Once I Was An Indie Badass

12:27 PM

They say that breaking up is hard to do, and man were they right. After all, I’ve recently broken up with carbs for the summer and it’s been more emotionally scarring than I anticipated. But in all seriousness, breakups are everywhere, right? We see them empowered in ladies’ anthems like Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)” and we see them mourned in ballads like Adele’s “Someone Like You.” So, how does one pen the perfect breakup track or album? How do you chronicle the ups and downs of a relationship without falling into a cliché and come out better on the other side? Well, for starters, you can become Laura Marling and write her fourth studio album, Once I Was An Eagle. The London native turned Los Angeles implant ambitiously sheds all the stereotypes of typical indie folk breakup album and instead brings a darker, sexier, angrier feel to the whole concept, while delivering the most important thing a breakup can deliver: catharsis. We get an entire emotional arc that is less about the heartbreak and breakup itself, but more so the catharsis and healing that arises from it.
            The first thing that sets Once I Was An Eagle apart from Marling’s other discography is its setting. Marling recorded the album in just ten days in her producer’s British countryside recording studio, but this time after the album was done, Marling was set to relocate to Los Angeles. The impending move to Los Angeles parallels a lot of what Marling has to say about relationships failed, with stages of intense mourning that are followed by intense stages of healing, all of which usually accompany uprooting one’s own material life to a whole new location and setting. Each possession packed away, each box loaded into a moving van is a series of small goodbyes that all will eventually culminate into a new beginning. And so before making this life-changing decision, Marling locked herself in this countryside cabin, with just herself, her producer, and her instruments (very Bon Iver of you Laura).
            Eagle took only 10 days to manufacture, with the vocal and guitar parts each being recorded in a single take. Besides guitar, we get a plethora of classic instruments like cellos and organs and pianos, and there’s some carefully-placed drumming thrown in just for good measure. Eagle’s instrumentation is a large part of what makes the album seem like one singular piece of art, rather than 16 different songs put together to make one large album. The first four songs on the album, “Take the Night Off,” “I Was An Eagle,” “You Know,” and “Breathe” are written as a proper suite, so basically they ebb and flow together seamlessly, transitioning from Marling’s staple acoustic finger pickings to overpowering cello and drums and then back to the quiet all over again. In the album’s first track, “Take the Night Off,” we’re not met with that first stage of grief aka denial, but rather we’re met with a stroke of resignation and withdrawal. Marling proclaims in the opening stanza of the song, “I don’t want you to want me/Wouldn’t want you to know/I don’t care where you’ve gone beast/I care where you go,” with the quiet strumming of the guitar in the background. Then all of a sudden, we’re met with rumblings of musical turbulence with both the tempo and the volume increasing in the instrumentation. The record doesn’t ever really touch on the relationship itself, but more so Marling’s inner thoughts concerning the relationship, and when the tempo and volume pick up, we hear those inner thoughts get louder and louder and angrier and angrier. Like I mentioned before, this track is part of a four-part suite and so it blends seamlessly into “I Was An Eagle.” This particular track is my personal pick for best track off the album. Here, Marling follows the same instrumental formula as “Take the Night Off,” but the lyrics get more defiant than before. Marling vows to herself not to fall victim to “chances, circumstance and romance/Or any man who could get his dirty little hands on me.” Marling isn’t mourning the relationship or the other person once involved in the relationship, but rather reflects on how she refuses to fall into the trap that a relationship can sometimes become. What hits home with this track is where Marling proclaims “When we were in love, if we were/When we were in love/I was an eagle/And you were a dove.” Marling chews the relationship up and spits it back out, questioning both its validity and empowering herself at the same time. I’m not sure if you know anything about birds, but an eagle could eat a dove for dinner in a cage match. And on an even deeper level, Marling being the eagle in the relationship flips a bunch of clichés on their heads. Doves are a common symbol for docility and sweetness and usually represent the woman in literature and poetry, while the eagle represents strength and free-will, often representing the man, and usually the two go hand-in-hand. In “I Was An Eagle,” Marling not only inverses these outdated gender roles, but she severs the two concepts, proclaiming that she can indeed stand on her own, without her ‘dove.’ Marling isn’t the empowered one because she is the eagle, she is the eagle because she is the empowered one. Even with just the first two tracks on the album, Marling has already set the tone that she is no longer naïve and quick to believe the appeals of romance, but is now able to face the hard truths that love and relationships bring with them. And this right here represents not just a realization of growth, but also a healing over the loss of the person Marling was before.  
            Don’t worry though, the entire album doesn’t consist of Marling shitting on her ex, because the magnifying glass is then turned on Marling herself. The first half of the album focuses on an unnamed “you,” but the second half of the album brings about an “I” in the narrative that isn’t always evident whether it's Marling or not, but is certainly present. In “Where Can I Go?,” we’re introduced to what can be deemed as Marling’s alter-ego, Rosie, for now. Rosie comes out of the gate, quite like “I Was An Eagle,” strong and defiant, with tracks like “Master Hunter,” a track that is more resolute, more loud, and more aggressive than anything we hear in the first half of the album. Funnily enough though, similar to in relationships, the insecurity and the doubt begin to set in, as Marling has to look within herself to see her part in breakdown of the relationship. “Little Bird” is perhaps where Marling castigates herself the most asking, “So why not run from everyone/Who only tries to love you?” I love this track on the album because of how stripped down it is, with the song being comprised of just Marling and a trusty, acoustic guitar. The Nick Drake influence is dripping all over this song, from the hushed, quiet, inquisitive tones to the subtle guitar in the background, and Marling manages to channel him and pay ode to him all at once. “Little Bird” plays out like the moment when you turn off the lamp on your nightstand and let your deepest and darkest inner thoughts play out until sleep eventually catches you. And speaking of indie folk founding fathers, the track “When Were You Happy (And How Long Has That Been),” channels some major Bob Dylan and Joanna Newsome vibes, especially in its guitar and percussion use. Marling looks into what inspired her impending move to Los Angeles, as she questions her “new friend across the sea.” Another gem on the album, the song works because Marling is brutally honest with herself, as well as her audience. One of the bigger aspects of a breakup is finding one’s own identity when standing alone, as opposed to when with a partner. Towards the end of Eagle, Marling continues to search for that peace and inner healing that both her and the audience have already had a glimpse of earlier on in the album. And manages to hold her own with the greats like Joni Mitchell and Cat Power.
            So, what does all of this build up to? The closing track, “Saved These Words,” gives us the moment we all wait for at the end of a relationship; the moment of clarity, the moment when one realizes that they can move on and be at peace with the end of the relationship, the catharsis. “You weren’t my curse” is what Marling finally realizes and comes to terms with, but rather thanks her inner self, exclaiming, “Thank you naivety for failing me again/He was my next verse.” At Eagle’s conclusion, all animosities and all resentments have been put aside and the confusion of the relationship is suddenly made clear, sorted, and packed away, much like the belongings Marling plans to take to Los Angeles with her. Once I Was An Eagle is a masterpiece and a hard-won achievement, but most importantly, it’s the beginning to a fresh start.
            In case you’re thinking I’m full of shit when breaking this album down, critics far and wide raved about Marling’s fourth studio album, and rightfully so. After all, Laura Marling is only 23, already on her fourth successful studio album, and just getting started. What critics and audiences alike admire the most about Marling is the incredible strength that she exudes through her music. Even when showing the audience that she does indeed doubt herself, like we all do, she does so with her head held high, something that doesn’t come as a surprise, as she casts herself as an eagle two tracks into the album. I think, too, because the album is so different than the other music being put out, both in the genre and in general, critics appreciate it for how forward and relentless it is. Marling never presents herself as sad or delicate, which is the expectation at the conclusion of a breakup. I mention melancholy here and there in my last blog post, but in Eagle, Marling ensures that her voice is heard loud and clear over the tidings of melancholy in her music.
            Once I Was An Eagle is through and through a concept album. We get a theme and a storyline at the start of the album, we follow that storyline, and it brings us all the way home at the conclusion of the album. And it’s important to think about those themes and what the audience takes away from them. We know Marling is here to talk about breakups and failed relationships, but what can we learn from that? How do we take from that and better ourselves because isn’t that the point of music at the end of the day? For it to change our lives in little and big ways alike? Marling accomplishes what all breakup albums should accomplish, and that’s to reflect on what was lost, only to turn around and see everything that was gained from that loss. Eagle may require a few spins in order to really be able to pick up what it’s putting down, and it certainly doesn’t make for easy listening at times, but I think that’s what makes the album such a strong one. It may take some time for the feelings and thoughts that the album works to evoke to materialize, but once they do, they’re almost unshakeable.

            Eagle’s album cover boasts an assumingly nude, ethereal Marling reaching towards up, up and up towards the sky, almost angel-like. And with her pale, blonde hair and almost waifish physical demeanor, Marling just might be indie folk’s resident angel. The album is dark and it’s sexy and it’s angry, but it’s also brutally honest and takes us to the darkest places of Marling’s mind, while also letting us see what makes her shine as an artist. Like her album cover, Marling is reaching for the stars, and with Once I Was An Eagle, she soars over them.

Say Yes to Michigan

9:55 AM

Welcome back, fellow indie folk worshippers. Don’t worry, your weekly installment of what I think and why it matters starts in three, two, one. In this particular post, I want to touch on what I believe to be the most important aspect of an album: what drives it. What pushes an album from thought to pen to paper to the multi-track masterpiece we eventually listen to on our monthly prescription paid streaming services of choice (I’m looking at you, Spotify)? What ideas and beliefs eventually bloom into an entire conglomeration of songs that represent an entire concept bigger than themselves? There are a number of philosophies and ideas that we see in the indie folk genre, from love and relationships to heartache and loss, but when it comes to Sufjan Steven’s 2003 album, Greetings From Michigan: The Great Lake State, Stevens has one thing on the brain, and that’s nostalgia. It’s funny that I mention nostalgia, as I talk about one of my favorite albums that came out when I couldn’t even tie my own shoes (I was six and the bunny ears were a very difficult concept for me), but it runs rampant throughout the album, from start to finish. Nostalgia represents a number of things, but mostly a sentimentality for the past, usually accompanied by a hint of sadness. And this, ladies and gentleman, is where melancholy comes into the picture, giving Stevens two perfect concepts for the perfect storm. With Michigan, Stevens serves as a tour guide and an advocate for the great state of Michigan all at once.
To really get a grasp on the essence of nostalgia that Sufjan Stevens works to evoke, we must first look at the title of Steven’s third studio album. Greetings From Michigan is what Stevens titles the album, and rightfully so, as Stevens is a Detroit native. The entire album is meant to pay homage to the Great Lake State and all its beauties, while also lamenting over what its most populous cities have slowly devolved into. Upon moving to New York, Stevens decided to embark on a “Fifty States Project,” promising to record fifty albums with each being inspired by each state in the United States. And of course when deciding to write fifty different albums for fifty different states, one must start with their home state, where childhood memories intermingle with teenage angst, followed by adult understanding.
            Stevens delivers the nostalgia for Michigan on an ever deeper level with his tracks, “Flint (For the Unemployed and Underpaid)” and “Oh, Detroit, Lift Up Your Weary Head (Rebuild! Restore! Reconsider).” Here, Stevens touches on the kryptonite to Michigan’s tremendous pines, great lakes, and low valleys: its once booming, but now decrepit industrial cities. Detroit and Flint were once both booming automobile hubs, but now one city has some of the highest murder rates in the country and the other is having one of the biggest water crises since Los Angeles began to run out of water in 1913.  In “Flint (For the Unemployed and Underpaid),” we get a devastatingly delicate look at the wayward city, with lyrics like “Since the first of June/Lost my job and lost my room/I pretend to try/Even if I try alone” set against a tranquil combination of piano and trumpet. There’s a love and a longing there, not just for the city of Flint, but the people within it, as well as a mourning for the booming industry that once drove the city. But what makes this presence of longing and loss so present in the song isn’t even necessarily the lyrics, but more so the instrumentation. The soft piano in the background works to heighten the tinge of sadness that usually accompanies nostalgia. Likewise, in “Oh, Detroit, Lift Up Your Weary Head (Rebuild! Restore! Reconsider),” Stevens pleas with the city of Detroit to recapture its former glory, albeit it this time more ecstatic and excited than in “Flint.” The lyrics “Once a great place (once a great place)/Now a prison (now a prison),” are repeated over and over throughout the song to chronicle Detroit’s rise and fall from the golden automobile age to its spiral into poverty. However, the instrumentation of the song offers a glimmer of hope for the city, letting us look forward to another rise from the ashes from the Motor City.
            Again, to grasp the essence of nostalgia, we have to take a look at what that word really means and the feelings it is meant to evoke. Nostalgia is related to the Portuguese and Galician word saudade, which represents feelings of wistful incompleteness and a longing for something lost. Similar to Detroit and Flint, Portugal’s inner cities were failing, and the rise of saudade coincided with this. When Portugal’s cities began to recover, this concept was incorporated into the national anthem with the lyrics, “Let us once again lift up the splendor of Portugal.” And like the Portuguese, Stevens is working to once again lift up the splendor of both Detroit and Flint, one song at a time.
            In Greetings From Michigan, we don’t just receive Steven’s feelings of nostalgia for his home state, but also for his own past, and two tracks, “Holland” and “Romulus,” highlight this the best. We’ll start with “Holland” because it has been one of my all-time favorite songs since I heard it many, many years ago (and by many, many years, I mean like five). The song is short and sweet and describes a lazy and hot Michigan summer. Stevens recounts, “All the time we spent in bed/Counting miles before we said/Fall in love and fall apart/Things will end before they start.” With “Holland,” there’s no bigger, underlying metaphor in the works, just Sufjan Stevens looking back on his time spent in Holland, Michigan while attending college there. The line about falling in love and then subsequently falling apart suggests a reminiscing on a failed relationship, while the lines “Lose our clothes in summertime/Lose ourselves to lose our minds/In the summer heat I might” elicit fond memories of summer for the both the audience and Stevens as well. With “Romulus,” we get an up close and slightly uncomfortable glimpse at Stevens’s childhood, as well as his difficult relationship with his mother. The lyrics suggest that the mother has been largely absent throughout Stevens’s upbringing, with lines like, “Once when moved away/She came to Romulus for a day/Her Chevrolet broke down/We prayed it’d never be fixed or found/We touched her hair, we touched her hair.” The first half of the song almost reads as Stevens looking back on the situation from the point of view of a child, mentioning details that a child would remember, but later evolves into the point of view of an adult who realizes how fucked up the whole situation is. Stevens describes, “We saw her once last fall/Our grandpa died in a hospital gown/She didn’t seem to care/She smoked in her room and colored her hair/I was ashamed, I was ashamed of her.” Following the storyline of the lyrics, Steven’s mother returns because of the death of her father, who took Stevens and his siblings in when she took off, however she seems nonchalant about the whole thing, and this is where Stevens finally loses his last shred of respect for her. Like “Flint (For the Unemployed and Underpaid),” the soft instrumentation of the acoustic guitar heightens those feelings of melancholy that follow the feelings of nostalgia that the lyrics inspire.
            For these more personal soundbites, I want to take a look at the Buddhist interpretation of the word ‘nostalgia.’ In Zen Buddhism, the term is wabi-sabi, and it means to “accept a state of transience from a person, place, or thing in order to foster a sense of serene melancholy and spiritual longing, and with it, liberation from the material and mundane distractions of the everyday.”[1] This particular interpretation covers the two aforementioned songs the best out of all of them, as Stevens writes and reflects on those parts of his life, takes the time to be wistful or sad about them, then moves on and never looks back. Looking at the instrumentation of the music is, again, important because its simplicity offers an authentic feel to the thoughts and feelings of nostalgia that arise when hearing the music, and stays true to its vision of delivering these feelings.
            What’s important about the sentiments of nostalgia and melancholy that drive the album is that they are real and they are raw, but most importantly, they are hopeful. The observations that Stevens points out in Greetings from Michigan are sad and hard to swallow at times, whether it’s about the working class people or the failures of Michigan’s metropolitan areas. However, these observations don’t make the audience take pity on the people of Michigan, it makes us root for them. It makes us want to celebrate their victories with them and mourn their losses with them. It makes us want to see the cities of Detroit and Flint booming once again. With Greetings from Michigan: The Great Lake State, we get a retrospective view of all things Michigan, mixed with its current state, and it evokes feelings of beauty and anguish, but also optimism. And like I said, that's the most important thing about nostalgia after all. To look back on those moments that changed us or changed the places around us, lament and mourn them, and then turn around and celebrate them, whether it be for the life that was or the life that is.



[1] Burton, Neel. "The Meaning of Nostalgia." Psychology Today. Sussex Publishers, 27 Nov. 2014. Web. 01 May 2017.

Soundbites

12:46 AM


Once again, I've saved you all the trouble of perusing through Spotify or Apple Music or whatever and posted some highlights from In Our Nature, which I've reviewed down below. You can thank me later.



How Low 



Abram


In Our Nature

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