Songs of the Week 03/29/2024

Since y’all had to slog through some LEQ-type shit last time, this week, I’ve cooked up something shorter for your perusal. See? I even simplified to “y’all.” That’s some contractional efficiency. G’bless.

PARTITA FOR 8 VOICES: No. 3, COURANTE | writ. Caroline Shaw, perf. Roomful of Teeth It might seem like I’d finally shut up about Netflix’s masterpiece Dark this time last year, but having finally finished my first rewatch with my girlfriend and binging Ben Frost’s scores for all three seasons, I’m back on my bullshit to fill in some gaps. Don’t get me wrong—Ben Frost’s score itself is fantastically chilling and leaves nothing to be desired by itself. However, having watched twenty-six hours of Dark twice over, the musical leitmotifs for many characters and situations have become iconic to me, and I was frankly disturbed to discover many of my favorites weren’t on any of the three albums. For a moment, I was petrified, because I am privileged and have no real struggles in this world, but luckily for me, being naturally behind on every trend has its advantages—namely, I’ll be rescued by some sleuthing Redditor who did the legwork four years ago. That’s how I finally found Caroline Shaw’s uncomfortably breathy choral piece “Partita For 8 Voices,” which my girlfriend and I have imitated more times than I’m comfortable admitting. It’s the discomfort of this song that makes it seamlessly blend with Frost’s eerie score, despite sharing zero instruments in common. Performed by the equally eerie Roomful of Teeth (and I’ll admit it—it’s a scary thought to think that, even alone, we are all technically in a room full of teeth), “No. 3, Courante” consists mostly of sharp, rhythmic breathing and a staircase of low, monastic harmonies chanting with suspenseful momentum. For such a breath-built song, it sounds quite breathless with its scoffing exhales and abrupt chanting—a disconcerting mixture that makes it perfect for backing the initial intrigue of a supernatural mystery (you know, before shit hits the fan. Also after. Getting stranded in 1921, anyone?). This heavy breathing, too, creates a skin-prickling claustrophobia that I’m not alone in finding uncomfortable. For some, it may simply feel as though a ghost is following far too close in their personal bubble; for others, as Youtube commenter @323gunslinger puts it: “Can't listen to this out loud my parents thought I was watching porn” (no punctuation, for efficiency, because that’s what we’re all about today). What surprised me most, however, was finding that Dark never features more than three minutes of this song, which is nearly thrice that long—and that the discomfort so many seem to associate deeply with “No. 3, Courante” is actually confined to before 3:10, at which point it transforms into a completely different piece. Though not without its own touches of creepiness, the rest of this piece shifts towards more unambiguous pleasantness—not happy, mischievous, or reverent, exactly, but a calm contentedness that would be more at home in a nature documentary than anywhere or anywhen in the town of Winden. Though I can see myself enjoying a piece like this less, some synthesis between these sections comes at the end, when the frantic breathing returns with a faint throat growl to create a sudden climax—almost like the waterfall at the end of this courante, or “current,” in english. Even though I’ll always associate this piece with peculiarity, “No. 3, Courante” also serves as a reminder that what may sound strange to our ears may ring different to those more familiar with it. It reminds me of Inuit throat singing—a raspy, abrasive style used to intense effect by modern artist Tanya Tagaq, but which originated as often humorous contests between Inuit women imitating seals. Though there’s undeniably an unpleasant intimacy that the voices in this song create, maybe it, too, wasn’t meant to be taken so seriously after all.

Pairs Well With: “Uja” (Tanya Tagaq), “Heptapod B” (Jóhann Jóhannsson) [Reviewed 03/24/2023], “De Profundis (Out of the Depths of Sorrow)” (Dead Can Dance)

EVERYWHERE I GO | Cat Clyde Okay, I always hate to be the hypocrite, but that’s the catch with absolutes—there’s always an exception. My distaste for twang is well established here on Max Todd. (Dot Com!), but no more established than my Shakey Graves obsession, so obviously, there’s a hypoallergenic strain of country that I enjoy just fine. Of course, thanks to my STEM background brainwashing (just kidding, dinosaurs are real, Earth is round, get vaccinated for christ’s sake), I can’t just enjoy outliers, and from Wilco to Big Thief, I’ve written quite a bit speculating on the objective science of good twang versus bad twang. Tentatively, I’d say the distinction is that I like country that comes from hill people, not lab-grown christian mock-rock, but the lines get ever grayer every day. Having heard this song on my lovely girlfriend’s lovely Spotify, “Everywhere I Go” is everything I know about Cat Clyde, but I think I can safely generalize with just one sample—Clyde sounds folkier than country, but suspiciously more country than most folk I listen to. I know there’s a label that fits Clyde’s sound, but I can’t for the life of me find it—perhaps it’s Appalachian, with that bobbing bass that’s begging for Tuba accompaniment, like Over the Garden Wall but not quite as antique, not quite as fit for a speakeasy’s atmosphere. Whatever it’s called, Cat Clyde’s “Everywhere I Go” is irresistibly sweet, even if its lonesome lyrics lean more towards bitter. If the aforementioned upright bass didn’t sell it, Clyde’s voice should—hearty and rich enough to sound sung and spoken at the same time. For how heartbroken her words may be, they’re clear enough to bolster the rest of this upbeat rhythm—simple enough to sound like notes, but still somehow imagistic and poetic. There are a lot of nice images here, but I’m partial to the chorus’s “There goes my skin / shedding again”—a perfect example of the song’s ability to keep poetic lyrics casual. And you know what? Maybe the twang is what gives this song complexity—what could sound like yearning instead sounds like realistic progress, pushing past lost love step by step, carrying their weight without letting it hang dead.

Pairs Well With: “Red Moon” (Big Thief) [Reviewed 10/06/2023], “Rotten Ol’ Me” (Shakey Graves) [Reviewed 04/28/2023], “Paid Protestor’s Blues” (The Window Smashing Job Creators)

I DON’T WANNA BE FUNNY ANYMORE | Lucy Dacus I’ll admit it—I’m far from the boygenius fan that my girlfriend and sister are (though I’m a fan enough to know it’s “boygenius” all lowercase, you insufferable indie kids), and I feel like a poser posting Lucy Dacus solo songs when I barely know the lore behind them. Like many pieces this week, though, I liked this the instant it played on my girlfriend’s shuffle. Dacus’s girlboss guitar (you’ll hear what I mean) skews to an evening melancholy here that perfectly complements her rich, low voice, which dips well into angst without dragging the song from fun to forlorn. As the title might suggest, “I Don’t Wanna Be Funny Anymore” perfectly bottles the squirmy social discomfort of miscalculating one’s place in the friend group, and I’m certain its lyrics contemplating being the “cute one” or “smart one” instead have already become a high school mantra for many. From kindergarten to eighth grade, I grew up amongst a class of scarcely more than twenty, which made it easy to exaggerate my uniqueness—in most cases, I was the smart one, the creative one, and I found myself at times irrationally jealous of anyone else who expressed a passing interest in dinosaurs or drawing comics. It was only when I acclimatized to my public high school that I shook off these self-imposed hierarchies, though not without some serious growing pains—the compensation for standing out is homogenizing, and like Dacus sings, I found myself overplaying the part and becoming someone I didn’t mean to be. Though I’m finally healing my truest self while surrounded by fellow paleo-nerds or writers (and, niche as it sounds, oftentimes both), I still sometimes feel that twinge of needing to be the “only one”—after all, what am I if just anyone can be me? What am I worth if just anyone can be me better? Though it’s certainly not a 1:1, Dacus sarcastically speaks to this lesson of growing up—that we’re each a lot more complex than a prototypical character, and that becoming one trims other branches of who we could grow to be. Even if that’s a teenage reminder you adults didn’t think you needed to hear, the emotions behind “I Don’t Want to Be Funny Anymore” will sink you right back into it with the downcast sound of Cat Power’s “American Flag” and the crayon raggedness of Car Seat Headrest’s “Bodys” (and I’m a fan enough to know it’s just spelled like that).

Pairs Well With: “American Flag” (Cat Power), “Stick” (Snail Mail), “Bodys” (Car Seat Headrest)

SO YOU THINK YOU’RE IN LOVE | Robyn Hitchcock & The Egyptians Last month, we reckoned with Robyn Hitchcock’s hidden surrealismo behind sometimes-unassuming music, but what happens when a musician adored for their lyricism drops a song that instead prioritizes its sound? This switcheroo explains why I instantly fell for “So You Think You’re In Love” before I even knew Hitchcock by name, and conversely, why some seasoned critics found Perspex Island to be disappointing. From the outset, I should say that having seen him live, Hitchcock certainly isn’t lacking in the musicianship department—his guitar is as sharp as his poetry… and his piano… and his harmonica… and his bass. When it comes to his recorded discography, though, there’s a tamer subtlety to most songs that, while great, doesn’t scream “virtuoso.” “So You Think You’re In Love,” too, seems pretty simple, but it’s got such an effective rock hook that, to me, sounds like a dose of genius, and that I’ve loved since I was a kid. Though it dropped in 1991 (backed by the Egyptians—Hitchcock’s fifth band?!), like most pop I binge, this seriously reeks of sixties songs from the Monkees or pastiches like XTC.

I know I set up its lyrics for failure, too, but it’s not as though “So You Think You’re In Love” is want for good lines—“But the silent majority / Is the crime of the century” is a Hitchcock wink if I ever heard one. Still, fans and reviewers used to his full-blown absurdity found Perspex Island’s straightforwardness a little lacking. As is characteristic of the best critics, Gina Arnold of Entertainment Weekly somehow makes a B+ score seem like piss in the Keurig, musing,

“Longtime fans, though, may find they miss Hitchcock’s impenetrable surreal lyrics, which always seemed to mask deep and moving insights. Or did they? Perspex Island makes one reconsider, and after years of believing Hitchcock a sage, it’s a bit disappointing to think that when he sang ‘My Wife and My Dead Wife,’ he was just lovesick like everybody else.”

God damn, Gina, maybe next time aim somewhere less vital than the jugular. I can’t accept the snobbish premise that revealing one’s most obvious thoughts negates one’s most most profound poetry—that’s just the range of human existence, yo—but I’d be a hypocrite again if I hadn’t felt such similarly human disappointment before. On this very blog, in the very post where we first appreciated Hitchcock’s surrealism in the first place, did I not also criticize director Noah Hawley’s lackluster needledrop sequences in an otherwise amazing season of Fargo? As a critic and as a fan, it’s unfair to equate an artist’s best to their standard, and I’m just as guilty of this fallacy as Arnold. Of course, I’ll defend any hater’s right to hate if an artist is clearly phoning it in, but Perspex Island simply isn’t that. Even if “So You Think You’re In Love” is far from Hitchcock’s most profound work, you can still hear where he’s putting his effort—into a musical gem that always makes me smile.

Pairs Well With: “Andrew in Drag” (The Magnetic Fields) “Season Cycle” (XTC), “It’s Love” (Chris Knox)

UNDER THE IVY | Kate Bush It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Since my extended 2022 Kate Bush Vision Quest, I’ve deliberately hit the brakes on Kate Bush consumption for fear of burning out on perhaps my definitive favorite musician, but if you can believe it, I still haven’t heard all of her material. Sure, I can finally say I’ve listened to all of her albums (again and again), but I’m still working through the b-sides and rarities collected on The Other Sides, which I’ll peruse in full once I’m emotionally ready. Occasionally, though, I can’t help but catch a song or two that absolutely floors me as hard as any A-side—the kind of quality that, as with “Burning Bridge” [Reviewed 06/02/2022], makes one wonder how insanely high her standards were if this wasn’t good enough for the main album. Also like “Burning Bridge,” “Under the Ivy” came from Kate Bush’s Hounds of Love sessions, but is understandably overshadowed because it released with the chart-topper single “Running Up That Hill,” which I’m sure none of you have ever heard of. Of course, super-stardom and Stranger Things weren’t the only unfair odds against “Under the Ivy”—unlike “Burning Bridge,” which absolutely falls in line with the angelic rumpus of Hounds of Love, this song takes a much slower, stripped-down approach more reminiscent of the clean and patient piano on succeeding album The Sensual World. The Sensual World similarities don’t stop there, because “Under the Ivy” even shares chords resembling a slower version of “Love and Anger” [Reviewed 07/22/2022]. All that said, I wouldn’t have it any other way—“Under the Ivy” views the same, raw vulnerability, albeit through a more tender lens. As immaculately evocative as her words always are, I’m already choked up before Bush says any of them—the palpable passion here skews more than a little melancholy, which crystalizes when she sings “this little girl inside me / is retreating to her favorite place.” In case my words on How to Train Your Dragon weren’t dramatic enough, my Achilles heel is reconciliation with the inner child, and “Under the Ivy” is a critical hit to the gut. I’d hate to project, but Bush herself seems to share this sentiment:

“It’s very much a song about someone who is sneaking away from a party to meet someone elusively, secretly, and to possibly make love with them, or just to communicate, but it’s secret, and it’s something they used to do and that they won’t be able to do again. It’s about a nostalgic, revisited moment.

I think it’s sad because it’s about someone who is recalling a moment when perhaps they used to do it when they were innocent and when they were children, and it’s something that they’re having to sneak away to do privately now as adults."

When interpreted literally, there’s certainly a sexual loss of innocence here, but what’s hitting me more is the idea of this song as an internal landscape. That to wander into our inner worlds—to crawl under the ivy, fall into the rabbit hole, be whisked away to Neverland—is relegated to a fleeting privilege of childhood, and that returning to those worlds is something we grow to guard, is a wound many artists have to reckon when relearning to let others in. Even to the speaker of this song, returning to their hidden place can never be the same because it is a secret that plays second fiddle to social obligations. This is why what sounds like jubilance in “Love and Anger” sounds so bittersweet in “Under the Ivy”—because to be an adult, for many, is to be shackled to outside expectations. Luckily, it seems a theme of Hounds of Love for Bush was letting that little girl take the wheel again, leaving dismissal in the dust. As she declares in the celebratory self-reverence of “The Big Sky,” “They look down / at the ground / missing / but I never go in now / I'm looking at the big sky / you never understood me / you never really tried.”

Pairs Well With: “Oh England My Lionheart” (Kate Bush), “Love and Anger” (Kate Bush) [Reviewed 07/22/2022], “Washing of the Water” (Peter Gabriel)

THE LODGING HOUSE | Leonora Carrington Even when Robyn Hitchcock isn’t bringing the surrealism, you can count on me to compensate for it. In the past two years, I’ve already featured Mexican surrealist Leonora Carrington four times, but when we last talked Carrington in 2022, it was with the company of some unsavory creatures whose shadows seem to make an appearance in this sunnier setting. This gold and green piece is called “The Lodging House,” and I wouldn’t blame you for not thinking it’s pretty because there are zero high resolution scans available on the internet. I’m supplementing with the picture I took directly at the Denver Art Museum’s Mexican Modernism exhibit a few years back (sorry), but even this, I think, doesn’t do the sunset-fuzzy details justice, rendered in this almost rusty oil sheen. The aforementioned shadowy figures could seem sinister, but I think they’re just part of the absurd charm in this piece—they remind me of the Jerries in Pixar’s Soul in their two-dimensionality, though they’re undeniably a bit creepier. Balancing that out is the mind-(and hair)-blown painter surrounded by a circle of amorphous cats. To be honest, I’m not sure what to make of all this, but if nothing else, the pure imagination on display is a wonder to behold, as always.