I AM GOING TO TAKE THIS A LITTLE WHILE LONGER: 20 YEARS OF ALL HAIL WEST TEXAS

It is beautiful, sure, but a lot of it is empty. Empty in a way that feels heavy, like the big cities in Texas are just fronts to hide that most of it’s an empty state, with a population trying to be as loud as possible so no one will notice that all of them live tucked away in the east. All Hail West Texas, right? I mean, most of this could be said about America as a whole, but I’m not in America right now– I’m in Texas.

(Keisha, narrator of Alice Isn’t Dead)

I have never been to West Texas, or to anywhere in the American Southwest for that matter, but I’ve often entertained fantasies of escaping to some quiet, near-empty place in the desert. Mitski songs aside, Texas is not a landlocked state. But the vast flatlands seem as infinite as the stars above them, making it easy for one to fall for such geographic optical illusions. These are, as Darnielle described on an episode of I Only Listen To The Mountain Goats, “places where you’re alone with yourself.” In my fictional West Texas, my closest neighbors would be miles away, but my home would be open to a revolving door crew of lonely drifters and passers-through, not unlike the ones in Color In Your Cheeks:

They came in by the dozens, walking or crawling
Some were bright-eyed, some were dead on their feet
But they came from Zimbabwe or from Soviet Georgia
East St. Louis, or from Paris, or they lived across the street
But they came, and when they finally made it here
It was the least that we could do to make our welcome clear

It’s a fantasy defined by solitude, but in such a way that somehow– much like The Mountain Goats’ music –makes me feel less alone. Part of my love for All Hail West Texas lies in this contradiction and keeps me coming back to a central question: How can an album that evokes such emptiness and isolation simultaneously be a deeply powerful celebration of community and human connection?

Like all of my most beloved Mountain Goats albums, All Hail West Texas feels like a collection of overlapping short stories. As its indicatively minimalist album cover promises, it is “fourteen songs about seven people, two houses, a motorcycle, and a locked treatment facility for adolescent boys.” You won’t hear Darnielle giving a breakdown of these seven characters in interviews or definitively saying which songs each one of them is featured in. Some are mentioned by name: Jeff and Cyrus, the two members of the titular Best Ever Death Metal Band In Denton; William Stanaforth Donahue, a 17-year-old ex-running back who gets a federal prison sentence for selling acid after an injury ends his football career; Jenny, a recurring character in The Mountain Goats’ discography who’s seen tearing through the desert on a Kawasaki motorcycle. Other characters are left more ambiguous: somebody who drives two hours to Austin every week just to retrieve postcards from a former friend or lover; Jenny’s admirer whose infatuation prompts him to hop on the back of her motorcycle and ride off into the sunset; a hard-spending and even harder-drinking couple who refuse to part ways no matter how miserable they make each other (some have speculated that these two might be the Alpha Couple, the subjects of the following Mountain Goats album). Darnielle’s storytelling is non-linear, and the information he withholds is as crucial as what is revealed. Recognizable plot points are scattered across a sonic landscape that feels as wide and as empty as West Texas itself. 

As we celebrate its 20th anniversary, it feels necessary to highlight the timing of this album. It marks an important turning point in the band’s history as the last album of the fanbase-splitting “lo-fi era.” Production-wise, it was the swan song of Darnielle’s Panasonic RX-FT500 before the long-suffering machine broke down for good. Though most of my favorite Mountain Goats albums are from 2002 onward, my ears perked up upon hearing the return of that familiar tape hiss crackling through 2020’s Songs For Pierre Chuvin. 

It’s also worth noting that All Hail West Texas was the first Mountain Goats album released after 9/11. In some ways, it feels like an unintentional post-9/11 cousin to Lift To Experience’s 2001 cult classic The Texas-Jerusalem Crossroads– a sprawling post-rock concept album about the second coming of Christ set in Bush-era Texas. Darnielle’s values– religious, political, philosophical –are made clear throughout his discography, despite his general aversion to stating them overtly. Even though it lacks direct references to specific political stances or issues, All Hail West Texas is arguably the most political Mountain Goats album. The closest thing to a protest song Darnielle has ever written, “Fall of the Star High School Running Back,” tells the tale of a teenage victim of mandatory minimum sentencing. The narrator of “Pink and Blue” lacks adequate resources to care for their new child who’s been abandoned by a birth parent with even less. In the wake of 9/11 and subsequent racist and xenophobic backlash, “Color In Your Cheeks” takes on an additional layer of political significance. It’s a song about the true meaning of “southern hospitality”-- about sanctuary, about community, about opening homes and hearts to those seeking refuge and telling them “you are welcome here.” During its episode of the aforementioned podcast, Darnielle emphasized the importance of the song’s first-person plural perspective: “There’s no ‘me and you;’ it’s ‘us and y’all.’”

Like much of The Mountain Goats’ catalog, the songs on All Hail West Texas recognize that ‘home’ is a multifaceted, often tenuous thing. Pockets of refuge almost always stand on a precarious foundation. The safe havens provided in “Color In Your Cheeks” and “Pink and Blue” are makeshift ones, implied to be temporary. Teenagers Jeff and Cyrus find a home in their shared passion for death metal– a passion also shared by Darnielle himself –but are separated from their music and from each other by disapproving adults. In “Jeff Davis County Blues,” a man who’s just spent three nights in jail “dream[s] about home” while driving, but it’s unclear whether he even has a home to return to. “Riches and Wonders'' chronicles the slow death of a dysfunctional relationship punctuated by sporadic moments of genuine affection, summed up by a simple yet crushing line: “I wanna go home, but I am home.” It’s a fan favorite Darniellism, one that reads like the devastating flip side of Talking Heads’ loving declaration: “home is where I want to be, but I guess I’m already there.” 

If you were to make a Venn diagram of fans of the Mountain Goats and people with a complicated relationship to the concept of home, you might as well draw a circle. Though all of us have unique personal connections to the band, one of the constants among Mountain Goats fans is that each one of us has, in some way, found a home in their music, however fleeting that may be. 

The first time I saw The Mountain Goats live was almost four years ago, during my sophomore year of college. It had been a tumultuous spring semester, to say the least. I’d gotten caught up in my friends’ infighting and said things I regretted in an attempt to protect the reputation of someone who didn’t deserve my loyalty. I felt as though all my peers had found some sense of academic and professional direction that I couldn’t seem to attain. My childhood cat had recently been put down while I was away at school and unable to properly say goodbye. I was just starting to process traumas that I’d spent months, even years repressing, believing that if I pretended hard enough that these things hadn’t happened, it would eventually become the truth. 

For a couple of hours, a venue located inconspicuously in an Upstate New York strip mall became a sanctuary. With the second encore came a moment I’ll never forget. During a slowed-down rendition of Transcendental Youth’s penultimate track, “Spent Gladiator 2,” I locked eyes with John Darnielle from the back of the darkened concert hall as he sang the words, “just stay alive/stay forever alive.” His words have stayed with me ever since, their meaning evolving alongside my own growth. Sometimes it’s a command, sometimes a mantra. Sometimes a plea, sometimes a prayer. Whatever shape it takes, it’s a promise I’ve made to John and to myself. 

At its core, All Hail West Texas– and The Mountain Goats’ music as a whole –is about staying alive. John Darnielle’s characters are flawed, but what makes him such a compelling storyteller is that he doesn’t judge them for trying to survive. These are songs about doing the best you can with what you have. Darnielle isn’t here to show us the way out of whatever darkness is plaguing us, but he can remind us that a way out exists. 

“Absolute Lithops Effect” ends the album on a quietly hopeful note. It’s in good company with some of my other favorite album closers in which “night comes to Texas” (including one from The Mountain Goats’ 1997 album Full Force Galesburg). When Darnielle sings, “I’m going to find the exit,” it isn’t boastful or even declarative, but it’s life-affirming in its simplicity. He might not be able to offer us a sure solution, but he gives us what he can: “a little bit of water, and a little bit of sunlight, and a little bit of tender mercy.” Our narrator– alive but still hurting –describes the “tiny steps forward” that he is taking: “I will bloom, here in my room.” Later in the song, we see him emerging from said room and telling us: “I will go to the house of a friend I know/and I will let myself forget.” It’s something of a cyclical album– starting with two friends being torn apart from one another and ending with two friends reconnecting. In both songs, statements of perseverance cut through the characters’ suffering:

When you punish a person for dreaming his dream
Don’t expect him to thank or forgive you
The best ever death metal band out of Denton
Will in time both outpace and outlive you
Hail Satan!

Darnielle has called this song a hymn, which, understandably may confuse some due to the “Hail Satan” of it all. But it is, by definition, a song of praise, of giving oneself over to a higher power– in this case, the almighty power of death metal, self-expression, and adolescent rebellion. Through adversity there is victory, even when victory just means living another day. “Hail Satan” is more than just a silly reference to the boys’ transgressive rockstar personas (complete with pentagrams and edgy, already-taken band names). “It’s a celebration of two people being true to themselves,” Darnielle has explained, “It’s a celebration of the later Satanic principle of self-knowledge, which isn’t really Satan at all– it’s actually godlike.” By saying “Hail Satan,” what Jeff and Cyrus are really saying is “Hail Us.”

Last fall, I went to my second Mountain Goats concert and was lucky enough to hear this song live. It was a solo show, just John and his guitar and a room full of people singing along, our “Hail Satan!”s echoing off the high ceilings. I thanked whatever God I may or may not believe in that I’d taken John’s advice and stayed forever alive. I was not what I used to be. All Hail Satan, All Hail West Texas, All Hail Us. 

STAY WHEREVER THE HELL YOU ARE. TAKE THE TRAIN DOWN HERE IF YOU GET A CHANCE. DRIVE OUT TO THE AIRPORT. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME LEAVE. I LOVED YOU. I LOVE YOU. THERE ARE NO WINDOWS OR DOORS AND THE WALLS ARE ON FIRE. YOU CAN GET OUT IF YOU’RE COMMITTED TO THE EFFORT. IT’S EASY TO GET OUT IF YOU BELIEVE IN YOURSELF. YOU HAVE REALLY LET YOURSELF GO. YOU ARE NOT WHAT YOU USED TO BE. YOU ARE LOVELY BEYOND COMPARE, BEYOND COMPARE, BEYOND COMPARE. WE HAVE NO HOUSE. OUR HOUSE WOULD BE A LOVELY SOUTHWESTERN RANCH HOUSE. OUR HOUSE WOULD BE A LOVELY SOUTHWESTERN RANCH IF IT HAD A ROOF. OUR HOUSE IS A LOVELY SOUTHWESTERN RANCH. I’LL TAKE AS MUCH OF THIS AS I CAN POSSIBLY BEAR. I AM GOING TO TAKE THIS A LITTLE WHILE LONGER. I AM NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE. 

(Excerpt from the liner notes of the 10th-anniversary reissue)

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Grace Robins-Somerville is a writer from Brooklyn, New York. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter @grace_roso.

Cry On, Space Cowboy: Cloakroom's 'Doubts' Sings the Sorrows

Have you ever heard a song so affective that it ruined a band for you? It’s the sort of song that infiltrates every fiber of your being and sinks its claws deep into your soul. It becomes a fascination as you play it on repeat or skip straight to it. You feel that the song was made only for you. Anything else from the artist, no matter the quality, is rendered meaningless because you have this one song, and for you, that is enough.

I have this relationship with Cloakroom’s “Doubts.” The penultimate track from the Indiana stonergazers new album Dissolution Wave leaves me breathless with each lesson. It’s a relatively simple song, four short verses, a couple of short breaks, and a gentle guitar solo that plays as the music drifts to a close, but it’s how the band puts it all together that makes “Doubts” so special. Cloakroom are masters of texture, and they put their skills on display here. Negative space is filled with pristine guitar chords, and while infrequent, each strum is purposeful and emotive. A low, purring bassline provides warmth as a patient drum pattern crackles in the background. All of this is befitting of the album’s space-western concept as Doyle Martin’s lyrics feel like the slow-moving thoughts of an astronaut floating away in the ever-expanding universe.

I find the song chilling, and I believe it is the most beautiful thing Cloakroom has recorded. Maybe I’m too close-minded, but I don’t need anything else from the group. That’s not to say that I don’t think their bone-crushing riffs don’t do it for me, but when I put on “Doubts,” there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be than in those four minutes.

As I realized that I kept returning to the song, I tried to puzzle out why. Each time I listened, I found myself getting hung up on this brief guitar motif trying to think of what it reminded me of. After a week of it looping in my head, I realized that it’s reminiscent of a melody in “Goddamn Lonely Love” by Drive-By Truckers, a song with which I have a similar relationship. Now, I’m accusing Cloakroom of being copycats, but I can’t unhear what I’ve heard. In fact, I’m thankful for this great-minds-think-alike moment because the two songs have so much in common beyond some short melodies.

Like “Doubts,” “Goddamn Lonely Love” is a wistful yet gorgeous tune. Jason Isbell might sing his blues with more gusto than Martin, but both are blue nonetheless. These songs traffic in sorrow and regret more than they do in outright pain and misery. Upon this revelation, it became clear to me that much like “Goddamn Lonely Love,” “Doubts” is tears-in-your-beer music. It’s the kind of song destined to play over the speakers of a gloomy bar while a sad cowboy huddles over his third round of a beer and a shot combo. This, my friends, is very much my shit. While I may be just another city boy, I routinely find myself sympathizing with depressed plains walkers. Like these melancholic rancheros, I am not inclined to divulge my feelings. Healthy or not, I know I can always find solace in the company of songs like these.

I have no idea if Cloakroom intended to link themselves to crestfallen troubadours such as Isbell, Jason Molina, and the unimpeachably dolorous Townes Van Zandt, but this style of music fits them so well. They’ve hinted at their appreciation of this brand of song with covers of Songs: Ohia and Tom Petty, but this feels like their first true foray into downtrodden cowpoke-dom. Their interpretation of the tradition is earnest and done without pastiche. With “Doubts,” the band has hit upon something timeless, which is why I can, and will, listen to it forever.

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Connor lives in San Francisco with his partner and their cat and dog, Toni and Hachi. Connor is a student at San Francisco State University and is working toward becoming a community college professor. When he isn’t listening to music or writing about killer riffs, Connor is obsessing over coffee and sandwiches.

Follow him on Twitter or Instagram.

Superdestroyer – I Hate What You've Done With The Place | Single Premiere

How would you describe being unwanted? It’s a complex emotion to articulate, often more of an unspoken feeling than anything explicitly said. Sure, sometimes tension inevitably mounts up and things boil over into a fight, but what about those slow-simmering feelings? You know the ones I’m talking about; the co-worker who never has too much to say to you, the friend that you talk to less and less with each passing year, the person you have a crush on and can’t tell if it’s mutual or if you’re just bugging them. 

Sometimes the feeling of being unwanted can be exasperated by our own anxieties, but other times they’re founded, and it’s just a matter of time until they’re out in the open. And which is worse in that scenario? Knowing that your worry was correct, or the hurt of it actually being true? This creeping uncertainty is the feeling that lies at the heart of “I Hate What You’ve Done With The Place,” the newest single from anonymous one-man solo project Superdestroyer. This song comes hot on the heels of last year’s Such Joy (a lovely little experimental emo joint that I wrote about here) and feels like a logical continuation of the awesomely unique sounds that Superdestroyer was crafting throughout their last release. 

The song begins with an oceanic one-second whir that soon becomes eclipsed by a solitary looped guitar lick. Remorseful vocals quickly fill up the remaining space, fleshing out these feelings of singled-out awkwardness. 

I see the look that you give to me
It’s like I’ve got something written across my face
I can’t pretend I like the way that it’s been
And just to be frank, I hate what you’ve done with the place. 

Soon after deploying the song’s titular line, a single low bassline rattles out underneath a second even more distorted guitar. These two additions act as harbingers for the rest of the instruments, forecasting the additional layer of bass, drums, and guitar to come, all of which emanate from the same singular source of Superdestroyer. 

As the remainder of the lyrics flesh out feelings of contempt for being trapped in this situation, the band launches into a snappy emo sway that guides the track forward. The resolution here is how most of these situations end, with the feelings being unveiled as mutual. “I don’t want to be here either,” our narrator reveals as the song gradually pairs back down to its original elements. The bass and drums fade as a soulful guitar solo plays out. Soon all that’s left is the same looped guitar riff that has acted as the song’s grounding force throughout. Eventually, this guitar too fades away, leaving us alone as these emotions wash out into the silent darkness. 

It’s only two minutes, but “I Hate What You’ve Done With The Place” perfectly captures the looming awkwardness that can arise from human interactions. It’s not like one person on either side of these interactions is “evil,” it’s just that the pairing itself is bad. This song captures the often-inarticulable feeling of finding out your worst anxieties are true. It also acts as an abridged journey that both parties often must go through in order to come to terms with that fact independently. The disdain is mutual.

Within the world of the song, this is portrayed as ill-fated roommates. Most of us have been there; awkward kitchen interactions, weird biting remarks that get under your skin, little things that rub you the wrong way and eventually build up into something more substantial. The interesting thing is how malleable this idea proves to be. There are an infinite number of situations where our brains can trick ourselves into feeling unwanted, some of which may be true, but most of the time is just our own head being mean. 

Sometimes this buildup of the unwanted is inevitable; other times, it’s a weird standoff of trying to figure out if the other person or group of people feel the same way as you. Is this a real feeling that I’m picking up, or is it all in my head? That’s always the question, isn’t it? 

“I Hate What You've Done With The Place” releases on all streaming services on 2/16, and Superdestroyer's upcoming LP In Your Loneliness, Your Holiness will be out on 2/25 on Lonely Ghost Records.

Riverby – Baseless | Single Review

Content Warning: This article discusses themes of sexual assault.

Are you tired of being nice? Don’t you just want to go ape shit? This proposition first spoken into existence on Yahoo Answers in 2018 and since immortalized by Princess Daisy in this image macro is the spiritual foundation for “Baseless,” the ferocious new single from Riverby.

The group’s 2020 release, Smart Mouth, is a whip-smart, hook-laden stunner of an LP that saw lead singer August Greenberg collecting themselves in the wake of romantic tragedy. The band used literary tales like The Giving Tree and The Telltale Heart as springboards to navigate the world of heartbreak. The album reads like a post-mortem on a failed relationship where the longing, regret, and self-reflection were propelled forward by exhilarating punk rock instrumentals. 

This is all true tenfold on “Baseless,” which seeks closure, not through reconciliation, but revenge. The song begins with a snappy mid-00’s alt-rock guitar line and bouncy drumming. Before the listener even has enough time to fully orient themselves within the track, the band immediately sets the song ablaze with lyrics that capture flashes of physical violence and sexual abuse. Within 30 seconds, we’re swept into a killer chorus as Greenberg snarls over a hard-charging riff, “Baseless, baseless, not that kinda guy / Keep on praying to Jesus, you can take it up with God.”

Throughout their debut, the band’s greatest tool was always Greenberg’s one-of-a-kind voice which is both breathtaking and acrobatic, equally capable of a delicate croon or a ravenous growl depending on what the track needed. Here, the lyrics dial-up this aggressive side of the band’s spectrum far past anything we’ve we’ve seen in the past. The second verse sees the group firing off acidic lines that still manage to drive the narrative forward. 

Remember when you said that I was fucking crazy
Like what did I expect on a Saturday night?
You’re begging on your knees, and you’re calling me baby
You’re fucking lucky I let you walk out alive

This resolves on a taunt of “you couldn’t even get me in my sleeeeeep” before throwing to another chorus to great effect. It’s a barn-burning middle finger towards someone who’s done the worst possible thing to you and left you for dead. Most importantly, it’s not coming from a place of hurt but from someone who now knows they’re stronger than they ever were before. This, combined with lyrics like “I wanna be an asshole, I wanna get even, I wanna hear you scream,” feel like a powerful reclamation in the face of a society that too often dismisses survivors.

“Baseless” is about airing things out. This is the musical equivalent of saying ‘fuck being the better person,’ if only for two minutes and thirty-nine seconds. Being nice is great and all, but even the sweetest person in the world can only bottle that shit in for so long before it explodes. This song is that explosion. It’s a volcanic eruption spurred by seeing the face of the person who wronged you. It’s every late-night thought you wish you had said in the heat of the moment. It’s a wall of emotional shrapnel heading directly towards someone who deserves it most. It’s the perfect song to channel all your spite, rage, and hurt into, especially if you’re the one who’s in the right. 

“Baseless” is a contemptuous and angry song. It’s days, months, and maybe even years worth of bottled-up feelings pouring out at once with everything aimed squarely at the person who forced you to feel this way in the first place. Most importantly, “Baseless” represents the desire for this person to feel even a shred of the same pain that they caused you. After all, aren’t you tired of being nice? 

Editor’s Note: Shortly after the publication of this article, I had a long conversation with a friend about this song, its topic, and how I addressed the theme of sexual assault within the review. It ended up being a much-needed discussion where I learned how language can inadvertently perpetuate harm. As horrific as these acts of violence are, my main takeaway was that sometimes just calling them out for what they are is an essential step in dismantling them. 

I edited this piece to ensure the severity of sexual assault is called out explicitly for what it is and not brushed over. I also wanted to make sure my writing considers stories of survivors and abuse so that those experiences can be portrayed and talked about in an accurate way to show the full extent of the damage they cause.

Chris Farren – Death Don’t Wait (Original Motion Picture Soundtrack) | Album Review

Best known as the frontman of Florida indie rock band Fake Problems, one half of pop-punk duo Antarctigo Vespucci, and the powerhouse behind two irreverent, high-energy solo albums, Chris Farren has always had a flair for the dramatic. His work as a songwriter and performer is never *just* about the music (though said music is certainly strong enough to speak for itself if needed). From his contributions to the Craig of the Creek soundtrack (with the show’s composer Jeff Rosenstock, Farren’s longtime best friend and collaborator), to his use of elaborate projected visuals in his live shows, and, let’s just say spirited self-portraits, the non-audio companion pieces have always been as essential to the “Chris Farren Experience” as the music itself. Even without these visual elements, Farren has always been a very illustrative musician, creating vivid scenes that make his songs often feel like short films. It’s easy– often lazy –music writer shorthand to call a song or an album or even a particular musician’s songwriting style “cinematic.” If by “cinematic” one means ‘yeah, I could see this song being used in a movie,’ then the term becomes almost meaningless. But listening to  Death Don’t Wait, I feel confident in this word’s necessity and specificity because Chris Farren has soundtracked the greatest crime drama that never existed. 

Inspired primarily by Bond films and Marvin Gaye’s soundtrack to Trouble Man, Chris Farren has tried his hand at filmmaking– he’s just skipped over the part where an actual film is made. Though Death Don’t Wait does not exist in its full, feature-length, audiovisual form– no script, no actors, no footage –it’s not that far off to imagine it. 

As the album’s title track and only non-instrumental opens with sparkling strings and delicately tapping hi-hat cymbals, you can imagine the opening credits rolling in– “…and featuring the music of Chris Farren” unfolding across a background of rainy city streets at twilight. This track sees guest vocalist and frequent Farren collaborator Laura Stevenson going full Nancy Sinatra, purring over a ‘60s Spectoresque girl group progression with a voice as sweet and slow as honey. Tonally, this opener is a microcosm of the soundtrack as a whole– though it’s evocative of a bygone era, none of it feels outdated or stale. 

While listening to Farren’s soundtrack, I found myself watching the events of the story unfold, beat by beat. Even just looking at the tracklist, the song titles read as a sort of storyboard that maps out the rise and fall of a movie plot. Just the other day I affectionately described the Mission Impossible-esque “Red Wire Blue Wire” as “music to commit a heist to.” “Helicopter Shuffle” kicks off with a fat bassline, which gives our unnamed and unseen heroes a head start on their run from the cops before the drums start rumbling in. “Car Chase!” sounds like, well, exactly what the title would suggest. The moody guitars and suspenseful, rattling snare give “Chris Farren Noir” a “Riders On The Storm” vibe. This lonesome cowboy moment is further proof of Chris Farren’s versatility– he can be both a character actor AND a leading man. 

Farren’s multi-genre influences are apparent throughout the soundtrack. The fantastically titled “Attacked By Dogs” sees a crashing cacophony of horns and drums giving way to what almost sounds like a ska track towards the end, and that ska influence comes through the plucky, dissolving guitars on “Cash Is Heavy” as well. Evoking the ambience of a smoke-filled nightclub, “Here’s Your Disguise” bravely poses the question, “what if The Stranglers tried to make a lyricless bossa nova song?” (Answer: it would fucking slap). In “Night Walk (Harmonic Suite),” three haunting piano notes are repeated ominously over a slow-burning drone, building up a creeping sense of fear before the mournful, dirge-like horns come in. 

The film reaches its climax with “Hot Pursuit,” which kicks off with fluttering surf-rock guitars, a mad-dashing drum beat, and a fierce, doom-portending horn section. This is the turning point, the final showdown, the grand finale. But after our heroes make their great escape, as the slow, forlorn strings and piano notes of  “Cold Pursuit” fade in, we get the sense that it was a pyrrhic victory. This could all be just an assumption, though. With no film to accompany this soundtrack, Farren lets the listener choose their own adventure. Though it might be tempting, on a surface level, to assume that his intention is to parody, Farren’s admiration for his musical and film influences is apparent throughout. The genre tropes he employs are familiar touchstones that give Death Don’t Wait an arc that feels full despite what is deliberately missing. The white page, the darkened screen– these absences that Farren leaves us with are, in their own way, essential to the completed story. They give us– the listeners –the opportunity to fill in the blanks with our own imagination before letting the credits roll. 

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Grace Robins-Somerville is a writer from Brooklyn, New York. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter @grace_roso.