sareisnot

[sareisnot]

Pink Moon - I like it the way I should.

Content warning: Mentions of death, depression, mental illness, suicide, and self-hatred

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Pink Moon is a very sad story. Released in 1972, the album has gained a near-mythic status, far beyond just being a piece of music. It’s treated as a kind of final chapter, the closing remarks in the story of one of the music world’s most discussed tragic figures, British folk musician Nick Drake. When he recorded the album, Drake was a thoroughly troubled soul. He’d spent most of his career up to that point making poorly marketed, commercially disastrous albums, and backsliding into his already nasty depression (as well as schizophrenia, if the speculations of his former therapist are to be believed). He was unkempt and unsociable, only really leaving his apartment to reluctantly perform bad live shows, and worry his friends and family with his deterioration. The music industry, and life in general, had not been kind to Drake. Nonetheless, he walked into the studio in 1971 with the intention of making another album. Over the course of two nights, Drake would pour his heart out into his music, using nothing but his voice and his guitar (and a piano on the title track) to cut eleven tracks of intimate, solitary folk music. He would then leave the studio with those tracks assembled into Pink Moon, which he would unceremoniously dump onto some people at Island Records (who didn’t know he was even recording anything), before going off to live with his parents. When Island Records released the album a few months later, it did the thing that Nick Drake projects did at the time: get mixed critical reception, and sell like garbage. Drake decided at that point that he was going to retire from music. Two years later, he was found dead in his bedroom. The cause was ruled as an overdose of antidepressants. He was 26.

In the years afterwards, the album began to steadily gather more attention, after it and its creator influenced some of the greatest songwriters of all time, and got included on a few noteworthy soundtracks. Pink Moon is now considered to be one of the greatest albums ever made. People just could not praise it enough. It just seemed that every time someone was exposed to Pink Moon, it broke their heart in a way nothing else had. And in being exposed to it, people would also hear the tragic story of Drake, forever intertwining the two. Pink Moon became, in essence, the unofficial last will and testament of a man who didn’t know he was dying.

I was only aware of the bones of this story when I heard Pink Moon for the first time. It was June of 2021. I was seventeen, in my last semester of high school, and as far as I was concerned, probably the worst human being who had ever existed. Like most people that age, I was on a seemingly endless quest for meaning, identity, and community, and as far as I knew, I was the only one failing to find anything. I’d picked up a few passions here and there, but none of them seemed to do anything about the persistent feeling of emptiness, so I kept looking. I was completely lost in my own emotional landscape, and due to the still-active lockdown happening at the time, there weren’t really many other places to go. On the rare occasions that I did hang out with other people, I would mostly spend my time trying not to say something too out of the ordinary, so as to appease the imaginary audience judging my every move. This task proved particularly difficult, considering I seemed preordained to be out of step with most people I interacted with. I tried to fit the social mold that was set out for me, but there always seemed to be a finger, or toe, or forearm out of place. And every single day, I was plagued by the notion that, above all else, I really ought to have been better than this by now.

At this same time, I was doing an unpaid data cleaning internship, a job which mostly involved sitting at my desk at home, typing zeros into blank spaces on a Google spreadsheet. It was not thrilling. I would usually leave this quietly onerous task until late in the night, when my brain was exhausted enough to confuse this repetition as something meditative. It was a kind of ritual; Night after night, I’d sit at my computer, throw on an album, and hit the “0” key until my brain gave out. This particular night, I had to get to bed early, as the next day happened to be the date of my high school graduation. The magnitude of this event, frankly, scared the piss out of me, and I wanted something to quell the overstimulation before I took my last rest in this part of my life. So, I sat down in front of the spreadsheet, and googled “short albums” to fill out the silence, and get to bed early at the same time. Of the several presented to me, Pink Moon was the first to catch my eye. The cover was pretty cool, with a very melancholic, surrealist air about it. It made me feel something, but I couldn't be sure what it was. After a bit of googling, I stumbled across Drake’s story. I learned how he’d managed to give this gift to the world, even while plagued by mental illness and isolation. How, even though he was suffering, he was still able to relinquish his most intimate thoughts, channeling them into his art. It was a compelling story.

Even more compelling, however, were the testimonies from people who claimed that Pink Moon had changed their life. There was something in this album that just made people different after they had heard it. I found that prospect tantalizing. “Here it is” I thought, “Here’s the thing that’s going to make it all make sense. Here’s the thing that’ll change my life. I’m going to be a different person.”

After 28 minutes and 5 seconds, Pink Moon was over. I remained thoroughly the same. I was not a different person. It had been a beautiful, gorgeous, sorrowful trip through the mind and heart of a monumental songwriting talent gone too soon. But it was not life changing. It should have been. That’s how this was supposed to work. That’s how these things happen. I was supposed to stumble upon this out of nowhere before my high school graduation, at this massive turning point in my life, and it was supposed to deeply impact my soul and stick with me forever. I was supposed to be a different person.

And that narrative, that idea that it should have changed me, that something monumental was meant to happen, was so compelling, that I just kind of…. pretended that’s how it went. Pink Moon was supposed to alter the course of my life, so it had. That’s how it worked. That’s how it went for everyone else, so that’s how it went for me. I liked it the way that everybody else did. That was how I could claw my way into their world, by sharing in their experience. As far as the specifics of exactly how I liked it, or how it had changed my life, I could never really nail that bit down. I think the closest I ever got was the morning after, when, in a conversation with my dad, I said something to the effect of “Yeah…… it’s like……. this guy recorded this before he died, and like…… I'm entering a whole new stage in my life, so it really hit me hard.” Whether or not I had convinced him of my normalness, I was unsure. But that didn’t stop me from repeating this little fiction I had concocted over and over again. My hope was that at some point, I would trick myself into believing it. I was a different person.

In the several years that followed, I would dance this dance over and over again. Every time that I would find myself in a conversation about music, I would mention Pink Moon, and how thoroughly it had supposedly impacted me. It was one of several habits I had formed to portray something resembling a human person. “Yeah” I would say, “I totally recommend it, but make sure you listen to it at the right time, it’s a rough one.” Through this promotion, I hoped I would successfully squeeze my life into the same narrative that drove me towards the album in the first place. Pink Moon had changed me, just like it was supposed to, just like it had for everyone else. I was a different person. Sometimes I would meet another of those “everyone else” and we would commiserate about Pink Moon, and what a masterpiece it was, how it was a tragedy that Drake never got to see all the people that his music would end up helping. I wasn’t lying when I said this, at least. However, deep down, I could still hear a small voice scratching at the back of my subconscious. It was the same one I heard every other time I said something just to resemble the mold. “You’re not quite lying, but that’s also not quite true” it would say, “That’s not you talking. That's a different person.” I would try not to listen.

Pink Moon would shoot to top of my personal rankings, ostensibly becoming my second favorite album of all time. Not quite my favorite, it just wouldn't be right. This tidbit would get mixed into the little spiel I would throw out every time Pink Moon came into conversation. I would end up spotting the vinyl in a record store I frequented, and obviously I just had to buy it. “Yeah, this is one my favorites” I told the cashier, “Right up there with Atrocity Exhibition and Heaven or Las Vegas.” “That’s some varied taste” she said, trying to fill the few seconds of dead air while my receipt printed. “Thanks.” A cool twenty-six dollars to signal just how much I loved Pink Moon. I could sit it on top of a little stand in my dorm room and display its importance to myself. It was a sign of something special. I was part of a larger collective, bonded by the importance and the monumentality of this work. I loved it the way I meant to. I was a different person. I was a Nick Drake FAN. I had never listened to any other Nick Drake albums.

Since the eve of my graduation, I hadn’t listened to Pink Moon either. As a matter of fact, I was actively avoiding it. Every time one of its songs came up on my shuffle, I would skip it. Every time I was encouraged by Spotify to “revisit an old favorite!” I would politely decline the offer. The vinyl sat on the stand, mostly collecting dust. Pink Moon was to be referenced and referred back to, but I was wary about actually listening to it. I told myself it was because Pink Moon was such an emotionally loaded album for me, and held such a special place in my heart, that I couldn’t just go back to it like any old piece of music. No, it had to be at a special moment, a perfect moment. I’d know it when it came, then I could finally go back.

Really, I think I was afraid. I was scared that if I actually did return, if I engaged with the music rather than my edited memories, then the illusion might finally break. My quiet lie would finally unravel, and the narrative that I had concocted would slowly fall away, revealing my failure to have the right experience, have the right story, to be the right kind of person. My disconnection from everyone would finally be laid bare, and that was something I just did not want to think about. Knowing of this possibility wasn’t actively painful, so it was fairly easy to ignore. I remained in plausible deniability, waiting for that perfect moment, and hoping it would never come.

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It was July of 2023 when I listened to Pink Moon in full for the second time. I was 19, getting ready to start my junior year of college, and no longer the worst human being who ever existed. I don’t know if I’d call myself “great,” but I was batting above average, at least. I’d done quite a bit of growing into myself, and I could feel that emptiness growing smaller at the same time. That practice of listening to albums while typing zeros had developed into a full-on music obsession, complete with a vinyl collection, and an extensive list of every album I had ever listened to. I’d managed to find some things to do that were pleasurable because I was doing them. I was still working on the whole “finding meaning” thing, but I had a feeling I was heading in the right direction. I’d managed to find more people who cared about me, and who I cared about in turn. I had something resembling a purpose in life, beyond just the curiosity of what the next day might bring. I still wasn’t quite fitting the social mold, but I was slowly fitting mine. By no means was I perfect. I was still a timid, quivering pile of anxieties, vague guilt, and undue self-doubt. But now, I could at least say that I was a little bit better.

On this particular night, I had dragged one of the rocking chairs from my porch out onto the lawn, so I could stargaze without sitting on the wet grass. There was this one that I kept looking at; the first one that had popped up. It was just something about the way that the trees framed it that made it particularly beautiful. It was while I was reclining in this chair, watching this one star shimmer in the sky, that I decided, “Y’know what? I think I should listen to Pink Moon again.”

Now, as to whatever confluence of events and emotions led me to this thought, I have no idea. All I knew was, for some reason, it just felt right. Maybe I was just lucky, in that moment, that I wasn’t afraid.

I hit play. It was gorgeous. There wasn’t a lot happening with the music itself, but it didn’t need more. The solitary guitar and quiet, intimate vocals collaborated beautifully, drifting out into the still air of the mix. There was nothing else to interrupt them, nothing else trying to join in. This was good, because the vocals needed that space. They were quiet, almost fragile, but gentle, and graceful. I could have sworn that Nick was sitting in front of me, if I just closed my eyes. He was singing. Not to me, but I was listening.

As I sat there, listening and watching the stars, I thought about Nick. I wondered what he was thinking, when he was creating this. What did he want from it? Why did he make it? Did Nick think he was making one of the greatest albums of all time? Did Nick expect his work to gain that kind of cultural importance? Did Nick know how much this work would mean to people, long after he was gone? Did Nick make it for them? Did Nick intend for his work to become part of a cultural mold? Did he expect all this importance to be layered onto it? Did he know he’d become an icon? Did Nick want that? Did Nick expect this album to be told as part of a tragic story, that would end with his death? Did he? When Nick made this, was he thinking about the legions of people who would discover this album after he was gone, and find meaning in it? Was Nick thinking about the people who would become songwriters, artists, different people, better people, or just people more ok with being alive, all because of him? Did he do it for them? Did he know of the stupid teenagers craving meaning and community and identity and an excuse to be a part of something to find this album, and pretend to have this amazing experience with it because they thought they were supposed to?

Did he do it for me?

I pulled out my phone and took a picture of the twilight sky. “Nah,” I thought, “He probably just wanted to make something."

In that moment, briefly decoupled from narrative obligation, I think I felt more connected to Pink Moon, and Nick Drake, than I ever had before.

I’ve listened to the album a few more times since then. It really is a fantastic, moving piece of work, maybe more so now that I don't need it to be. I can’t say that I’m brought to tears every time I listen, but I’m never unhappy to hear it playing. I’ve felt something while hearing it enough times that I’d be willing to call it one of my personal favorites. I’ve spun the vinyl a few times as well, the cracks and pops really do something for the atmosphere. I’ve listened when I needed to and when I didn’t. Afterwards, I am still the same person. That feels ok. I look forward to listening again.

[sareisnot]

Wall-E: The Best and Worst of Humanity on Display

For a children’s movie, Wall-E presents quite a dim prospect for humanity. Its two major settings, that being the ruined, trash filled earth, and the hyper-capitalist, hedonistic nightmare of the Axiom cruise ship, serve as quite blunt criticisms of modern society’s current trajectory. It anticipates a future in which our capitalistic systems propel towards our worst, most wasteful instincts, and reduce the planet to such a state that the best solution the corporatocratic government can come up with is, “just get out of dodge before it gets worse.” But old habits die hard, as the large-scale apathy, lethargy, and alienation seen on the Axiom proves. In WALL-E's very pointed opinion, our current practices, and the systems that foster those practices, only serve to further distance us from our humanity, preventing us from experiencing the true joys of life, and rejecting fulfillment for convenience.

The film’s thesis statement can be found in the words of the Axiom’s captain: “That’s all anyone on this blasted ship has ever done…I don’t want to survive! I wanna LIVE!” To simply pursue what best fosters your existence, the film says, is no way to move through life, at least not without sacrificing a bit of yourself on the way. Every character who helps WALL-E and EVE along, be they human or robot, has chosen to act on their emotional wants, rather than their objective drives. M-O and the other robots stray from their programming to help the couple, the Captain rejects Auto’s doctrine of survival, and even the gigantic WALL-A's stop collecting trash for a moment, to provide the heroes with some light. But in this universe, pursuing fulfillment is to fight against the tide. In this exaggerated version of our current capitalist, commercialized, proto-dystopia, there is no place for emotional drive, because it hinders practicality. At its core, WALL-E is a warning, that if we continue to chase this toxic instinct, then we will inevitably be relegated to a species of glorified dopamine receptors.

Despite this rather dreary warning, the film still maintains a boundless optimism. As a matter of fact, the film is bursting with hope, positivity, and most prominently, love. The film's emotional core, that being relationship between WALL-E and EVE, is also where one can find humanity's most redemptive quality: connection. The relationships that we forge, and the meaningful interactions that we have with others, are where the spirit of humanity is defined and fostered. All throughout the film, WALL-E and EVE, through their love, continuously bring humanity out of each other. At one point, EVE tosses away the plant, which had served as the film's primary motivator up to then, to communicate that she refuses to leave WALL-E behind. Their connection has inspired her to reject what is objectively best and choose love. This kind of choice is eventually what saves WALL-E, as EVE restores his unique personality in the end with a “kiss.” It is only through their love and connection that they find the motivation to finally return the plant and chart a course back to earth, saving humanity from slow decline. It is the culmination of the films several moments in which connection, compassion, and love are the motivators. “Define Dancing,” arguably the film’s most stunning scene, features WALL-E and EVE dancing with each other in space, for no other reason than to enjoy each other's company, and the life they have been granted. In turn, witnessing this scene is what causes John and Mary, the secondary human couple, to meet each other, and continue a dual arc of rediscovering their agency, which is initially sparked by WALL-E, but is maintained by their connection. WALL-E inspires EVE, who inspires The Captain, who inspires the rest of humanity, and eventually leads them back to their home. It is through this web of knock-on effects, the film states, that we can recover from even the direst of circumstances. We can never fully lose this aspect of humanity, even as we tread further into the seemingly inhuman future, because it is a quintessential, necessary part of our fundamental being. If connection is possible, the human spirit will endure, even if there are no more humans to carry it.

[sareisnot]

Lord Gwyn: The Perfect Anticlimax

"Dark Souls is a hard game"

To anyone who's even a little bit familiar with the franchise, this is an obnoxiously obvious statement. The game has held the title of THE "hard game" for so long, that not only has the statement "X is the Dark Souls of Y" become a cliche, but so has every subsequent mocking subversion of that comparison. To even acknowledge its obviousness, as I did, is territory so well-worn, that I'm at risk of falling through, into the hackneyed void. But it's still worth mentioning. It's a well-earned reputation. Not only is Dark Souls, on a purely technical level, difficult to beat, but its entire identity is based around its difficulty, if the name of the "Prepare to Die" edition is any indication. Its world is a punishing one, seeking to beat the player character down at every single opportunity, until they can't stand to move another step forward, lest they get thwacked by a swinging axe, skewered by a demon, swept off a cliff, or obliterated by a dragon with teeth where its torso should be. It's a game that crushes you down, intending to make very clear just how easy your character can die, and, importantly, just how unimportant your death will be. To these bosses, these titans, these near-gods, you are nothing but an annoyance. Many of these fights feel like climactic struggles against an ancient, near-unbeatable foe, who existed long before you were born, and has a pretty solid chance of existing after you've expired. When you enter the arena of Ornstein and Smough, the music swells, and the two knights flex the skills that they're going to use to kill you over and over again. Many of the game's bosses, try to tap into that sense of scale, of importance, of grandiosity, each of their respective battles feeling like they could easily be the final one.

Then, after a long struggle, you make it to the end.

The game's final boss is Gwyn, a towering figure who's been hinted at throughout the game, through dialogue and item descriptions. Even if you didn't pay much attention to the little pieces of lore that the game hands you, you're able to put together that he's a pretty important guy: the mighty Lord of Cinder. The buildup to his fight hints at an even larger presence than the other bosses. You travel beneath Firelink Shrine, your home base for most of the game, where you find a massive expanse of land, cold and dark, a mysterious coliseum-like structure looming in the distance, which is impossibly large, even so far away. As you get closer, ghosts of old knights appear to attack you. They are easily dispatched, but still a shock. The structure towers over you, emphasizing just how much space is needed to house this mythologically strong figure, and the power that he holds. You enter, and find…….a hollowed old man. He's slightly taller than you, dressed in robes, and wielding a flaming greatsword, but he's nowhere near the scale of other bosses. However, he rushes at you all the same. When you begin the duel, it feels different from the others. There is no dramatic, sweeping music. All you get is a somber piano, like something that would play during a funeral, rather than a climactic duel. It feels like Gwyn's theme is actively pitying him. Granted, it's appropriate for the fight. All Gwyn can do is swing is flaming blade, which you can avoid with ease. There's been some easier bosses, but at least they didn't feel like they WANTED to die. Besides, this isn't the fragile Moonlight Butterfly, or the starting Asylum Demon, this is the final boss! He should be challenging you! Putting all the skills you've learned to the test! He's a fucking King! Why isn't he stronger? Fighting Gwyn after you've fought everyone else feels like walking into the home of an old, dilapidated hoarder, and kicking him while he's down. If you've been practicing your parrying, its like doing the same, except with cleats. He just seems………tired. As pathetically destitute as you were at the start. He might as well just keel over when you walk in the door. You beat him, naturally, and then the game just kinda….ends. If you got the ending I did, you just exit the area, look at all the nice snake friends you just made, and then roll credits. For all the work you've put into getting here, and all the struggles you've had to overcome, it feels like a severe anticlimax, like the game is playing a prank on you.

But if you know anything about the setting of Dark Souls, you'd know that there's really no other way this could end.

"The world of Dark Souls is dying"

This is a phrase that, while not as oft repeated as the above, is also pretty common knowledge at this point. Lodran, the game's setting, is a desolate place, long past its glory years. Once a powerful kingdom, teeming with life and magic, it is now in ruin, every citizen either dead, hollowed, or left to survive amongst the numerous deadly creatures that now roam the land. Everyone who's still around at the start of the game is either destined for misery, or already there (Unless you're Andre. He seems to be doing pretty well, all things considered). Somewhere around the time Lordran has reached the end of its life cycle, is when the player character enters the story, albeit with a rather unenviable role. Your job is to essentially be the world's janitor, cleaning out the world's former main characters, most of whom are insane, and all of whom are well past their useful days (or, if you have the DLC, you get to see Artorias right as he passes this point). Unfortunately, most of them would like to keep being alive, so they're going to make that difficult for you, by turning you into red mist until you stop trying to kill them. Even the grandiose presentation some of them have can't entirely hide the fact that this is a rather sad state of affairs for everyone, especially for those who haven't really done anything wrong (I nearly cried at having to kill Sif, and I will never fight Priscilla). Fortunately, some of these bastards contributed to the world's current bleakness, so killing them provides at least a twinge of catharsis, albeit one that will certainly be gone by the time you move onto the next bastard. The goal of this whole clean-up process, is to prepare the world to either continue with the age of fire with you as the catalyst, hopefully without those brutes who were clogging the power vacuums, or plunge the world into a new age of darkness, now that it has been cleansed of its polluting influences.

The only mean to either of these ends, is to kill Gwyn, the Lord of Cinder, former ruler of Lordran, and one of the primary reasons that this world is such a goddamn mess. To sum up his actions without getting too deep into the lore's intricacies; Gwyn knew that his kingdom was destined to fall, due to the world's oncoming transition from the age of fire into the age of shadow. This transition was represented by the dwindling light of the first flame, the lifeblood of the kingdom. After utterly failing to rekindle it, Gwyn entered a final gambit to prolong the life of his empire, linking himself with the first flame, but burning himself, and many of his knights, away in the process. This left him as a hollow, doomed to languish in his kiln, until another unfortunate soul took his place, linking the flame to further prolong the changeover. In doing this, Gwyn went against the natural laws of his world, which didn't react well to having its transitionary cycle interrupted. The world fell into a sharp decline, becoming a desolate, unhappy place, festering with demons and monsters (many of whom were the result of the last time someone tried to rekindle the first flame), making life hell for anyone unlucky enough to still be around afterwards. Gwyn wanted to prolong the inevitable, prevent the death of his kingdom, and continue its prosperity, so he sacrificed everything. His realm has persisted, but in a state of undeath, having stuck around long past its natural expiration date, just like him. Gwyn's story can be properly summarized as what happens when someone is psychotically obsessed with preserving their power, even when that preservation only serves to make the world a substantially worse place. Gwyn, in his hollow state, is a symbol of Lordran's persistent deterioration.

None of this information is directly handed to the player. Some bits are alluded to through snippets of dialogue and item descriptions, and the opening cutscene depicts one of the major inciting events of the narrative, but for the most part, it's a sprawling, multi-phased story, that is dolled out non-linearly, and piecemeal.

Now, with that context, let's cast a new lens on that fight…

After delving underneath Firelink Shrine for the final time, you come upon a desolate landscape, the Kiln of the First Flame looming in the distance. It's clearly well past its glory days, looking decrepit and sad. It is home of the world's lifeblood, but in name only. Now, it holds the last remnant of an age long past. As you approach, the spirits of old knights come to attack you, but they aren't much of a challenge, being just shadows of their former selves. They're victims, really; their loyalty has bound them to a sorry task, but they're in the way, and they weren't really living much of a life anyway. When you get closer to the kiln, it feels impossibly large, but also cold, and surprisingly dark, for something that's supposed to house an eternal flame. When you can see more details, it becomes clear just how long it's been falling into ruin. It feels abandoned, but you know its not. After all, you're here to end the life of its only resident. You enter, and find…. Lord Gwyn, a king who destroyed himself and cast the world into ruin, just to hold on to a formerly prosperous time. Lord Gwyn, whose refusal to let the fire die is the reason why you had to struggle through this entire journey. Lord Gwyn, whose death will mark the end of a era, no matter what you do afterwards. He charges at you, barely even conscious anymore, having been locked in this tomb for unknowable amounts of time. But he can't really fight you, at least not well. His strength isn't nearly what it used to be, now that he's a hollow, tired and worn-down, just like you were at the start. He's a pitiable figure, and the music knows. That sorrowful piano fades in, almost like something that would play at a funeral. But this isn't a funeral. This is a mercy killing. Spiritually, Gwyn died a long time ago. You're just putting his body to rest. When he's finally dispatched, it feels like an anticlimax. But of course it is. Gwyn is the embodiment of the world you've spent so much time exploring. Lordran has been denied a proper climax for so long, because he extended the story long past where it should have ended. He's been waiting to be killed for ages now. It feels only right that Gwyn be an easy, anticlimactic boss, because how could such a destitute figure be anything else?

"Dark Souls is a hard game for a reason"

The above statement is a simplified summation of why Dark Souls is one of my favorite games that I’ve ever played. It's set in a dying, hostile world, that's been brought to ruin by the violation of its natural laws. Thus, the game is insistent on making the player struggle at every turn, to make them feel just as downtrodden as the world they explore. Lord Gwyn is a example of just how thoroughly holding onto power can corrupt someone, leaving them as a husk, the scraps of their former glory existing only the in the memory of the people who are still forced to cope with the consequences of their selfish actions. Thus, his boss fight is an intentionally easy anticlimax, to emphasize just how far he's fallen, to the point that he can't even put up a good point. It's the themes of his character, perfectly melding with the gameplay. It's a perfect encapsulation of the game's best quality, how the experience of playing the game, reflects the themes and tone of its story. The reasons why the fight with Gwyn is the perfect anticlimax, and why Dark Souls is a near-perfect game, are one and the same.

[sareisnot]

Lahai: Well Worth The Wait

This was another leftover from that list that "best of" list I was writing

Sampha - Lahai It’s safe to say that Sampha’s Lahai was one of the most anticipated albums of last year, and most certainly one of its longest-awaited. It’s the follow up to his album Process, which came out in 2017. That’s right, for almost 6 whole years, fans were rapturously begging for a follow-up. Every discussion of his music seemed to end in a cry for Sampha to just announce his new album already. The music world is no stranger to long wait times for new material, but when an album has this much hype before it’s even announced? It’s almost a guarantee that the album's reception will be at least partially defined by how long it took to get it.

Unless you’re me.

I didn’t listen to Process when it came out, so I hadn’t really been anticipating anything. He had an absolutely killer feature on “Father Time,” but that’s about as far as my enthusiasm went. I went into Lahai with no hype, knowing only that it was an album a lot of other people were excited for. Maybe that qualifies as some level of anticipation, but my expectations were tempered regardless. This long preamble is intended to make one thing clear: I did not have the kind of hype that could carry me through Lahai, just based on anticipation alone. And yet, even without that, it still blew me the fuck away.

On Lahai, Sampha makes frequent mention of Jonathan Livingston Seagull, name dropping him on the track “Spirit 2.0,” and titling a later track after the character. In his titular fable, Seagull was a seeker of knowledge, his curiosity reaching far beyond the confines of his world. He sought answers to fundamental questions, hoping that perhaps he could understand himself in the process. Sampha casts himself in this role on the opener “Stereo Colour Cloud” stating, “Hard-wired, forever seeking out / Subjects mysterious like time and love.” This seemingly sets the record up as for a heady, high-concept work which seeks to question the nature of life itself. But, while the record does touch on those impersonal concepts, it still remains very human. It’s using these large, universal concepts to make sense of Sampha’s own personal experience, to introspect, and investigate what time, the universe, and life really means to him. The title of the aforementioned “Spirit 2.0,” indicates some kind of ascension, but that heightened spiritual presence comes from the comfort of a partner, and the joy you get from being with them. These moments are frequent on Lahai, where the nature of the universe and the human experience are blended, providing fertile ground for the exploration of both. Perhaps the best example of this kind of contrast is on “Evidence,” my personal favorite track. Throughout its runtime, Sampha mentions his musings on whether the universe has any meaning, or any inherent, cosmic reason to continue living. He finds the answer to this question, not in any cosmic entity or greater spiritual force, but in his young daughter. In his words: “You’re enough evidence for me.” He doesn’t need any further validation from the cosmos; his child gives him all the meaning he needs. In emulating Jonathan Livingston Seagull’s quest, Sampha finds his answers exactly where he started, only revealed when viewed from a different perspective. When finished with this album, I feel as if I’ve taken a journey to another plane of existence, and come back home with just a bit more insight.

To reuse the simile from the last paragraph, Lahai’s sound is what happens when someone visits some higher plane, and tries to replicate it in sonic form. The record is coated in boundary-pushing sounds that bolster the existing messages of introspection, searching for meaning, and using the little things to answer big, sweeping questions. The instrumental for “Dancing Circles” sounds like a sped up angel’s waltz, with its repeating chords, and the sparse piano lingering in the background. It’s a track that utterly stunned me on first listen, and just captivated me throughout. “Stunning” - that’s an apt word for the record. So many of these instrumentals just utterly take my breath away on first listen, and every time I revisit them, I want to pick them apart, to see what genres Sampha’s blended this time. On Lahai, he’s taken from so many influences, that he’s operating in his own sonic lane. On “What If You Hypnotize Me?” you get pieces of soul and r&b, with a breakbeat instrumental and some soft piano keys, all blended together to create something utterly sublime. That’s true of nearly every instrumental on Lahai, and they all create a bunch of wonderful pieces, but the real connective tissue tying those pieces together, is Sampha’s gorgeous voice.In my opinion, that is this album’s defining characteristic. His vocals are instrumental in giving the album its unique sound, being a near constant, angelic presence. But it still feels human. Sampha’s greatest vocal moments on the album are when he’s able to fully embody a particular emotion, like the panicked verses on “Suspended,” or the warm, loving embrace of “Evidence.” That gets to the heart of it, I think. In sound, this album feels like a life-changing hug from something ethereal, divine, human, and everything in between.

Inevitably, the excitement for this release is going to wind down, marking the beginning of the waiting period that lasts until the next album cycle. If past trends are any indication, it’s going to be a painfully long one. In that time, I can absolutely see myself falling into the exact same kind of excitement that Lahai had, frothing at the mouth for something new. But I will wipe the foam from my lips, and wait patiently (partially because I’ve got a whole album of unlisted material in Process). I will still be waiting, however, and I don’t care how long it takes. Because if Lahai is any indication, whatever is on the other end is going to be well worth it.

[sareisnot]

HELLMODE: Relief Through Solidarity

I originally wrote this as the #2 entry on a top 10 albums of 2023 list that I was writing, but decided that I wanted to post this as its own thing.

I absolutely adore punk. Of all the music out there, it's probably the flavor that has to do the least to get me to like it. That’s not a knock against it. It’s just that the fundamentals of punk music hit all the right buttons in my brain. The raucous attitude, the blisteringly fast pace, the aggression, the chaos, the sheer unrelenting ENERGY. Of course, I love it when artists innovate within that lane, and you gotta put on a good performance, but if you’re hitting those buttons, I’m probably gonna be jammin’ regardless. But there’s one feeling that, in my humble opinion, the best kind of punk music taps into: solidarity. It’s that feeling of “I’m with you, I get it, now lets take all that ‘it’ and put it out into the world as pure musical aggression.” Nowadays, I feel like there’s a lot of people who could do with a bit of solidarity, a bit of “I get it.” If you are one of those people, might I recommend a 41 minute dose of Jeff Rosenstock?

On its surface, HELLMODE isn’t doing anything super novel. It’s the ska-influenced, group chorus-heavy punk rock that Rosenstock’s known for. It still has that same, boisterous, youthful, defiant energy as always, if the hot-pink cover is anything to go by. The subject matter hasn’t even really changed that much. On a surface level, Rosenstock is covering all the same things that he’s covered before; relationships, personal and societal angst, and all the frustrations that come with being alive in today’s world. Some might even call the album juvenile; “Jeff, you’re 41, why are you even making this kind of music anyway?” But I would argue against that perspective. Rosenstock may be treading on familiar ground, but his position comes from a more mature, knowledgeable place. He approaches things like personal angst and relationship troubles from the view of someone who’s gone through it all before, granting him an arsenal of experiential wisdom. While a track such as “LIKED U BETTER'' might seem kind of asinine on its own, when it's placed in the context of the album, the other songs lend it an emotional richness (That’s probably why I wasn’t super into the singles on their own, they are very dependent on the surrounding album). Though the closing track might proclaim “Stay young until you die” I get the feeling that aging a bit is what’s allowed Jeff Rosenstock to produce skate-punk rockers, as well as doll out some solid advice along the way.

That aforementioned solidarity permeates throughout the entire record, with Rosenstock approaching these broadly relatable feelings with an attitude of “You’re feeling this too right?” Second-person pronouns are all over this record, as Jeff sings about his varying anxieties, both societal and personal. Sometimes he’s looking to spread some wisdom, like on “DOUBT” where he encourages crushing those anxieties, or on “GRAVEYARD SONG,” where he takes on the role of my extremely frustrated therapist, screaming at me to cut those toxic influences out of my life. Sometimes, like on “FUTURE IS DUMB” and “I WANNA BE WRONG,” his insight comes in the form of just stating plainly what he’s feeling, trusting that his audience shares in his experience. A lot of the album is just Jeff bluntly stating “Yeah, everything kinda sucks right now.” But despite that bluntness, and the furiosity which carries much of the album, there’s a comfort to be found in HELLMODE, as a vehicle to channel those persistent anxieties.

Speaking frankly, I really needed HELLMODE this year. Maybe in a year that was more personally tranquil, it wouldn't have hit as hard as it did. But when you’re in the throes of emotional turmoil, compounded by the steadily increasing dread from living in a world which is, at the best of times, distressing, there’s real value to be found in music which feels intent on saying “I feel it too.” I often felt like this album was talking directly to me, like I was confiding in a good friend on just how screwed up everything feels. But, I’d like to end this segment with something a bit more uplifting. Just after the midpoint of the album comes “HEALMODE,” wherein Rosenstock describes a simple scene: “Perfect rainy days where all you need is me, and all I need is you.” It’s a peaceful song, in contrast with the rest of the album���s blood pumping skate-punk, and, despite being ostensibly personal, it still feels like a statement: “There are good feelings to be found in this world, and finding them is more than possible.” Solidarity comes from shared struggle, but what it produces is hope. Hope for a future in which we all attain our very own healmode. So to Jeff Rosenstock, I send a hearty thank you. I’m going to go chase my very own healmode, with the help of some “HELLMODE” along the way.

[sareisnot]

Painkiller: The best metal song ever of all time in the entire world

So, obviously there’s no such thing as the “best” metal song, because “best,” as a label, means nothing when you’re talking about art. Judgment on art really comes from a subjective angle, and the title of “best” is one that can only be awarded through cultural definition. So, with that in mind, I have to go ahead and admit that “Painkiller,” the 1990 lead single from the Judas Priest album of the same name, is not the best metal song, and that title is a bit of an exaggeration. But that all changes the moment I actually put the song on. When I’m listening to “Painkiller,” there is no better metal song than “Painkiller.” There is no better SONG than “Painkiller.” It gives me everything I could ever possibly need or want from a song in that moment. The speed, the aggression, the riffs, that double kick at the beginning, the cacophony of guitar passages at the end, and Rob Halford's spectacular, high-pitched vocals, everything about it, is just perfect. It’s like someone distilled everything that was great about heavy metal, and specifically Judas Priest’s flavor of metal, and put it into one song. Oftentimes, there’s a tendency among writers to use violent metaphors when describing metal, in order to emphasize its intensity. This often surfaces as descriptions of the various ways in which the song beats the writer to a pulp, punches them in the face, kicks them in the balls, et cetera. But that doesn’t feel accurate here. “Painkiller” has the energy of a track race’s final sprint, where you’re neck and neck with another competitor, there’s only 200 meters to go, and the only thing keeping you going is the sheer adrenaline coursing through your body, and the sheer will of your soul. Painkiller embodies that feeling. It's that sheer, unrelenting ENERGY that makes this song such a masterwork. It takes you on a journey, that, despite being blisteringly fast, still leaves you with something at the end. When you listen to it, all other songs fade away, and you’re only left with “Painkiller,” the best song ever of all time in the entire world, at least while it’s playing.

[sareisnot]

Not the best blog post on tumblr about the best ever death metal band in denton

No matter what storytelling angle they take, the Mountain Goats (Aka John Darnielle and his band of merry men) tend to be very sincere in their messaging. No matter what ethos they push, they push it wholeheartedly. That emotional message, and the way that they communicate it, varies quite a bit, but there’s a specific kind of “template” that tends to excite me the most. It goes like this: some downtrodden character from the American southeast, through some act of self-actualization, throws off whatever shackles that bind them, be they societal, mental, or emotional, and decides to just grab life by the tail, and chase whatever calling is ringing in their heart. The emotional core of these songs tends to be one of freedom, of unabashedly embracing life, and everything that comes with it, rather than hiding away. It’s a message that’s spread across several stories in the John Darnielle sonic universe (most notably the multi-song arc of Jenny), but there’s a particular one that appeals to me: “The Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton.”

As the title might imply, it’s a song about 2 childhood friends, Cyrus and Jeff, who, decide to start a death metal band, like a lot of bored teenagers in a small town tend to do. While it is unnamed, is the best in the town of Denton, because they’re the only one. It’s a song that doesn’t give much away about its protagonists, as if there’s more to their lives than what we get to see in the song itself. It doesn’t even really have a conclusive ending, the band just kind of breaks up after Cyrus gets sent to a reformatory school. It’s implied that he and Jeff have a plan to “get even”, but because of how vague this is in the song itself, whatever this plan is, gets left up to the listener’s interpretation. Really, the song finds its climax in a more emotional sense, rather than a thematic one. John Darnielle spends the last verse proclaiming that any amount of creativity, any amount of artistic passion, will always be worth more than any authority that tries to put it down. “The best ever death metal band outta denton / will in time both outpace and outlive you” is a phrase that can have multiple meanings, but I choose to see as an ode to the enduring power of creativity. The best ever death metal band in Denton wasn’t exactly the Beatles, but they did have the guts to just fucking try, to put some artistic ambition into the world, and that’s worth more than anything else.

“The Best Ever Death Metal Band in Denton '' is the opener on All Hail West Texas, an album from a period where the Mountain Goats project was pretty much just John Darnielle and a bunch of lo-fi folk recordings. However, with how it promotes chasing your dreams, and the lasting power of ambition, it sets a pretty nice precedent for the rest of the band's catalogue. Obviously, it's a message that really appeals to me, because I love this song to absolute death. I have quite a bit of work that I feel self conscious about, and I sometimes wonder if what I’m doing is even worth anything at all. But this song is a way of reminding me that my writing, my creative works, are inherently valuable, because they are creative, because they represent a willingness to just try. Because, if a failed unnamed death metal band from two high school crapouts in Denton Texas is worth something, then so is everything else.