away (“coooome baaaaack heeeeeere raaaaaaaabbiiiit!”).

Still, with such disjointed elements, it’s no wonder Sextet had reviewers split on the album’s impact. Of course, in the contemporary indie scene, I was pretty perplexed by Sextet’s divisive reception, but under an even more perplexing assumption: that Sextet was contemporary in the first place. What makes “Lucinda” such a stunner of a song is that it’s from 1982—no wonder it sounds so offset in time. In fact, I’d be surprised if musicians like Luscious Jackson weren’t inspired by Sextet’s new sound. Actually, a lot of what I’d assumed to be A Certain Ratio’s inspirations made for great pairings, even if I had the chronology backwards—while far catchier, the bass here is reminiscent of De La Soul’s “Eye Patch,” and if you’re really looking to mix things up, “Lucinda” transitions super well into The Waitresses’ classic “Christmas Wrapping,” made just a year earlier.

Pairs Well With: “Eye Patch” (De La Soul), “Christmas Wrapping” (The Waitresses), “Retreat” (Guerilla Toss)

EVERYTHING_NOW (CONTINUED) / EVERYTHING NOW / EVERYTHING NOW (CONTINUED) | Arcade Fire Okay, we’re doing infinity again this week. I’m packing three songs into the space of one for thematic reasons, not just because I didn’t think this through. Technically, “Everything Now” is just split into three pieces across Arcade Fire’s album of the same name (I’d recommend listening to the installments in their album order), which is once again apropos, considering how much cosmic chaos is crammed into this piece. There’s just as much going for Everything Now in its entirety, in fact—an album not about experiencing the infinite, but about the consumerist illusion of infinite consumption that pales in comparison to the real thing. I’d say there’s no better statement of the theme than the album cover—a billboard shaped to match the mountains on the horizon, yet still feeling uncannily underwhelming—but this hollow overwhelm is echoed across the album, defined just as much by “Infinite Content” (and “Infinite_Content,” for that matter) as “Everything Now.” Even these occasional, underscored variants of songs in this context feel like rehashed, un-skippable ads hammering home brand recognition. Arcade Fire’s “Infinite Content” tour doubled down on this branding, giving each song an oversaturated product to go alongside it—the only one I can remember was “Creature Comfort” sugary cereal, but they were all that creative. It’s a great concept, and one I wish wasn’t tarnished by Win Butler being a disgusting person. It’s all the more uncomfortable, then, what genuine sincerity and melancholy this album gushes, illustrated perfectly by the title track.

“Everything Now” has all the hallmarks of songs that evoke the infinite—something which, in context with its themes, has aged very well into Hollywood’s multiverse money-printer era. Obviously, perspective is important, which is why most composers aiming for infinity mandatorily juxtapose high and low harmonies to suggest the expanse of space in between. “Everything Now” is no exception here, but the best musicians know that this isn’t enough, which is why Arcade Fire goes the extra mile with “Everything_Now (continued).” The album’s “prologue” track, this segment starts with a slow beat before slingshotting into screaming chaos, much like Son Lux’s “Evelyn All At Once” from one of my all-time favorite movies, Everything Everywhere All At Once. I know it probably seems like a Songs of the Week quota (Songs! Of! The! Week! Quota!) at this point, but yes, this part chokes me up—in under forty seconds, the clamoring chorus of voices saying “everything now” as a single, sustained note shrieks higher and higher conveys such insignificance and enormity that I can’t hold back the overwhelm.

Oh, and then the band snaps into a joyous pop song. You know, like Of Montreal? As I said, the juxtaposition isn’t over, and even here, pop isn’t the only parallel current—in this case, verses transition with these goosebump-inducing violin glissandos that veer nearly into horror territory, but never quite dampen the mood. It’s incredible how well these elements pair—how these moment of awe sustain while the beat keeps bumping. And that’s not even mentioning the lyrics—again, I hate crediting someone so allegedly predatory, but they’re just too goddamn clever. From “Every inch of sky's got a star / Every inch of skin's got a scar,” to “Every inch of road's got a sign / And every boy uses the same line / I pledge allegiance to everything now,” to “Every song that I've ever heard / Is playing at the same time, it's absurd,” to the climactic “We turn the speakers up 'til they break / ‘Cause every time you smile it's a fake / Stop pretending, you've got / (Everything Now),” it’s all poetry—a bitter and impassioned indictment of the consumerist mindset assimilating cultures across the globe.

I know it’s already been said, but I really can’t stress enough how gross it feels to resonate so hard with the feelings of someone who’s acted so atrociously—even if it wasn’t an affront to my own values, it certainly is to the numerous women Butler seemingly coerced into imbalanced and abusive extramarital relationships. I’ve never totally subscribed to separating the art from the artist because as an artist, I know firsthand that creations are an extension of the creator—art can only exist with soul baked into it, and with that soul comes a little bit of everything. Still, I suppose it would be wrong to sanitize “everything”—infinity is so emotional because it contains the good and the bad, in spite of each other. Acknowledging the worst in our nature doesn’t neutralize our best, nor does acknowledging our best neutralize our worst—together, they give us definition, or even purpose. I guess this is the price of seeing the real everything instead of, as the song laments, pretending we’re already being fed all that we need. Obviously, it’s a pretty steep price—the lows must match the highs—but, with what little experience I have, I think I’d rather be free than be fake, and see every aspect for what it is.

Pairs Well With: “Evelyn All At Once” (Son Lux), “Heimdalsgate Like A Promethean Curse” (Of Montreal), “Blue Savannah” (Erasure)

THE BLOOM OF THE CORPSE FLOWER | Simphiwe Ndzube Another stunner just sitting between exhibits at the Denver Art Museum, Simphiwe Ndzube’s Bloom of the Corpse Flower immediately caught my eye with its vibrant and alien portrayal of a very real organism—the tallest flower in the world, Amorphophallus titanum (yea). Though it’s sometimes called the titan arum for its eight-foot height erect (yea), I think I prefer its other name, the corpse flower, because come on, right? Like the better-known Rafflesia, the corpse flower literally smells like death in order to attract its pollinators, carrion-eating flies. Where Rafflesia—a messy, red-and-white speckled flower draped across the forest floor—does a great impression of a maggot-eaten carcass, complete even with an entry wound, why the titan arum looks the way it does is an absolute mystery to me. That’s part of what makes this thing so eerie, I guess—what sort of flesh-spire is this plant imitating?

It’s pretty cool to see this flower turned bright and beautiful in some surreal way by Ndzube, who puts this painting’s subject rowing home on some black, sculk-like river, floating alongside solid, shimmering clouds. Both the disembodied eye in the sky and the boatman stare directly forward with a burning magenta, which makes for an arresting confrontation. The fact that this man is staring over his shoulder, returning to the corrugated homes of Cape Town with the landscape in vibrant bloom, might make “The Bloom of the Corpse Flower” a decolonial message—reviving an alternative way of life like a flower blooming in the smell of death, with his glance backward expectantly testing to see if the viewer will follow. To me, it just looks like a nonverbal “yea, what about it?” Either way, I had to stare back for a while.