DO THEY COLLIDE?
When we look back at 2020, we’re going to notice that there’s a lot of trauma in our lives. Some of it came before this new abnormal and some of it started this year. This is something that I’ve been meditating on during the past few weeks. I’m not sure if we’re going to really understand how this year changed our ability to acknowledge that scarring on its own terms. I think the only thing I’m certain of is that we’re listening better now because we have the time to be open to these feelings. If you haven’t guessed by now, I view music as a bit of a creature comfort during trying times. Hopefully you can find something here that will comfort you too.
Death Cab For Cutie - Passenger Seat
Beach House - Zebra
Elliott Smith - Somebody That I Used To Know
boygenius - Souvenir
American Football - For Sure
barnes blvd. - Perspective
Radiohead - Ill Wind
Big Thief - Love in Mine
The National - Exile Vilify
Bob Dylan - I Contain Multitudes
Trasatlanticism was one of the first albums where I realized “oh my goodness, nothing is skippable.” Part of the reason is Ben Gibbard’s way of being evocative without being hyper literal. These images of longing have space to breath, to roll around in your head and really pull on your heart. It’s a high watermark not just for the 00’s emo, but quiet rock records in general. “Passenger Seat” means a lot to me because of what it represents: that rare moment when you connect to a song across different phases of your life. I remember listening to this song at 15 and dreaming about what it might feel like to connect to someone as we watched the stars explode and say, “I will be there for you.” The question, of course, is will anyone ever meet that person as we drift through this life? To my surprise, and quite some time later, I remember driving back from Sonoma with my now wife. We had only been dating a few years at the time, but I remember sitting in the passenger seat thinking, maybe this is it, the sky awash in orange as the Death Cab’s cold piano stretched on for miles. I like to think we didn’t say anything as we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge on the way home because Gibbard laid it out plainly for us in that moment.
There’s something operatic about “Zebra.” It builds from a thin guitar lullaby and stiff drums into a crescendo of light—Victoria Legrand’s stunning contralto reverberating for what seems like forever. “Zebra” is not immediately different from its Take Care counterparts but it’s the only song on the album that mixes surreal menace with the weightless sublime. While most of the record finds Beach House exploring unrequited love, “Zebra” is about apprehension, the difference between knowing love and seeing someone fail to live up to those ideals due to their wild impulses. The song orbits these ideas before erupting in the final third, and as the story goes, shows its true colors.
By 2000 Elliott Smith’s cult status was firmly cemented after the 1-2 punch of Either/Or and XO. However, it’s on Figure 8, the final album released before his death, that Smith was free to paint outside the singer/songwriter confines of his early releases (say nothing of inadvertently creating a pilgrimage site where the album’s cover photograph is taken). “Somebody That I Used To Know” works on a variety of levels—the finger picked guitar work nods to his early songs but the glimmering production and Smith’s multi-tracked vocals are boldly orchestral. It’s hard to say if Smith is talking about being over the acoustic balladry that made him a star (and acting very meta), or if he’s providing a devastating “see you later” to someone that’s wronged him. I like to think the song is about letting go, or rather, Smith’s attempt to let go of his shadow self, a personhood that no longer suits him and where he wants to be. There’s a lot to think about in such a brisk cut and “Somebody That I Used To Know” is just one piece of Figure 8’s technicolor dream—a place where the moral arc of Abbey Road bends towards something more mysterious.
Baker & Bridgers & Dacus. The answer to the greatest supergroup isn’t up for debate—it’s boygenius. “Souvenir” grows from soft acoustic strums to dreamy slide guitar and interlocking vocals. This is the kind of music you let illuminate every bit of your dark apartment, or your sweaty car. You let the light in, holding it in still frame as everything washes over you. What an absolute masterpiece.
American Football is a touchstone for emo and people more qualified than myself have dissected its legacy at great length. Rather than rehash the discourse, I wanted to simply point out how well these songs crystalize the feeling of longing. “For Sure” creeps across its over 3 minute runtime like fog at dusk. The band’s particular brand of slow core is meditative, from the jazz inflected guitar chimes to the mournful trumpet. What always hits me hardest about American Football is the hypnotic approach to their playing, where well-defined patterns finally interlock to reveal a muted catharsis.
The world of “lofi hip hop music - beats to study/relax to” is vast and memeable. There’s no shortage of bedroom beat makers taking this gentle approach to downtempo electronic music. Like the ASMR explosion a few years ago, “lofi hip hop” has developed for a specific vibe—that moment where you are trying shut out the noise of the world, concentrate, and calm down. I found myself dealing with anxiety last year for a number of reasons and discovering this genre has been incredibly helpful to reset my mood (say nothing of my own work with professionals, which is critical to anyones mental health). While there is a glut of albums and artists in the genre, barnes blvd.’s contribution to the Chillhop Daydreams compilation is included here. “Perspective” is like living in a cloud—a short, drifting beat that spreads through soft keyboards. It never ceases to take me out of my anxiety brain, whether it’s after a long day at work or sitting on an airplane. There are a ton of great compilations out there to start exploring this genre, but for my money, Chillhop Daydreams is the current standard bearer.
I never understood why Radiohead’s spacey take on bossa nova got the chop from A Moon Shaped Pool, especially since it’s stronger than “Identikit” with its nods to “Paranoid Android’s” final act. C’est la vie. “Ill Wind” is special though, a driving track where Phil Selway’s drum work is splashy but collected, giving the nimble guitar work and fractal inspiring keyboards a much needed anchor. The best Radiohead songs seem to climb this mathy ladder into oblivion, and that’s before we even get to Thom York’s arresting tenor. Can you imagine what this group has in the vault if *this* is a throwaway?
I chose the very different “Love in Mine” and “Exile Vilify” for the same reasons—these are two wonderful tracks that couldn’t find a place on a proper album. Big Thief turn out something tender on this song, an exploration of emotional nakedness set against thin acoustic tension and warm singing. The National’s “Exile Villify” might be best known for its inclusion in the video game Portal 2, but the tumbling piano and soaring strings reveal an almost autumnal mood that’s a far cry from the game’s sci-fi roots. Sometimes it’s nice to remember that real gems exist past an artist’s main work, conceptual threads that don’t fit the main body but provide nourishment nonetheless. With streaming being what it is these days, that’s easier to explore than ever before.
Bob Dylan is more ghost than man at this point, which is either terrifying or amazing depending on how you view it. He’s able to effortlessly connect across 70 years of American culture, to expand on our psyche, values, and desires. Who else has that presence, that longevity? I can only think of human beings as an endlessly fascinating bunch, our souls providing the most inspiring subject matter for the voice of all generations. What more can I say? We contain multitudes.
Originally published August 15, 2020 as part of Hella Vibes.