Songs of the Week 12/01/2023

Exclusively heinous vibes this week. I’m actually doing great, by the way. Everything here sounds about how it looks, though.

HOME AGAIN | Oingo Boingo I know I’ve already written my fair share about liking music written by sex criminals, but I can’t say enough what a mega bummer the Danny Elfman allegations were. While I’ve willfully avoided the details, it seems no one is certain to what degree his extramarital, collegial tryst was consensual. Still, with things so firmly in the grey, I’m feeling pretty embittered and betrayed by my lifelong hero. Sure, it’s a parasocial association, but since before I could speak, Elfman’s work has stood alongside my parents’ affirmations that being different was a badge of honor, whether it be through The Nightmare Before Christmas and anything else Tim Burton touched, or his solo career, or his self-proclaimed “embarrassing” years in Oingo Boingo. He’s a mad, musical genius, but behind his onstage bravado, he presents so humbly, literately, and genuinely passionate—all things I’d aspire to exude if I ever attained his expertise. What a colossal letdown, then, when the freak championing freak acceptance ends up being exactly what people fear from freaks.

If you’re yearning to return to when Danny Elfman was just acting villainous, let’s head “Home Again”—a song packed with exactly the early-Boingo nostalgia you seek. Straight off the heels of Dead Man’s Party, Boi-Ngo still boasts the band’s iconic spooky-ska sound, though tracks like “Home Again” hint at a more new wave flavor. There’s something so sprawling about the piano that always sweeps me away at the start—I don’t totally understand the anatomy of this effect, but I’d bet it has something to do with tempo. Though rapid, these scuttling, high notes don’t range beyond a single chord, and when spread across such a mellow tempo, these footsteps suddenly sound small. To me, this sounds how a wide shot looks—I can even see a tiny character fighting to take just one step further, buffeted by a blizzard. Either way, the piano alone is impressive (though maybe not if you have as many fingers as this week’s Zdzisław Beksiński character), and if you know Oingo Boingo, you know this flexing is far from alone. While the short horn bursts here add to the expansive effect, the bass lays down a more lumbering pace, with the almost-whistling motif that I can’t put an instrument to tying the two speeds together. Of course, Elfman’s wailing vocals are fantastic here, selling this song’s weary longing with lived honesty. In context with the rest of his discography, it’s clear to me that the home this song searches for is both an inner and outer place—some acceptance for Elfman’s fringe, outcast identity. While the world is a lot less hostile than songs like these can make it seem, I’d never downplay this feeling—whether it’s overt or subtle, this experience of isolation that comes with being different isn’t something fabricated for attention (though it’s very worth paying attention to). This might be a little soapbox-y here, but even with the risk of an Elfman scenario, it’s always worth accommodating the freaks in our lives—nine times out of ten, we just need a safe place to be socialized.

Pairs Well With: “Heads We’re Dancing” (Kate Bush) [Reviewed 12/30/2022], “Sign O’ The Times” (Prince) “Dalí’s Car” (Dalí’s Car)

NUCLEAR FUSION | Maddie Ashman & Tolgahan Çoğulu covering King Gizzard & The Lizard Wizard I might have lied up front—given the subject matter, this pick’s a lot lighter than our last musical lesson in nuclear physics (sorry, Ludwig), though I’d say no less beautiful. From its first vibrato plucks, “Nuclear Fusion” has an ethereal rasp, evoking some pulsing, electron cloud that still scrapes like tangible sand. Even without percussion, this timbral, floating feeling isn’t easy to achieve, but the wizards behind the wheel make it sound effortless—so much so that I didn’t realize how decorated these musicians were until further research. On the rich cello that boosts her feathery harmonies is singer, songwriter and composer Maddie Ashman, in perfect synch with—this is nuts—the inventor of the adjustable multitonal guitar, Dr. Tolgahan Çoğulu. A classical guitarist with a background in Anatolian folk music, Çoğulu’s wavering, nonwestern notes suddenly make perfect sense—after all, what better way to play this fluttery piece than with an instrument designed to play notes between and beyond western scales? While it isn’t some symphonic display of virtuosity, “Nuclear Fusion” is a beautifully particulate piece that makes me feel like a savant seeing equations in the air (you know, like savants do)—a particularly surprising result given the source of this song.

That’s right, “Nuclear Fusion,” like the best of covers, strays so far from the source that the two sound totally separate—in this case, where the original is delicate and sparkling, King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard’s original (gasp) is… well, it’s kind of awesome, too. I’m sorry, despite my best efforts, I’m still a bit of a band bigot, and unfortunately for King Gizzard, they’re sort of a jam band (perjorative) with insufferable fans in my head. To be fair, that’s probably not dissimilar to the wince people get when I say I like Radiohead, and for someone who just championed freaks, I should really be more empathetic. That’s why I’m conceding that the original “Nuclear Fusion” rocks—maybe so much so that we’ll have to talk about it here in the coming weeks. I’d been wondering why Çoğulu’s ascending notes sounded so good next to Wolfmother’s “Dimension,” but that’s probably thanks to the original sounding like Uncle Acid & The Deadbeats slipped into Wolfmother’s drink. It’s a totally different energy than Ashman and Çoğulu’s piece, which I think is a testament to both the original’s proggy versatility and the cover’s genius twist.

Pairs Well With: “Herman’s Malt” (Jeff Russo), “Congregation” (Low), “Tere Mere Beech Men (Duet)” (Laxmikant-Pyarelal & Anand Bakshi) [Reviewed: …we’ll unpack it next week]

PUSHERMAN | Curtis Mayfield So, obviously, this pick isn’t the least bit obscure, but as someone who (as usual) discovered it fifty years past its popularity, I can’t not go nuts for “Pusherman,” even if I’m late to the party. Written as part of the soundtrack for Superfly (once again, a movie I’ve never seen, I’m working on it!), “Pusherman” is the CIA’s worst nightmare: a politically sharp indictment of systemic oppression that is also impossible to stop listening to. The bluesy, leering bass is irresistable—it’s the first thing to grab listeners’ attention and it doesn’t let go for the entire runtime. It’s the sort of genius composition that spins an exact musical translation for the opening lyrics:

I'm your mama, I'm your daddy

I'm that n*gga in the alley

I'm your doctor when in need

Want some coke? Have some weed

You know me, I'm your friend

Your main boy, thick and thin

I'm your pusherman

I’ll admit it, I approached this song from something of a privileged perspective, because my first thought was that this song expertly lays on the over-friendly schmooze of a predatory dealer. From the perspective of the addict, these lyrics—whether spoken by an actual dealer or even from a personified substance itself—perfectly characterize how addiction cozies up to the user, slowly supplanting their nurturing relationships. It sounds exactly how I’d imagine the titular Pusherman—super smooth (super fly?), suave, but charismatically awry, like tipping a dark fedora. However, this is where not seeing Superfly nips me in the butt, because said “Pusherman” is the protagonist of the movie—a dealer down on his luck, and a victim of circumstance. In further stanzas, Mayfield’s lyrics are radically sympathetic, turning “I’m your Mama, I’m your Daddy” into a statement suggesting that anyone can end up “A man of odd circumstance / A victim of ghetto demands.” My b, dude. While Mayfield’s intentions are (correctly) far more compassionate than my initial interpretation, I appreciate the duality built into this song—it can chronicle the conditions that force the desperate into dealing drugs without sacrificing the ick that’s inherent in that position. This is all heavy stuff, so if you’re not up to thinking about it, this one slaps if you just block out the words. Maybe that’s the privilege talking, though, huh?

Mayfield’s sound is baked into so much that I actually had a hard time finding appropriate pairings this week—not because there weren’t enough, but because there were too many. Between “Getting it Back” and the Jeff Russo piece above, we’re leaning heavily into the Fargo Season 2 vibes. ‘Tis the season, after all.

Pairs Well With: “Papa Was A Rolling Stone” (The Temptations), “Getting It Back” (Cymande), “Moanin’” (Art Blakey & the Jazz Messengers)

PTOLEMAEA | Ethel Cain WOW WOW WOW!!!!!!!! I know it’s Chelsea Wolfe season, but when “Ptolemaea” could easily weasel its way onto Abyss or Hiss Spun, I’m more than okay with an Ethel Cain cameo. From its muffled, opening groans accented with the buzz of flies, “Ptolemaea” stays delightfully disturbing for six and a half minutes—a runtime well spent redefining the words “hair-raising.” Named for a ring within the 9th circle of Dante’s hell reserved for sinners who have betrayed their families, it’s pretty clear what parallel “Ptolemaea” is drawing in an album about intergenerational (and religious) trauma. Preacher’s Daughter is the first of three albums slated to cover the Ethel Cain Cinematic Universe (that’s the official name), starting with the titular daughter, then her mother, and then her mother’s mother, all knotted to the sinister preacher in the middle (gonna say Dark did it better, but…). Slotted towards the end of the album, “Ptolemaea” is climactically bleak, like a world caving in within one’s own heart. I’d call it metal, but it’s atmospheric, not acrobatic—its rumbling dread lumbers slowly and steadily, like Romero zombies. The minute-long build of distorted, droning voices slurring “Love you, love you, love you, love you” is already a little too scary for a nighttime listen (especially when it ends with “You'd do well to say yes to me,”) and Cain’s spectral, breathless voice provides little solace, sounding just as delicate and haunted as Wolfe’s work. What’s truly bone-chilling, though, is her increasingly urgent repetition of “stop”—first whispered, then insisted, and finally, shrilly shrieked. My reaction to this is never the same, but it always turns my stomach—it sounds so genuinely pained and imperiled that my blood runs cold, and I sometimes feel tears at the rawness of it all, but when the guitar slams in, it’s like… I don’t know, I feel bad for smiling? Come on, though—this song is awesome (archaic), but it’s so awesome (surfer).

Unfortunately, after further investigation, “Ptolemaea” isn’t a great representation of Ethel Cain’s style—not that I support hearing the terrified screaming of women more often, but it’s pretty rare to find someone who hits just the right spooky spot, so I was a little disappointed there wasn’t more like this. Sure, southern gothic indie-folk has made many appearances on this blog, but nothing I’ve heard from the genre has hit me with quite this intensity. Still, I’m not ready to dismiss Cain’s work just yet—supposedly, the Preacher trilogy of albums is just one aspect of a larger, multimedia piece. With these three albums will come three books and potentially even more. Though I may not resonate with all of it, I think this project is too creative to ignore. Stay tuned for more from Ethel Cain.

Pairs Well With: “Spun” (Chelsea Wolfe), “Sugarbread” (Soap&Skin), “While I’m Still Here (Breyer P-Orridge ‘Howler’ Remix)” (Nine Inch Nails)

SIGN O’ THE TIMES | Prince I’ve said it before, but boy, I wish I liked Prince more. His interviews are so articulate, his performances are so impassioned, and his creative spirit is unparalleled, but the dude’s face is frozen like Skyler White, yo.

Where I’ve recently found common ground with Prince, though, has been in his apocalyptic thinking—the shadow, perhaps, of such a miraculous imagination. For better or for worse, I see my own catastrophizing reflected perfectly in “Sign O’ The Times,” a piece that’s usually tied to a specific cultural moment, but which feels just as fitting in these trying times. Undoubtedly, this song is a potent antidote to the plague of eighties nostalgia in our culture, ruminating on humanity’s nearing precipice for five, sullen minutes. Reportedly, “Sign O’ The Times” was recorded in just one, disastrous morning when Prince awoke to an earthquake in LA, only to be met with news of Reagan’s ridiculous Star Wars program while the Disciples wrought violence here on Earth on his way home to Minneapolis. Looming, too, were a menagerie of eighties crises—the AIDs Crisis, the Challenger Disaster, Heroin, and more all stirring within thirty years of accumulated Cold War smog. As the contemporary Watchmen toted, “The End Is Near,” and isn’t it always? Like the evil twin of “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” I could easily see this song rebooted in Y2K style, or better yet, with a handful of today’s headlines—occupation of Palestine, superpowers testing the boundaries of neighboring countries, fascism on the rise worldwide, runaway inflation, global pandemics, police states exercising their power, book banning at the forefront of a war against intellectualism, revocation of foundational constitutional rights, and of course, that suffocating sense that we’ve already lost our chance to change the climate for the better. I could go on—Tik Tok and Temu, anybody?—and maybe I should, because like Prince’s steady, persistent bass, going on is all we’ve ever done. Has there ever been a moment where we haven’t been on the brink? I’d never presume to justify these relentless injustices, but if there’s one thing we should learn from the climate crisis, it’s that humans are at our best when we’re face-to-face with the apocalypse—not some nebulous, intangible ghost, but an oppressive and present threat. It’s perspective that brings us closer together, and though we receive plenty of tragic perspective every day, I’m not sure any of us are equipped to fight as one until death is breathing down our neck. In other words, it gets worse before we’re driven to make it better. Or, I don’t know, what do I know? I’m freshly twenty-three, and it feels like things have been visibly backsliding since 2016, but I’m hoping to be proven right by further perspective—or, better yet, make that perspective myself. Maybe—just maybe—we don’t have to keep pushing ourselves to the edge to find the motivation to be better. Someday, hopefully, we can learn (or choose) to be proactive.

Anyways… Prince. Much like “Pusherman,” this song is very good at sounding very funky even when the vibes are not, so if you’re not in the mood for these lyrics, don’t listen—lord knows we get enough of that every day.

Pairs Well With: “Home Again” (Oingo Boingo), “Pusherman” (Curtis Mayfield), “07 Ghosts I” (Nine Inch Nails)

UNTITLED | Zdzisław Beksiński I’m gonna let Guillermo del Toro take this one:

“In the medieval tradition, Beksinski seems to believe art to be a forewarning about the fragility of the flesh – whatever pleasures we know are doomed to perish – thus, his paintings manage to evoke at once the process of decay and the ongoing struggle for life. They hold within them a secret poetry, stained with blood and rust.”

Unfortunately, I don’t have much to go on from Beksiński himself, who was publicly quite shy for most of his horribly tragic life. Safe to say that, after all of this apocalypse talk, I won’t go into the murders of his son and, later, himself—there’s a full-length documentary about that. Instead, let’s look at some of his delightfully creepy work, purposefully untitled and avoidant of analysis. Even though I think del Toro nailed it, I’m going to have to cram down the writer in me and spare Beksiński any further pontification on this proudly meaningless piece. In lieu of that, I’d like to draw your attention to how wonderfully gross this veiny cobweb of knuckles and ligaments looks. It’s very Geiger, but far more organic—and with that weird, puckered mouth (?), I’m sure this morphology lends itself to a specific set of skills…