May

This month was defined by a special film feature and just phenomenal music.

Somethin’ Ain’t Right, Sharon Van Etten and the Attachment Theory

May tends to bring with it the sun, and with the sun comes my summer playlist. I start scouting early and I find songs all over, collecting them from people and places I come across throughout spring. This one came from a good friend’s younger sister (who is perhaps the highest rated match to my own personal music taste of anyone I know, thus I’ve learned to pay attention when she’s on the aux.) She played this one on our way to the opera and it got added to my playlist immediately. Sharon Van Etten is someone I’ve been meaning to check out for a long time, and I think this is a pretty good introduction. I love the rhythm of this song–it alternates between a bar of four and a bar of two, and Etton shifts her own pace at the prechorus into double time, a little complexity that adds so much to the song. It also has a great bass line that drives the song under Etten’s contrastingly off-putting philosophical contemplations. One of those songs for when you’re sitting in the sun and everything’s finally okay but it’s so okay that it makes you start wondering how it ever got so bad in the first place. I will probably give the rest of this record a listen sometime in June.

Harvest Moon, Jeff Rosenstock + Laura Stevenson

Mical heard this song and declared, “Is that a cover of Neil Young? You can’t cover Neil Young!” I disagree, and it only made me like this song more. A good cover is hard to do, especially one that feels both authentically your own and holds the spirit of the original artist. I’m going to talk about my theory on covers a few entries down on this list, but this particular song is somewhat complicated by the fact that, to Mical’s point, you can’t exactly be better than Neil Young. But even though they opt for changing it completely, it still feels like that’s not what Rosenstock and Stevenson are trying to do. This version doesn’t feel like it’s trying to be a one-up of Young so much as an ode to his work and the moments it creates. They bring an intimacy to it that feels fresh out of their own lives, treating “Harvest Moon” with the love and care of two people who have been personally changed by it. You can hear it in the way they sing. Musically, in my personal opinion (hi Mical), they enhance it just a little bit from the original with the mixing of the guitars and the replacement of the harmonica with a sax. It feels just a bit richer and deeper than the original, but still holds the same soft affection. I might change that opinion one day, but for now I think I like this version just a little bit better. Sorry, Neil Young purists.

The Surface, Alice Phoebe Lou

Last month I talked about Alice Phoebe Lou’s ability to make coziness feel grand, and this time I have something to say about how she manages to make big feelings seem so intimate as a breath. “The Surface” is a love poem disguised as a question that reveals the answer in its mere asking. She recounts a series of thoughts that run through her mind when she’s with her lover, coming back again and again to the way they look at her. It reflects a pattern I’ve experienced in my own life where you can spiral internally forever until suddenly you’re face-to-face with the object of your concern, and when their eyes meet yours, all of the questions melt away. It’s a gentle kind of security, the kind still filled with fears but knowing that they don’t matter in the face of genuine trust. She promises that she’s right there, but not in a way that sounds as if she’s speaking it to the person in question–more like it’s the kind of love where you don’t even need to say things out loud to know they’re true. The kind that makes you think “I love you” in your head as a first reaction, whether it makes it out of your lips or not. She bears her deepest soul to this person because she trusts that they will be there anyway, just as she would for them. It’s lovely. She keeps the song to only her and a guitar, and I think it’s the right move. This song needs nothing but her words to feel just as complete as the full band she uses in “Lovesick.”

I Like It I Like It, Moses Sumney + Hayley Williams

At this point, it’s practically a guarantee that if Moses Sumney releases a song it will end up on this list. This one was a curveball as a longtime fan of his–he doesn’t often do collaborations, and Hayley Williams is one of the last people I’d expect him to work with. But it turns out that Sumney has a unique talent to pull out a completely different side of her. Williams’s verse on this song sounds unlike anything I’ve ever heard her do before: slower, sultrier, and far sexier. It’s a personality of Sumney’s I’ve seen a hundred times, but there’s actually a very solid chance Hayley Williams is out-sexying him here, which isn’t something I had anticipated. Aside from vocal performance, it’s also a phenomenally produced song in other ways–like all of his recent work, elements are kept few and intentional, mixed just right to make everything feel vibrant and real. This song almost sounds live, like I could groove right alongside them in a lounge to the modern R&B rhythms Sumney loves so much. It’s one of the best-produced songs I’ve heard in a while, and it’s this month’s contribution to that one no-context Spotify link all my musically inclined friends get sent every so often. I can’t recommend it enough. 

Here Is Someone, Japanese Breakfast

If you recall my entry about Lucy Dacus’s “Limerence” on last month’s list, “Here Is Someone” is that instrumentation bloomed into a whole bouquet. It takes the same kind of timbres and melodies I loved on that track and sets them as the focus, whereas on “Limerence,” they were merely accents to Dacus’s powerhouse songwriting. Japanese Breakfast creates such an intricate and detailed soundscape that you can’t help but float away. It’s entrancing. The song itself is lyrically simple, closing on the line “Life is sad/But here is someone.” It fits the way I feel about the song itself–a reminder of the beauties that living can bring you. 

Leave Me Alone, Reneé Rapp

When I first started my website, the second thing I ever wrote was a review of Reneé Rapp’s Snow Angel. I was fit to discuss it—not only was I an avid indie pop fan, I’d been following her since 2019 when she began her run as leading lady Regina George in Broadway’s Mean Girls. I’d been talking everyone’s ear off about her vocal skills for four years by then, so to be as underwhelmed by her debut album as I was felt significant. But I never published it, because midway through I realized I’d made a huge misinterpretation of a critical line that completely shifted my view of the album. I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to talk about her since then, but it remains true that she’s always a little bit hard to read. “Leave Me Alone” puts on a catty, pompous character that fits in with her public persona as she tells everyone to fuck off and let her be. She shoots for irony when she uses lines like “Bernadette called me, said/’Where’s the single?’” but it falls flat when the reality of the corporate nature inseparable from the first single of an album cycle feels so in-your-face with this one. It’s impossible to separate her blasé lyrics from the posters I see of her face all around town, which kills a little bit of the punk, “I-don’t-care” vibe she’s going for here as it’s clear her label cares very much. That said, she is majorly succeeding in an area I’ve found her previously to be struggling in–this song is catchy as hell. A lot of her pop music has leaned towards ballads or softer acoustic songs, but I think this rock-tinged (and clearly inspired some by her girlfriend Towa Bird’s work), bratty sound works much better for her abilities as a performer. Her voice is beautiful, but if she’s not going to be belting high notes, it’s nice to see her be active about crafting a different vocal character. I don’t think stripping down has ever been the right move for Rapp, so I’ll take whatever out-there direction I can get. And for all the nuanced critique I could give, I’ll still probably be blasting this all summer like every other queer in Los Angeles. 

BONUS: A discussion on the music featured in Ryan Coogler’s Sinners (spoiler warning!)

Written by Victor Cyrus-Franklin: All of the music we live and breathe now can be attributed to the blues. No matter what genre you follow, the blues has spearheaded all of the music we live and breathe to this day. Ryan Coogler’s Sinners teaches how important the blues was, is, its impact on future generations, and how it's a part of every single one of us. As a young black adult watching Sinners, it was easy to feel hatred towards the main villains of the film, who attempt to use the blues as a bargaining tool rather than artistic expression. However, Coogler is attempting to rewire our brains into sharing music with one another, rather than just claiming it for ourselves. When the main vampire Remmick finishes his rendition of “Pick Poor Robin Clean,” our characters ostracize him and say, “We're looking for blues music.” Watching this for the first time, it's easy to agree with that statement until you realize that the song that's being sung has the exact structural format of a blues. Even though our characters were right to act the way they did, they were wrong in their structural analysis, purely because of their stance on the music. Coogler is trying to show that this music comes from not just black people, but people who use this music in order to create culture in a time of oppression. Remmick is an Irish vampire who’s trapped within himself and wants to see his ancestors. The Irish People were colonized by the British, and in the midst of that struggle created music to help them through a dangerous time. As humans, we all have ancestors who've experienced travesty. It’s the job of this music to keep our ancestors alive, along with the people who will go on to tell their stories. 

Written by me: The most pivotal scene of the film comes halfway through–a moment that has come to be known to Letterboxd users as simply “that scene.” It features a remarkable piece of music called “I Lied To You,” performed by newcomer Miles Canton (who has the voice of a blues legend–this guy does not sound like he was born in the modern day). It begins as a guitar blues track but builds up to a hip hop beat under it, eventually bringing in tribal drumming and rock guitar as the character’s performance literally rips open time and space to tie together generations of black musicians. It closes out with a haunting electric guitar solo that zooms out the beauty of the moment to remind you of the complex history it lives within. It’s the singular best moment of music I’ve ever seen in film. If you are a music nerd, or just a person, please go see Sinners. It is worth it for that scene alone. 

The Boy - Live At Bush Hall, Black Country, New Road

Sometimes there is music that is so good I’m not quite sure how to explain it, and this is one of those, so bear with me here. I got the opportunity earlier this month to see Black Country, New Road live, and it was, musically, one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to. Before the show started, I met up with a friend of mine (who’s also a member of a band you’ll likely be hearing more about next month) who was also at the show and he told me he was hoping they’d play “The Boy,” a song I had not heard of up to that point. When it came up in the show, the person I was with (who did know the song) got really excited and told me this was the one that our friend earlier had been talking about. I listened intently to see what he could’ve been so excited about, and I was blown away. I’ve had this song on repeat since then, because each listen feels like a brand new experience. It’s a heartbreaking fable about a robin, a mole, a deer, and a boy, sung with as much care as the best storytellers of the ages. May Kershaw’s sweeping delivery and emotional performance in this song are perhaps the best part, though it’s tough competition—the band plays phenomenally, utilizing their unique batch of instrumentalists (the flute is all over this one!) and changing rhythm and meter and key all throughout the song, yet still crafting an epic that feels completely cohesive and all in service of the ending it builds toward. It’s impossible to hear the moment that Tyler Hyde comes in at the end and promises she won’t try to fly anymore without some part of your heart breaking. It’s an absolutely stunning piece of music, and yes, I will watch the concert film at some point. 

I Need The Angel, Ezra Furman

Speaking of songs so good they’re hard to talk about–how do I describe how much I love this one? From the moment I heard it for the first time, I knew it was likely my favorite song of the entire year thus far. To back up, this is a cover of an Alex Walton song. I’ve known that since Ezra Furman announced the tracklist of her new album Goodbye Small Head back in February. I started listening to the original immediately, knowing that I would want to know exactly which parts of Furman’s were her own when it came time. The original song is a great starting point–Walton crafts this phenomenal modern-vintage sound, much like Furman’s own work on albums like Perpetual Motion People. It’s a great song that feels timeless and legendary and just a little rough around the edges, like most of both of their discographies. To go on a tangent for a moment, I firmly believe there are two ways to do a great cover: you either have to completely change the song or be better than the original artist. Most people shoot for the second and fall flat. It’s a really, really hard thing to do well. But my god, does Ezra Furman nail it. She takes “I Need The Angel” from a city-punk poet jam to an epic of transcendentalism, delivering each line like she feels it cutting into her skin as she sings. She described it once as the “drunkest” song on the album, but if that’s the case, she’s touching on the part of substance use that allows people to see just a touch beyond the curtain for a moment. Musically, she takes it to an entirely new level, making each swing bigger, each drop lower, and each high more and more euphoric, until it breaks into a final chorus that makes the world spin. She cuts no corners, extending the song by 15 seconds and thoroughly giving it everything it could ask for. It’s possibly the best Ezra Furman song I’ve ever heard in spite of not being an Ezra Furman song at all, and it’s easily my favorite song on this list. I cannot wait to see her live this fall with Alex Walton opening–if they sing it together, I might just melt on the spot.  

Forever Howlong, Black Country, New Road

I’d been under the impression ever since she announced it that Ezra Furman’s Goodbye Small Head was going to be the album that made the list this month, so I hope it comes across that I would not sacrifice this spot lightly. But by June 1st, I found I couldn’t listen to anything else. Black Country, New Road is a complicated band–they’ve been through a lot of big changes and redirections, especially for a group that was already somewhat exceptional in the modern day for having 6 members and including musicians who can play flute, mandolin, saxophone, accordion, recorder, and more. But they’ve embraced their complexity in full, choosing to take on this album with 3 alternating lead vocalists/songwriters and countless different instrumental sounds. I talked a bit about lead single “Besties” back in March, but I think it’s ultimately a terrible representation of what this album has to offer–”Besties” is only the beginning. 

BC,NR is an undoubtedly British band, and you can almost hear the age of the country come in through their folk tales and antiquated instrumentation. This music feels like it spans from the present to the Middle Ages, perhaps as long as the English language has been around. They take on a tone of storytelling even older, the kind that’s been around for as long as people have been, constructing elaborate allegories of love and loss and the contradictions of being a human. It’s more of an anthological record than a narrative one, something I originally disliked but ended up coming around on as a strength of the album. The three singers are not trying to tell the same story, but rather find subtle commonalities between their stories as a microcosm of the broader experiences all humans share. The instrumentation is grand and complex and all over the place (one song includes a recorder quintet!) and was absolutely incredible to watch live. They use dissonance, harmony, time signature, key changes, and essentially every buzzword I could pull from last year’s AP Music Theory test in practice and in ways I’ve never heard before. Their work slots right in with the great masters of art across time–it would be just as fitting alongside Rembrandt or Shakespeare as with their contemporary musical peers. I cannot recommend this album enough to anyone with ears. It reminds me of all the reasons we make music: to share life, love, and create magnificent harmonies that are as close to magic as we can get. 

you can listen to this month's playlist here: