Songs of the Week 03/15/2024

New Peter Gabriel! New St. Vincent! New IDLES! New Chelsea Wolfe! New TV on the Radio…. has not released since 2015!

I’ve had a lot of fun with this post, but unfortunately, we’re going to have to discuss some serious tragedy as well. In case you didn’t notice that that second album cover that looks a whole lot like self-immolation, trigger warning for the ongoing Palestinian Genocide during our St. Vincent discussion.

SO MUCH | Peter Gabriel Forgive me for not addressing i/O sooner—calling it “new” might already be false by internet standards, seeing as it released back in December, but despite seeing (and loving) Peter Gabriel the month before, I wasn’t ready to give it my full attention until February or so. From the get-go, I had a feeling that this album was going to be an emotional commitment, and my intuition was spot-on.

The first celebrity that I remember dying was David Bowie—a death I still haven’t fully accepted. Though I’d been osmotically exposed to Bowie since before I was born—“Quicksand” is one of the first songs I remember, period (and a great pairing with “So Much,” come to think of it)—I wouldn’t have known, then, that I’d become a big enough fan too get a tattoo commemorating the first single of his last album, “Blackstar.” Back in 2016, I was obsessed with that video and “Lazarus” alike, and though the signs were clear, when Bowie died a mere two days after the album’s release, it was like losing someone I’d only just met. Blackstar, obviously, was a masterpiece, but not just because of its bold confrontation with (and refutation of) mortality—to me, I am continually moved by how this chameleon man of so many faces made his best work last—when he finally showed fans his truest self. Blackstar is so raw that it delivers its message directly from one soul to another, and like a supernova seeding the galaxy with stardust, it ensures the immortality of Bowie’s deepest self in everyone who listened. Since then, I’ve never had an experience quite like getting to know Bowie and mourning him at the same time, but as another sage shaman now enters his twilight years, I can’t help but worry that i/O is Peter Gabriel’s Blackstar.

If we’re sticking to Bowie analogues, it might be more fair to consider i/O Peter Gabriel’s The Next Day, down to both (seemingly) riffing on the Heroes album cover. As Bowie’s second-to-last album, The Next Day certainly has the stench of decline, despite its rallying strength—the signs were already there, though they may not have been accepted just yet. In this sense, i/O is similar—given Gabriel’s powerful live performance, it’s hard to imagine that his health is approaching any precipice, but so much of “So Much” and its companion tracks feel like a last capsule of wisdom imparted before departing from this mortal plane. Blackstar and i/O both depict a personal mythology and premonition of what’s to follow for humanity at large, framing the latter especially as some final masterpiece for posterity. Though i/O covers a wide range of emotions, “So Much,” in particular, is unmistakably an acceptance of (or acquiescence to) mortality. Musically, it isn’t much beyond a pensive piano ballad—something I’m often bored with, but which Gabriel can craft to cut straight through to the heart. In his always-insightful full moon commentary, Gabriel himself says he “was trying purposefully not to be clever with this. I wanted […] [s]omething that was easy to digest but still had a bit of character to it.” Indeed, So Much is powerfully simple—even the separate Bright-Side and Dark-Side mixes on the album are negligibly different, which is why I didn’t highlight one over the other. I’m prone to entering that simplicity stubbornly, thinking, “you’re not gonna get me without trying harder, Petey,” because it can almost feel cheap to hear something so transparently intent on ripping your heart out. In my own life and art, emotions feel too endlessly deep to just outright state, and that’s often why I find music expresses them more powerfully than words. Still, Gabriel repeatedly manages to reach in and rip my heart out with his intentional un-cleverness, which validates his wisdom almost as much as the words themselves. Since he clearly laid out his creative process, here’s the crux of “So Much” from the man himself:

“‘So Much’ is about mortality, getting old—all the bright, cheerful subjects—but I think when you get to my sort of age, you either run away from mortality or you jump into it and try and live life to the full and that always seems to make a lot more sense to me. The countries that seem most alive are those that have death as part of their culture.”

Thanks to its musical simplicity, the poetry of “So Much” can cut directly through, yet even these sentiments are simply expressed—there are a lot of lines that gut me, but the heaviest hitter is “As an old man I was born / but I've grown to be a baby / With a halo and a horn,” which again, demonstrates Gabriel’s true talent for packaging profundity into so few words. Of course, wondrously optimistic lines like “The body stiffens, tires and aches / In its wrinkled, blotchy skin / With each decade, more camouflage / For the wild eyed child within” meet the sore realism of “Oh, there's so much to aim for / You can shoot at the sun / But all of it just comes and goes / There's only so much can be done,” reflecting the two faces of “So Much”—to me, it’s about the difference between “so much” and “only so much.” Either way, this reeks of Bowie’s equally heartbreaking “I Can’t Give Everything Away,” though that song’s jubilant tragedy doesn’t necessarily pair with the solemn thoughtfulness of “So Much” musically. Either way, it appears Gabriel is doing his best to give us his everything despite knowing so much will never be said. I cannot express how moved and humbled I am watching an artist face the darkness, but when these emotions run so high and deep, it can be hard to look. Still, i/O is worth listening to not just for its lows, but its highs—there may only be so much time, but Gabriel uses it to say so much more than you might expect.

Pairs Well With: “Father, Son” (Peter Gabriel), “Quicksand” (David Bowie), “Ingydar” (Adrianne Lenker)

BROKEN MAN | St. Vincent Last week, the world was also absolutely blindsided by new St. Vincent, and the best part is, it’s exactly the sort of song I’ve been hoping she’d make for years. Of course, when I say “the world was blindsided,” I should first clarify that I’m not talking about the whole world—my sister, superfan and certified St. Vincentvestigator, has been on the case since Annie Clark hung up her Daddy’s Home wig and cleared her instagram, and even when everyone thought her crazy, she knew we’d be in for a hit. Much as I love St. Vincent myself, I can be a little skeptical of this sort of celebrity musician stunt—advertising is a necessity, but for someone in such LA circles, I sometimes wonder how corrupted St. Vincent’s musical genuineness has become. Luckily, “Broken Man” not only objectively slaps, but it also harkens back to a side of St. Vincent only seen in sporadic singles years ago, and a side closer than ever to her greatest influences—a side I, for one, have been begging to see in the spotlight.

From David Byrne to seventies sleaze, I’ve loved (most of) St. Vincent’s various genre ventures, but there’s one I’ve been waiting for her to return to for years: industrial. Ever since—I kid you not—2012’s single Krokodil, we’ve known Clark can channel thrashing, punk rancor at the drop of a hat, yet despite her rare teases of a Tool-style album, this persona hasn’t made a peep in over a decade of music since. Certainly, she hasn’t starved fans of powerful or arresting music, but to me, “Krokodil” and “Grot” scratch an angry, hyperactive itch that hasn’t yet found a home amidst the rest of her discography. “Broken Man” certainly isn’t as bath salts-violent (or, you know, as krokodil-violent) as “Krokodil,” but it really packs that crunchy punch that I’ve been craving. It’s a song that sounds like a blacksmith—metallic hammer hits marking tempo while the ensuing spray of sparks frays the guitar, all while Clark sings threats through gritted teeth. Clark’s vocals are as hoarse and wrathful as PJ Harvey, and the atmospheric howling in her periphery is unambiguous Nine Inch Nails (and, be warned, this post will have you asking “why doesn’t Max just have a weekly Nine Inch Nails segment?”). Between that, though, there’s a polish that complicates things, and I’d attribute this to producer Nile Rodgers (and, be warned, this post will have you asking “why doesn’t Max just have a weekly weird producer segment?”). Undoubtedly, St. Vincent is in the right hands with Rodgers, who has worked with the likes of Duran Duran in the past, but this was far from the sort of music I’d expect his collaboration to create. Somehow, though, the end result is unexpectedly cohesive. I actually find it fitting that St. Vincent teased “Broken Man” by reposting her performance of “Lithium” with the remaining members of Nirvana, because Rodger’s clean sheen sounds a lot like Lithium—not the drug, but the metal. As a substance itself, Lithium may shine like silver, but is infamously reactive, and explodes on contact with water. This album’s aesthetic captures this contrast fantastically, with a cover featuring Clark breaking free from slim-fitting business clothes and slicked-back hair by catching fire.

This is where the hard part comes in, however, because All Born Screaming—cover and all—was revealed just four days after the self-immolation of Aaron Bushnell, and boy, that is not a good look. I’d like to thank both my mom and my girlfriend for their input on this, because initially, I was pretty tone-deaf in defending St. Vincent’s choice to release material like this in the wake of such a gruesome protest. For those not in the know, on February 25th, sound-of-mind airman Aaron Bushnell self-immolated outside of the Israeli Embassy in Washington DC after livestreaming a manifesto criticizing America’s inaction on the ongoing Palestinian Genocide. Though I’ve anecdotally heard that their behind-the-scenes editorial policies are restrictive and skewed, I’ve included the Wikipedia article on both Bushnell’s self-immolation and the Palestinian Genocide itself for what I hope is an informative and mostly unbiased introduction to these tragedies. I don’t say this to act as if I’m on the cutting edge of a massacre that’s continued since October, but to confront something I myself have been avoiding for fear of what I’ll see. It would be self-important to act as if I have any sway with such a small platform, but I feel quite guilty for not having done more word-spreading about a conflict that has been obscured under the guise of complexity. Obviously, cultural land disputes between Jewish and Palestinian people stretch back centuries, and to disregard that history would frankly feel fascist. That said, when over 27,000 Palestinians have been killed—many of them innocents—by a US-backed nation freely professing doctrine of extermination and openly slaughtering civilians, I find it exceedingly difficult to dismiss this as a two-sided conflict. People are dying—no, people are being systemically slaughtered—when did that stop being sacred? Clearly, when the IDF forgot Palestinians were humans, too. I’m sorry it took me so long to take a stand out of a selfish fear of getting involved, but yea, free Palestine—see how easy that was to speak out against genocide?

No matter how complex the situation, you’d think it wouldn’t be hard to condemn such incalculable death, but despite the album cover’s shocking similarities to Bushnell’s sacrifice, St. Vincent’s team haven’t said a peep, so far as I can tell. At first, I felt somewhat defensive of St. Vincent’s creative vision—she’s saying something separate with this imagery, clearly, and an artist shouldn’t have to shift their message just because their audience can’t differentiate, right? Yet to (even accidentally) invoke such a widespread trauma after just four days without any sort of acknowledgement is egregiously self-centered. Even if St. Vincent didn’t want to make her opinion on the Israel-Palestine conflict public—which is very much within her rights—then she could have at least put out “Broken Man” as a single with an alternate album cover and release the full All Born Screaming look after a few months… you know, like every other musician does. Sure, it would break St. Vincent’s streak of releasing the album cover with its first single (at least, for the past three albums now), but I’m not sure oeuvre hygiene takes priority over… you know… associating your album with an ongoing genocide. I sympathize with the marketing team—what a nightmare that no one could have predicted—but to go ahead with this release and then go radio silent feels like at best a baffling decision and at worst a pretty cynical one. So, St. Vincent—the music is fantastic, but when it comes to even the faintest acknowledgement of senseless mass murder… do better. If you feel like supporting Palestine through music, instead consider checking out Adrianne Lenker’s new EP I Won’t Let Go of Your Hand, available for purchase on Bandcamp—all proceeds go directly towards Palestinian relief.

Pairs Well With: “Stacked Actors” (Foo Fighters), “Into the Twilight” (Jack White), “Grounds” (IDLES)

GRACE | IDLES I began TANGK, IDLES’s newest album, like I do most IDLES offerings—a casual fan. I’ve never heard an IDLES song I didn’t like—I’ve even written about a few before—but I can’t say I’ve ever rabbit-h0led into much of their music. It feels only fitting, though, that what I’d wager is their weirdest album to date is about to change all that, because god damn, TANGK rocks—and it’s the least traditionally rockin’ that IDLES have ever been! With the caveat that I’m not exactly well-versed in punk discourse, it seems that after 2020’s Ultra Mono, IDLES are beloved for their “positivity punk”—you’d be forgiven for being intimidated by Joe Talbot’s barking vocals and Mark Bowen & Lee Kiernan’s warzone guitar, but when you stop and listen to what they’re saying, it’s some shit like “you can do it” or “if you want to beat the machine, keep your teeth clean,” and that never doesn’t put a smile on my face. Positivity was already innovative for punk, but TANGK blows all expectations out of the water by also doing away with their trademark aggression, proving that it’s not anger but kindness at IDLES’s core.

That’s not to say this isn’t a toothless album—in fact, I was pleasantly surprised to find how moody and broody its soundscape remains, trading in punk punchiness for a ruminating atmosphere that I’d call almost Massive Attack-adjacent (and perfect for a rainy day like today). It’s a style I’d have never predicted IDLES to experiment with, which is why I’m so surprised they picked “Grace,” perhaps the album’s most experimental piece, as the third single. Though “Grace” has been percolating in my brain since its December release, I’m almost regretting not covering it sooner to make space for newer tracks (they’re all worth a review), but I’d be doing TANGK at large a disservice by not spotlighting this weird (and welcome) piece. To me, “Grace” is a remix of IDLES’s strengths expertly applied to a foreign style. Adam Devonshire’s normally-bellowing bass becomes an almost-earthy backbone, setting a patient pace that keeps the surrounding, insectoid instruments in check. And can we talk about Talbot’s voice for a second? While I’ve always loved his thick, British bark, his voice here just melts into this magnificent, rich croon that I feel weird waxing poetic about. It’s an appropriate tone to adopt, considering the universal weightiness of his words, highlighted best in the already-iconic chorus (at least when my family is doing British accents): “No god / no king / I said love is the thing.” TANGK is optimistic in full force, with “Gift Horse,” “Roy,” and “Gratitude” all sounding as unabashedly wholesome as you can imagine, but “Grace” elevates this empathy to a place of reverence, and it’s a beauty that IDLES seems to have been building to for some time.

Still, everything anomalous about “Grace” clicks into place when you consider its producer: Nigel Godrich, famous for his work with none other than Radiohead. In retrospect, this should’ve been obvious—this track’s tinny drums that scuttle like static sound straight out of Thom Yorke’s strange little brain. TANGK overall tends towards this unexpected up-tightness—even the album’s most head-banging song about banging, “Dancer,” is a collaboration with LCD Soundsystem of all people, which should never have worked this astoundingly well. As much as I love it, I can imagine some fans find this transformation to be somewhat underwhelming—it’s how I first felt about the legendary collaboration between Dave Grohl, Josh Homme, and (guess who) Trent Reznor on “Mantra,” a song that pairs almost perfectly with “Grace.” Both pieces might seem understated compared to the roof-raising rage that their musicians can conjure, but after a few repeat listens, I guarantee you’ll be hypnotized—that’s the real magic of music. I’m so impressed to see IDLES demonstrate their range without redefining themselves, and “Grace” is, to me, the best encapsulation of that. It’s a roiling, pondering song with a more mature power than punk—one that’s carefully withheld until the last moment, when a crescendo of strings burns through.

Pairs Well With: “Mantra” (Dave Grohl, Trent Reznor & Josh Homme), “The Clock” (Thom Yorke) [Reviewed 02/03/2023], “Cochise” (Audioslave)

QUARTZ | TV on the Radio When we talked TV on the Radio this January, it felt like a misstep to introduce them through a cover (even if it was a damn good one). Luckily, that’s what dropped me back down the rabbit hole of their discography, at the bottom of which I came tumbling back to one of their best tracks (even if it is, once again, one of their weirdest). When Seeds dropped in 2015, it was considered a “midcareer album” by critics, marking a moment of experimentation by a now-established band. What none of us saw coming, then, was that this fifth album would be TV on the Radio’s last for almost a decade now. It’d be a fantastic sendoff if it were their last, but without any official announcement of disbanding, none of us have had the closure to begin grieving a band we’re not sure is dead. Personally, until I see the body, I’m still holding out hope that TV on the Radio is on an extended hiatus, and that Seeds still sowed new growth to come. While we wait (and wait… and wait…), I’ll never get tired of passing the time with “Quartz,” the mesmerizing opener to Seeds that dives straight into the complex emotions that follow. As much as I have to say about it now, when it released, “Quartz” was astonishingly just a background track (I was fifteen and had just discovered Nine Inch Nails, subtlety wasn’t exactly my style). In the background it remained until one obscure, Legion season 3 promo revitalized it for me. I’d say spoilers, but… well, see for yourself:

Narrowly behind HBO’s Watchmen, I’d call Legion probably the best comic book TV show out there, and though I’m disappointed Noah Hawley openly prioritized superficial “experience” over story for its final season, the absurdly vibrant creativity poured into it saturates even a throwaway TV Spot like this. There isn’t a single shot in this teaser that actually appears in season 3—it’s like a condensed episode of its own that leans fully into Legion’s insanity without spoiling anything. If I’m being honest, I think this is how most trailers should be, but I’m getting off-track—the track this teaser is on might be what makes it work, because “Quartz” perfectly scores the dreamlike fluidity on display while still acting as a metronome amidst this amorphousness. I hate to admit that my music preferences are so influenced by pretty pictures, but sometimes, visuals unlock something in the song that I hadn’t previously appreciated—in this case, “Quartz” now inextricably sounds like the psychedelic blossoming in Legion Season 3.

Of course, on its own terms, “Quartz” has a lot of brilliant facets. Despite its fluidity, it sounds very crystalline—chimes, cowbell, and other resonant percussion in such rigid order create a gleaming feeling like the delicate worship of miniature monks living within a geode cathedral. This structural steadfastness, though, is probably meant to reflect Tunde Adebimpe’s powerful lyrics about the ebb and flow of long-term relationships, layered vocals rotating between doubts like “I should really give it up sometime / should’ve known it couldn’t last forever” and affirmations like “Oh, come and get lost love / why wrestle the tide? / All set into motion / our love divine.” It’s an honest and nuanced portrayal depicting years-long cycles, and like “Grace,” the music reflects this maturity and insight. I love songs that evoke a knee-jerk emotion, but portraying something beyond moment-to-moment impulses is always fascinating—like Peter Gabriel, perhaps it’s a sign that TV on the Radio is letting their next masterpiece evolve over decades into a something more psychological. Let me have my cope.

Pairs Well With: “Swim to Sweden” (Co-Pilot), “Makeba” (Jain) [Reviewed 07/14/2023], “Eyes Like Nightshade” (Chelsea Wolfe)

HOUSE OF SELF-UNDOING | Chelsea Wolfe Dude. Dude, dude, DUDE. We are so back, and by we I mean Chelsea Wolfe, because I am doing really bad with writing consistently, but god damn, Chelsea mother fucking WOLFE!!

Something I’ve never liked about myself is that I’m pretty prone to recency bias—everything I really like is actually my favorite thing ever for the next twenty-four hours, everything unremarkably great is a masterpiece until I wake up the next morning, and I’m always rolling back my grandiose proclamations from the day before. That’s why I’ve done the diligent drudgery of listening to Chelsea Wolfe’s newest album, She Reaches Out to She Reaches Out to She, about six times since its release in February—to ensure absolute accuracy in my reviews. No other reason. My empirical rigor has repeatedly proven what I’ve suspected since reviewing single “Whispers in the Echo Chamber”: She Reaches Out to She Reaches Out to She is an Abyss-tier album, and might be one of Wolfe’s best to date. No cap. fr. On God. One hundred emoji fire emoji. You can put that on the jacket for the deluxe edition vinyl, Chelsea.

Seriously, despite my initial reservations about “Dusk,” this album delivers everything I could’ve asked for on all fronts, from angst, to sound, to symbolism. While “Whispers in the Echo Chamber” is probably a perfect opener, immediately following it with a powerhouse like “House of Self-Undoing” was what really told me I was in for a ride. Though Chelsea Wolfe could absolutely coast on being the queen of darkness alone, I’m always grateful for when her esoteric, spectral presence juts jagged on albums like Hiss Spun and one of my all-time favorites, Abyss. Even on these twisting, metal tracks, though, she tends to skew sludgier—slow enough to let their eerie atmosphere simmer, which sets her apart from jumpscare bands that prefer a sonic onslaught. “House Of Self-Undoing,” however, ramps up Wolfe’s industrial leanings, and it is an absolute delight. These relentless drums and serrated guitar are everything I’ve wanted since 2020’s fantastic “Diana,” a tie in to DC’s balls-to-the-wall event book, Death Metal. Wolfe may be harkening back much further to 2013’s synthy Pain is Beauty, which may explain why she’s incorporating those songs into her recent set lists live. More than anything, though, “House Of Self-Undoing” is irrefutably, impeccably (you guessed it) early Nine Inch Nails—that shredding guitar and tempo is as dead a giveaway as any. This is “Wish,” this is “March of the Pigs,” this is “Heresy,” and this is even “The Perfect Drug,” despite Reznor spending years trying to forget that song exists, but more than anything, it’s still Chelsea Wolfe—musically and lyrically. Wolfe’s ethereal voice makes for such an interesting contrast with the raging crunch of her instrumentation, and her self-harmony on the words “holy one” is goosebumps-inducing. In other surprising producer news, this sound is in part thanks to producer David Sitek… of TV on the Radio? (Get back over there, dude! I mean, great work, but you know who else needs a new album…?). Even this song’s grinding end, which falls far more into the territory of Mastodon or Gojira, still sounds deeply needling.

Wolfe’s words, too, add supernatural urgency to this already frenetic piece—even for a tarot illiterate like me (and I’m not doing my tarot deck-illustrating mom proud), a title like “House of Self-Undoing” is so immediately evocative. Still, since I’m such a sucker for symbolism—and especially since the preceding song sympathized with sleep paralysis demons as a spurned part of the psyche—I briefly became an astrology girlie to understand She 2(Reaches Out To She)’s spiritual message. Despite its beautiful gloom, this album appears to be Wolfe’s reclamation of witchcraft as a form of feminine healing, touching on numerous taboos and untwisting them to reveal reconnection with nature. “House of Self-Undoing” refers to an astrological aspect of tarot—“houses” being sections of the sky above and below the horizon at the time of birth. The 12th House—the House of Self-Undoing—is, appropriately, that of the unconscious mind, ruled by Neptune and territory of the empathic Pisces. Where astrological portraits stereotypically illustrate digestible or even flattering traits that many have no trouble identifying with, I was immediately drawn to the 12th House because it inherently deals in what is hidden from us—or, perhaps, what we hide from ourselves. Not only are these images a perfect segue from reintegrating sleep paralysis demons (and whatever they may represent psychologically), but it has me curious about the album’s blue color scheme and almost watercolor murkiness—is this meant to evoke the waters beneath which our unconscious lurks? From the sound of it, these waters were hostile and turbulent when Wolfe first took the plunge, but as the second song of the album, “House of Self Undoing” sets high stakes, and the emotional payoff is worth all of this thrashing.

Hey, remember when I called reviews long when they exceeded a single paragraph? This essay of an entry marks the fourth track from She 2(Reaches Out To She) that I’ve covered, making this the most songs I’ve ever reviewed from a single album (excluding Shakey Graves’s Movie of the Week, which doesn’t count because I reviewed the whole album… every version of it). Maybe that’s extraneous, but from my side of the screen, it seems like we’ve only just scratched the surface of this fantastic album—if nothing else, I feel like someone has to talk about “Eyes Like Nightshade,” which feels almost as much Siouxsie and the Banshees as “House Of Self-Undoing” is Nine Inch Nails. You guys, this album is so good. So good.

Pairs Well With: “Diana” (Chelsea Wolfe), “March of the Pigs” (Nine Inch Nails), “The Motherload” (Mastodon)

SWAMP THING ISSUE #56 | ALAN MOORE & STEVE BISSETTE I may have finished Alan Moore’s legendary run on Swamp Thing last year, but the obsession continues well into 2024. We took a look at some brilliant guest art last week (as well as having a spirited discussion about panspermia in the comments… it’s not what you think), but the majority of this run’s sixty issues is shouldered by illustrator Steve Bissette, who I’ve really only just begun to appreciate. To be honest, this feels like comics blasphemy to say, but I’m really not a fan of the cheap printing that marks almost every comic of the 20th century before most publishers switched to digital coloring. I know the quality of these pages and their coloring aren’t Bissette’s fault, but no matter how beautiful his panels may be, their production has a real cheapening effect—there’s much less depth, and the colors always look a little garish. Even the art of a great like Mike Mignola doesn’t stand out to me as much in this era, and given how distinctive his style is, that’s really saying something (as an aside, Mike Mignola would absolutely eat up a Swamp Thing issue. Not that they’re delicious, but he could make it work). That said, just as Moore pushed comics narratively with this run, I’ve come to really appreciate how far Bissette pushes cheaper-quality pages with his psychedelic, overgrown art.

“My Blue Heaven,” the start of Swamp Thing’s final, space-odyssey arc, is one of the issues that really won me over. Since Bissette has had to work with primarily green for the past fifty issues, it must have been so refreshing to render plant-analogous alien ecosystems in a different color every issue, and to me, this first one uses that freedom best. It’s mind-boggling to scan the menagerie of alien horticulture Bissette crams into the background of each panel while still somehow conveying the hollow loneliness that defines this new world. Perhaps that’s the colorist doing the heavy lifting, but I can’t help but notice that these plant designs themselves are mostly pitted, wavy, and tattered—almost like a ghost. All this, keep in mind, for one issue! This one really knocks it out of the park, but it’s far from the most impressive artistic work Bissette creates for this run, if you can believe it. If you’re going to read any comic, read Swamp Thing.