It's far too personal, of course—but in a way that's addictive; that's necessary; that feels respectful, if useless, helpless—lonely, because the voice that melts through your skin, jolts you, rocks you just right—that voice won't ever say anything new. You're listening to the past—tragic, hymn-like: the last vestige of worship for something gone far too soon.
So sure, it's too much—but I do it anyway, always, & sometimes I fall into pockets: hitting play again & again, impossibly; muscles surging, etching the words into my curled skeleton. It's painful, but so powerful, & it really is incredible music—a welcome haunting—songs too beautiful to let rest in peace. Here are two.
Raw; bubbling; jiving & raging to the end. This song is eminently danceable; words so brightly, plainly despairing; slices of guitar & drum jaunting on the 2-4, then unfurling, cynical, for the chorus. An unabashed exit, if nothing else—a plea to move, to exorcise—to sing, loud, in the face of certain defeat.
Swelling & receding like underwater fireworks, rolling out almost coy, with a snap of the neck & a drop of the stomach. Lyrics acidic in their bitterness still trip into each other like poetry—"The game looks easy, that's why it sells"—& if you listen close after he strains "Give me one good reason not to do it," you'll hear his girlfriend's plaintive "Because I love you," layered on in post-production, fading just too quiet into the background.
I don't mean to depress, just to share. Back to our regularly scheduled cheekiness post haste, I promise.