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.

The Slow Cancellation of the Future: 70s Cosplay in Modern Pop Music

Despite only being two years into the decade, the music of the 2020s has already revealed a trend of artists relying on styles that other musicians have established long ago. In his book Ghosts of My Life: Writings on Depression, Hauntology and Lost Futures, Mark Fisher described this phenomenon as “The feeling of belatedness, of living after the gold rush.” Our expectations have been lowered and we rely on a formal nostalgia, perhaps, as Fisher speculates, because there’s “an increasing sense that culture has lost the ability to grasp and articulate the present.” 

Before Fear of Death was released in 2020, comedian Tim Heidecker had to convince his audience that this was not an elaborate setup — his intention was for this studio album to be taken seriously. “I’m like Dylan,” Heidecker bites, responding to a viewer question during his podcast Office Hours Live. “My name ‘Tim Heidecker’ means Dylan,” he elaborates while his crew chuckle in the background. It’s clear that Tim is not in on the joke. The music video for the titular single on the record is intriguing. In the first 20 seconds, Tim is “showing” the band what cords to play. The camera is directly in his face, but he never acknowledges it. It’s a similar effect to the illusion in documentaries where subjects are aware they’re being filmed, but do their best to pretend to be un-spectated. Shot in 16mm, Tim Heidecker sees himself as a rockstar; one or all of his 70s musical idols at once, a strange showmanship emerges, and it’s a pattern you’ll see throughout the entire record. 

Heidecker has a public playlist on his Spotify titled “Fear of Death,” though it features no songs off his own album. Instead, you’ll find Paul Simon’s “Graceland,” Joni Mitchell’s “A Case of You,” John Lennon’s “Mother,” Bob Dylan’s “Tangled Up In Blue,” Leonard Cohen’s “Famous Blue Raincoat,” and more. I want to praise Heidecker for wearing his inspirations on his sleeve, but sometimes when an artist says they’re “influenced by” something, what they really mean to say is that they have borrowed from it liberally. If you look up his songs on YouTube, the most popular comments consistently reference other artists. The top comment on “Nothing” compares Heidecker to Harry Nilsson, a prominent singer/songwriter from the 70s. A few comments on “Property” call the album Randy Newman-esque. Did I mention the record also has a cover of “Let It Be”? 

In a Washington Post article, Heidecker said he’s better at sounding like Dylan than himself. “My voice doesn’t have its own character,” he reasoned. Later, the article mentions how Heidecker felt his hair looked similar to “Wings-era McCartney.” In addition to this, reviewers and fans alike had no problem comparing Heidecker’s lyrical ability to that of Paul Simon or Stephen Stills. Is this not a tired precedent? Why are we placing these high accolades onto a comedian whose music career is a hobby, or at the very worst, an after-thought?

Fear of Death promises a pursuit of existential topics, but it has little to no emotional catharsis. Heidecker’s voice is loud, but what it projects is trite lyrics surrounded by equally loud but bland instrumentals. It’s an easy-listening album, but there are no elements that compel you to hear it out. Heidecker fears he lacks a distinct voice, and I believe he uses that as a shield from fully committing to a challenging artistic endeavor, instead settling for something that he can add to his resume, Wikipedia page, or whatever personal book of accomplishments he keeps for himself.

Elsewhere in the music industry, other even more established artists aren't immune to this kind of historical navel-gazing. The most recent albums from Bleachers and St. Vincent both struggle with the same problems. Bleachers lead singer Jack Antonoff also produced St. Vincent’s album, so it's safe to assume Antonoff was juggling both projects at once, and it shows. Both Take the Sadness Out of Saturday Night and Daddy’s Home follow the same beats, right down to the album artwork and the costumes. Pop artists are chameleons, shapeshifting into new aesthetics to correlate with the sound of their album — it’s an extra step in branding that’s existed since the beginning of time. However, behind the Bruce Springsteen feature and rogue George Harrison worship, Antonoff reveals his agenda through the yelpy vocals and millennial pop beats. It’s a record tailor-made for alt-pop radio, but it hides behind these distinct influences, pretending to sound bigger than it is.

Antonoff performed some of these songs on Saturday Night Live earlier this year—dressed in cuffed jeans and a leather jacket, he feigns the rockstar aesthetic and sound, without any of the angst or true emotions that fill the songs he’s trying to replicate. There’s a desperation to it. The desire to stand out and be different. Young people don’t notice it because they aren’t familiar with the music it’s referencing. It’s akin to how tweens & teens listen to Lemon Demon and Jack Stauber before they find out who Oingo Boingo and Talking Heads are. Older people are waiting for something better to come along, and with their lowered expectations, they happily take St. Vincent in a Candy Darling wig riffing on a rejected Steely Dan instrumental over another Justin Bieber tune plaguing the radio. 

There’s an issue of class here as well. Both Antonoff and Heidecker come from upper-middle-class backgrounds, growing up in the suburbs of New Jersey and Pennsylvania, respectively. Juxtapose this to Bruce Springsteen (as he is an inspiration to both), who grew up poor in the 50s, which in itself led to a lot of traumas. However, Springsteen tapped into that troubled generational atmosphere as it was in the turbulent process of spiraling down. He earned the title of rockstar by performing with a fearless passion. He believed in what he was singing because he lived it, and the things he didn’t live he observed through the experiences of his peers and fans. He was a natural showman, charismatic, and in the business of projecting a big story. I don’t believe you necessarily have to go through intense hardships in order to write a good song, but in the case of Heidecker and Antonoff, their economic class and shallow life experiences lead to boring records. An isolated life leads to a limited perspective. 

I should also touch on Daddy’s Home a bit more. Annie Clark (St. Vincent) used her father's 12-year incarceration for his role in a $43 million stock manipulation scheme as the crux of this 70s pastiche album. She attempts to be educated about the faults of the prison system and how it affects the black community, but Clark exhibits a clear dissonance when she stumbles through a watered-down reference to Nina Simone and positions black backup singers to sulk about her white father who committed a white-collar crime. Clark, of course, kept this story hidden until journalists forced her hand. “People are flawed, but also are capable of change. We can’t just write somebody off,” Clark said in an interview. To cope, she dropped into a cobbled-together character based on stolen and reappropriated aesthetics. Clark went from a “white-haired, sadomasochist cult leader” to a “dominatrix at the mental institution” to a “Cassavetes heroine” in the span of three album cycles. She attributes this current phase as a tribute to the albums she grew up on, which is the case for all millennial / gen x musicians. There isn’t anything unique about listening to Joni Mitchell and wishing you could be her. 

Artists are perceiving the past as a mythical entity, which is contributing to the slow cancellation of the future. Focusing on aesthetics alone can lead to limited hindsight about an era and its ideals. Through appropriation, these artists are shrinking the possibility for an organic/original sound to emerge. This leads me to the next topic of discussion: Greta Van Fleet. 

Greta Van Fleet is a band from Michigan who is best known for being Led Zeppelin emulators. As this article states: “the music, the costumes, even the backlash against them — is crafted intentionally to appeal specifically to people who are too young to know that they’re derivative and people who are too old to care because they remind them of when they were young. They’re a band designed to be regurgitated by algorithms, worming their way onto “Recommended If You Like…” playlists and nabbing themselves the No. 1 rock album in the country without so much as an original thought. They themselves are still young — but old enough to know exactly what they’re doing.” Greta Van Fleet does not push the world of rock music forward; their art is stagnant and without any new or original ideas, concepts, and styles. There is no authenticity, experimentation, or excitement. They’re gliding into their rising popularity, and with the external increase of 70s cosplay within their peer group, there are no signs of it slowing down anytime soon. 

Whether they're creating rock, pop, or overly-earnest singer-songwriter fare, artists like Greta Van Fleet, Bleachers, and Heidecker take the aesthetics of the 70s and believe that is enough. However, the songwriters of that era implored a strong use of language and narrative. Randy Newman was known for his tongue-in-cheek satires, Harry Nilsson was known for his spontaneous imagination, Joni Mitchell was known for her equally heartfelt and intricate poetry. Excellent writing and a knowledge of how to use figurative language is the core of what makes a song compelling, memorable, and worthy of being passed down to a future generation.

Another hit album of 2021 was An Evening with Silk Sonic. Throughout this release, the duo comprised of Bruno Mars and Anderson .Paak indulged in a faithful and committed tribute to the R&B genre. Though music videos and lyrical references throughout the album fetishize the 70s, it is clear that their revival of this sound is tongue-in-cheek; they’re aware of how well-worn this aesthetic is. The irony doesn’t absolve the album from fault, but is an indicator of how it was a passion project, never meant to be perceived as anything deeper. However, as Pitchfork mentioned: “any significant level of investment poses the question: When artists invoke music as beloved as Motown and Philly soul, how can anything they create measure up?” 

What is the purpose of 70s cosplay if not to invoke feelings of nostalgia? Even to those of us who were born way after that decade, the sounds and color palates still feel warm and inviting. It’s easier to accept false replications of the past than to conceive of something new. Why should you seek out new genres or singers when you can listen to an established artist that makes you think of being a kid, sitting in the back of your dad's car while he had the classic rock station on? 

What’s worst yet is that this 70s revival refuses to acknowledge the influences artists from the 70s borrowed. Bob Dylan thanks Jimmy Reed and Woody Guthrie for his career, Led Zeppelin wears the influence of Muddy Waters and Skip James on their sleeve, Joan Baez cites Pete Seeger and Odetta as an inspiration. It is true that no one is uniquely individual or without inspiration, but what's different about artists of the 1970s to the ones of the 2020s is that they elevated themselves with these influences while constantly reinventing, experimenting, and being brave enough to let their voice waiver without the clutch of reverb and electronic drum beats.

The culture of nostalgia has reached an evolved form with films, documentaries, and music celebrating pop auteurs. The past already happened. To recreate it is a futile attempt to capture a moment that was never really there. What glamor is there in recycled fashion looks or referenced bass lines? Is there no pride in swallowing your inspirations and channeling a new ambition from them?

It is in my humble opinion that inspiration can be found in idiosyncratic talent and artistic motives. It is more admirable to place recognition in the greatness of creatives before you and try to imbue their philosophy in the voice you project into the world rather than stand in as a cheap knock-off. You don’t have to dress like Marc Bolan and sound like Bowie to be alluring—you just have to possess a relentless passion for performing. Modern artists are so terrified to fail openly, and their music shows it. To do something that hasn’t been done before requires a certain bravery that groups like Bleachers and Greta Van Fleet don’t possess. 

None of these albums will make an impression. They will be forgotten in the same vein of how we remember The Beatles and not the hundreds of copycat bands that came to be as a result of them. These albums are the result of admiration — but it’s not a case of, as Brian Eno stated, "The first Velvet Underground album only sold 10,000 copies, but everyone who bought it formed a band" where the energy and attitudes were what was desired to replicate. Instead, this modern crop of albums represents the fetishization of aesthetic, recontextualization of the past in a contemporary lens, and carrying a pretense of leveling on the same heights as the artists they’re replicating. The lack of subtlety is tiring. These musicians assign themselves a self-importance because they are aware of the acclaimed arts of the past. The core issue with all of these projects is that they don’t understand the source material. They don’t understand the context in which the art they adore was made, and this self-indulgence prevents cohesion. What purpose does a referential album or gimmick serve in an age where all of history is accessible in three clicks? 

In the past, writers, musicians, and activists operated under a political sentiment of engagement. This is how counterculture was born. But as it stands today, we have no oppositional culture. We’ve surpassed the end of history in terms of chance for political upheaval or drastic societal change, and no one really knows what to do. Nostalgia, though well-worn and bittersweet, is a type of regression when liberally exerted. If artists keep dipping back into the honeypot, we may never witness the future. In order for the future to exist, we must participate in new thoughts and imagination and rid ourselves of styles we weren’t supposed to hold onto this long. 

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Kaycie is a high school senior and writer. You can find them on Instagram at @boyishblues.

Feeling It All for the First Time

We are coming up on two years of a world-altering event. Two years of learning a new mode of operation. Two years of living alongside death and disfunction on a previously unforeseen scale. We have been witness to horrors and dreads that I could never have conceived of, and we are still subject to them every day. We’ve all learned to cope with this change in different ways, and I’ve only recently begun to recognize my own. 

To that end, I’ve learned a great deal about myself over the last two years. I’ve started to recognize my strengths and my faults from a more objective distance. I’ve discovered what makes me powerful and unique. Conversely, I’ve also uncovered things I need to work on and improve. Things I want to work on and improve.

I’ve only recently realized that, over the course of my adult life, I’ve gotten increasingly detached from my feelings. First, it was to build up a protective wall against rejection both romantically and professionally. The romantic side speaks for itself, but I also work in a creative field, and it can feel awful when someone criticizes your thoughts or picks apart something you’ve worked so hard on. Regardless, in both of these cases, there’s nothing worse than putting yourself out there and being met with either indifference or flat-out rejection.

Over the span of years, those feelings, both good and bad, have all faded. At various points, I’d like to think that the gradual disconnect between my head and my heart has aided me immensely. Living through everything we have over the past couple of years has been hard, and being able to compartmentalize all of that trauma has been a method I’ve used to help continue onward. It may not be the right tool, but it is a tool. 

But the thing about compartmentalization is that those compartments need to open up eventually. 

Once I started taking stock, I realized I was sitting on massive caches of these little compartments. Years and years worth of bottled-up feelings that I’ve been stockpiling. Once I began to realize the scope of these unaddressed emotions, I had no idea what to do next. I’m not sure what I need to do with them or how I can even articulate them. It feels like an almost impossible task.

Despite all this, I’m an optimist. As arduous and improbable as this journey seems, the wonderful part is that being in touch with your feelings brings good just as much as it brings bad. You’re of no use to anyone cold and indifferent, and that’s what the world wants.

Once I started to realize this, I made it my mission to feel things more. First, it was a lot of pain and betrayal. Then it was anger at myself and at the world. Eventually, it scaled up to grappling with systematic problems and figuring out not only how I fit into those, but how I can reject or dismantle them. Ultimately, the conclusion I arrived at is that things may be bleak, but I still have hope. And that is enough.

Sure, you can bottle things up and pass through life. I can’t deny the appeal to that. It’s pragmatic and, in some ways, easier than the alternative. But after a while, you start to feel like a ghost.

So I’ve been grappling with all of this over the past few months. I’ve been trying to improve myself, consciously recognize my own thought patterns, and include myself in my feelings more often. Ironically, I realized that this whole time I’d only been rejecting myself. It’s been a hard process, but it’s work that I finally want to do. It’s work that I owe myself and the people in my life; I want to be better for myself and for them.

Just as I have been coming to terms with this process and found myself standing out over the cliff of all this, something beautiful has happened. I met someone who is sweet, and loving, and smart, and kind, and brilliant, and inspiring, and beautiful, and funny. I really like them, and somehow they really like me. And I don’t feel worthy of it.

I think that this is all happening at the same time for a reason. So I can embark upon this journey with a goal. To continue to feel these feelings and to use love as the carrot on the end of the stick. The same week that this relationship came to fruition, Black Country, New Road released Ants From Up There.

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I’m not really a post-punk guy, but this also isn’t a post-punk record. This album has been on my radar since it was announced, but I wouldn’t say I was particularly excited for it. I didn’t listen to any of the singles, and I haven’t been revisiting any of their past work. The band name and album title have just been sitting there in my new music Google doc staring at me unfeelingly in a 12 point Calibri font for months. 

This isn’t even really a post about this album. I’m not going to talk about the songs or the lyrics, or the lineup drama, or anything of that nature. Go to Pitchfork for that. This is a post about serendipity. 

In listening to Ants, one thing began to emerge; the idea of feelings. It didn’t remind me of the band’s first album (which I liked fine at the time, but didn’t really return to much). For The First Time was artsy and winding and poetic, but it was also dark and mired in itself. Ants From Up There feels like the opposite. While the first album anguished in the details of everyday life, the group’s sophomore album feels like a direct counterpoint. This album is marvelous, soaring, and affirming. It reaches out for something beautiful and external as opposed to looking inward and digging out something dark. But I guess what I’m learning is that you have to do one before you can do the other. You have to do at least some of the hard work before reaping the rewards; otherwise, it all just rings hollow. 

This album feels like breaking through the clouds and seeing the world from a new perspective. It’s feeling hope and love for the first time in far too long. It’s returning to your own feelings like the comforting warmth of a friend. It’s exhilarating, and it’s exhausting.

Once I finished the record, I thought to myself, ‘I don’t know how I’m supposed to just go on about my day.’ That’s something I haven’t felt in ages, but also something that I was lucky enough to have felt once earlier this week after sharing my heart with that same person I mentioned earlier. It reminded me how good it can feel to experience those things. It feels like a grand affirmation to have this album released the same week, and in so many ways, it feels like a sign. It feels like I’m doing the right thing, that I’m moving in the right direction. It feels like I’m ready to love and be loved.

In the wake of this album, I am writing a lot, but I am also speechless. Ants From Up There sounds like the totality of feeling, and for the first time in a long time, I am ready to open myself up to that. Life is going to be hard, but there’s a power to be felt in that admission. 

There’s beauty to be witnessed alongside the horror.
There’s love to be held alongside the pain.
There’s triumph to be felt alongside the discord.
That’s what makes it all worth it.

I am awestruck by the size of it
I am small, and I am humbled.
I am daunted, and I am scared.
But I am also ready to open myself up to it. 
Finally.