{"id":199,"date":"2020-05-08T01:41:20","date_gmt":"2020-05-08T05:41:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.richbradley.org\/songs\/?p=199"},"modified":"2020-05-08T01:41:21","modified_gmt":"2020-05-08T05:41:21","slug":"hymn-remix","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.richbradley.org\/songs\/new\/hymn-remix\/","title":{"rendered":"“Hymn (Remix)” \u2013 Car Seat Headrest"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

If you\u2019re also a Car Seat Headrest fan, maybe you and I had a similar experience: one particular moment during your first listen to their new album, Making a Door Less Open<\/em>, ruined your Friday.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To be clear up front, I adore this album now. It\u2019s only been out for six days as I\u2019m writing this. It didn\u2019t take long.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But that first listen. Shortly after midnight on release day, I got into bed, put on headphones, hit play. I was excited \u2013 this is the first proper new set of music from the band in four years \u2013 and apprehensive. We\u2019d already heard four of the album\u2019s 11 tracks (which is frankly too many to put out in advance of an LP, but that is the way of things now) and they were\u2026okay? Maybe good, but also hard. They weren\u2019t scratching the itch I was expecting them to, but maybe I needed to acquire a new itch. Maybe the full album would produce the itch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Track 1 hits (\u201cWeightlifters\u201d), and it\u2019s got a nice energy to it. It\u2019s not as complex \u2013 maybe I mean melodically rich? \u2013 as my favorite Car Seat Headrest songs. But it works as an opener, sure. I go with it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan\u2019t Cool Me Down\u201d follows, the first single. It helps that it\u2019s positioned as a comedown from \u201cWeightlifters,\u201d as the beat is contextualized in a new way. But compared to the version the band performed on their last tour, \u201cCan\u2019t Cool Me Down\u201d still feels unsettlingly flat, unassertive. Where Will Toledo belts out the high notes of the chorus live, here he nervously sings around them or retreats into a delicate falsetto, the line \u201ccool water on my brow can\u2019t cool me down\u201d transforming from an impassioned declaration of need to something more like barely-swallowed helplessness. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Next up is \u201cDeadlines (Hostile),\u201d which occupies a similar emotional space while offering even less of a traditional repeating verse structure to latch onto (this is true for much of the album).\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then comes \u201cHollywood,\u201d the trickiest of the pre-release singles to navigate. It\u2019s built around a big dumb guitar riff, the kind that generally implies \u201cwe\u2019re having fun now.\u201d But is it fun? \u201c12-year-olds on pills waking up in beds of big producers.\u201d Is that fun? Maybe in some kind of punk-political message kind of way? But there\u2019s also the drummer, Andrew, in there yelling lines like \u201ccome see my movie \/ it\u2019s kinda groovy,\u201d and it sounds like a joke. Is this a joke<\/em>? It kind of sounds like an Offspring song. Good god, is this an Offspring song?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

At this point you, Car Seat Headrest fan listening to the album for the first time, are defenseless. You\u2019re four tracks in, you haven\u2019t totally gotten what you wanted out of the two new songs, and the two songs you\u2019ve already heard are still lacking in some way. Is this my problem or the album\u2019s problem? Turning my phone on to see if Pitchfork\u2019s posted a review would probably be a bad idea, right?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is when MADLO<\/em> presents you with \u201cHymn (Remix)\u201d. Toledo\u2019s voice peels in at its most abrasive, screeching \u201cfeel it in my heeeeeaaaaaart\u201d over laptop-chopped dance beats. The track goes on for three minutes like this, and it feels like longer. A darkness washes over you: this is<\/em> a joke. Four years.<\/em> You begin to accept it. Will and Andrew are doing their little jokey EDM side project and calling it Car Seat Headrest, and you\u2019re staying up to put this in your head, and tomorrow\u2019s Friday so you still have to get up and work (from home, to avoid the plague that\u2019s killing everyone, like every day now).\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fuck it, fine, what did those Pitchfork assholes say? 6 point fucking 6? Jesus Christ.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

You listen to the rest of the album, but aside from the two other pre-release singles it only gets more obtuse, and \u201cHymn (Remix)\u201d has already tainted whatever open-mindedness you\u2019d brought in with you. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

You wake up the next day, and you\u2019re in a shitty mood. And you\u2019re mad at yourself for being an ostensible adult who\u2019s in a shitty mood because he let an album ruin his Friday.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When have I felt like this before? It sounds absurd to say now but: Kid A<\/em>. I was 15, and Radiohead was life. OK Computer<\/em> was the biggest thing that had ever happened to me, and Kid A<\/em> was the first album I had the experience of anticipating as an obsessed fan. I knew most of the songs already from live bootlegs \u2013 if I remember right, the only two titles that were complete mysteries were \u201cTreefingers\u201d and \u201cIdioteque\u201d. A segment of the online fandom, myself included, was convinced that \u201cTreefingers\u201d must be the new name for \u201cEgyptian Song,\u201d since that was clearly the best of their new material and it would be unthinkable to leave it off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But they did leave it off. \u201cTreefingers,\u201d the first listen revealed, was four minutes of ambient feedback. And \u201cIdioteque\u201d was five minutes of Thom Yorke wailing on top of a drum machine. Where was \u201cEgyptian Song\u201d? Where was my \u201cKarma Police\u201d? What itch was any of this supposed to scratch?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This is the thing about so much of the art that ends up sticking with you for life: it pushes you to find the itch. Kid A<\/em> helped me learn that. I was already in so deep, and felt so deeply about Radiohead, that I trusted there was more there. So on listen 2, and listen 3, I started listening differently, and allowing myself to feel differently.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIdioteque\u201d in particular, which seemed like a joke at first because I didn\u2019t know how to feel it \u2013 soon I did feel it, which opened the door to exploring feelings in ways that were unfamiliar to my pop-saturated teenage brain. \u201cIdioteque\u201d taught me how to feel through drone and texture, and it became my favorite song on Kid A<\/em>. And all that happened in the first week I had the CD.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sensed something like this was happening with Making a Door Less Open<\/em>. I was angry, but it was an interesting angry. I wanted to figure out what was going on with this record, and why my reaction was what it was. To find different angles; to mine my now 35-year-old brain, and see if there\u2019s anything new left in there to expose.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

MADLO<\/em> is interesting even if you don\u2019t listen to it at all. Will Toledo has released four different versions of this record already: a streaming version, a CD version, an LP, and a digital download<\/a> that follows the streaming tracklist while also giving you the CD and LP variant tracks (I recommend that one).\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Toledo has said the LP version is what it is because it had to be delivered by a certain date, which means it represents an earlier version of the album versus its digital siblings. This is a form of rock \u2018n roll sacrilege: Toledo has undercut the seriousness of the all-important analog artifact. While connoisseurs fork out money for vinyl, the real final version of MADLO<\/em> is the one kids are half-listening to on Spotify. And who\u2019s to say that\u2019s even final? When did Kanye release the final version of The Life of Pablo<\/em>? Has he?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m surprised how little I\u2019m seeing comparisons made between MADLO<\/em> and Pablo<\/em>. Hell, Toledo put it right out there, calling the last track on his album \u201cFamous\u201d \u2013 the same as the most notorious song on TLOP<\/em>, the one where Kanye says he could probably fuck Taylor Swift if he wanted. But Will\u2019s version of \u201cFamous\u201d is something altogether different: \u201cPlease let this matter \/ no one can see this \/ or know that I need it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For Kanye, there didn\u2019t need to be a final version of TLOP<\/em>. He redefined expectations around the album as an expression of power. He used the immediacy of streaming technology to expand his canvas through time and space, engulfing his audience along the way. Listeners could do with that what they wanted, but the album would be whatever Kanye said it was, and if he decides it\u2019s something else tomorrow then that\u2019s what it will be tomorrow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Will is in some sense doing the opposite of this: inverting the dynamic from an expression of auteur omnipotence to a representation of personal anxiety that\u2019s too severe to be contained by one format. Rather than demand the audience follow his lead like Kanye redefining his work on the fly, Toledo uses the space between mediums to expose his process. This is what was ready when the vinyl master was due, this is what I wasn\u2019t quite satisfied with, this is where I arrived given a few extra weeks, and maybe I’m still not happy with it.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

This kind of fundamental transparency isn\u2019t new to Car Seat Headrest. Will Toledo built his band up from awkward solo teenage demos and live performances that are still available on his Bandcamp and YouTube pages for anyone to find. His early, self-released work overflows with barely edited ideas. One record passes the two-hour mark, and includes a 15-minute song that will probably never appear outside of Bandcamp because it turns into Neil Young\u2019s \u201cDown by the River\u201d toward the end. It\u2019s glorious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Toledo\u2019s oeuvre is also increasingly full of songs that are re-recorded, sometimes re-re-recorded. And it\u2019s all just out there; the new canon coexists with the old. The band\u2019s last wholly new LP, Teens of Denial<\/em>, is the only one in their entire catalog that functions as a traditional, static rock artifact. And even that comes with an asterisk, since the first pressing had to be destroyed after Ric Ocasek withdrew permission to reference \u201cJust What I Needed,\u201d forcing a second version of the album to exist before it even hit shelves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Unlike other contemporary artists who obsess over the shape of their legacy while they\u2019re still creating it \u2013 say, James Murphy, or Quentin Tarantino \u2013 Toledo makes sure his catalog is anything but static, or able to be easily numbered (he actually did<\/em> start out numbering his albums, but gave up after four). To cleanly quantify his canon wouldn\u2019t suit the nature of his art. Allowing it to spill out, unimpeded by old models, every seam exposed, an insurmountable challenge for even the most dedicated fan to organize \u2013 that\u2019s Car Seat Headrest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What does it mean to make a door less open? It\u2019s not the same as closing a door. The vulnerability that Car Seat Headrest is built upon isn\u2019t a door that can be closed. So Will Toledo shares the burden of vocal duties with his bandmates for the first time. He blurs the lines between Car Seat Headrest and the comedic 1 Trait Danger project in which he gets to play the sideman. He literally dons a mask. And yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

MADLO<\/em> is the diffusion of Will Toledo\u2019s core vulnerability across new channels. He\u2019s restricted the listener\u2019s direct line into his soul by diversifying the lenses through which aspects of his vulnerability can be observed. When you try to listen to MADLO<\/em> like you\u2019d listen to Teens of Denial<\/em>, you feel like Toledo is obfuscating his humanity for the first time, and it\u2019s frustrating. But the deeper you go, the more you realize the door being less open is only pushing the door\u2019s contents into new parts of the house.\u00a0\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Even \u201cHollywood,\u201d superficially the least vulnerable song on the album, exposes a specific wound. Rather than a banal \u201clet\u2019s take those Hollywood elites down a peg\u201d rant, \u201cHollywood\u201d is a visceral rejection of what the world is being given in lieu of actual art, and the fast foodification of human experience that we\u2019re beaten into caring about from childhood by unapologetically horrible people. This is an important topic to Toledo (see also \u201cBeach Life-in-Death<\/a>\u201d). And anyway, it\u2019s not Andrew Katz\u2019s fault if he sounds like Dexter Holland.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This brings me back, finally, to \u201cHymn (Remix).\u201d In truth, this is the most vulnerable moment on MADLO<\/em>. On vinyl, \u201cHymn\u201d is a stripping down of all pop structure and artifice in order to admit defeat to some unknowable higher power while experiencing a major panic attack. The remixed version that appears on digital formats questions the palatability of something so raw to the streaming audience \u2013 it won\u2019t be heard, and if it\u2019s heard then it won\u2019t be understood, so let\u2019s gut the animal and nail it onto a dance beat crucifix. Let\u2019s turn one kind of breakdown into another.<\/em> It\u2019s devastating, and it might be the key to understanding the record.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The closest comparison to MADLO<\/em> I can think of isn\u2019t Kid A<\/em> but Lolita Nation<\/a><\/em>, the 1987 double LP by Game Theory. While more obviously maximalist than MADLO<\/em>, Lolita Nation<\/em> similarly uses its medium to subvert expectations in a way that reflects an absolute breakdown in certainty of what the artist, Scott Miller, is trying to express. He shares the burden of the album across his band, giving each member at least one track of their own, which only serves to amplify the profound existential anxiety that permeates every other song. Miller avoids serving up anything that resembles his calling card power pop until seven tracks in; he fills spaces between fully-realized songs with tape-warped fragments of his past and present work; and he concludes with an anticlimactic statement of self-deprecation. Like Will Toledo, Scott Miller was 27 years old when he made Lolita Nation<\/em>. It wasn\u2019t appreciated nearly enough, but those who appreciate it do so deeply.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My most recent listen to Making a Door Less Open<\/em> brought me to tears. That\u2019s certainly in part because of the sorry context in which we now have to consume it. But it\u2019s also surfaced something else in me, something I get to scratch for the first time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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