#HovelReviews

[digitalhovel]

The Narcissist Cookbook’s new album came at the perfect time for me

The Narcissist Cookbook’s new album, “This is How We Get Better” is one of my favorite albums I’ve ever listened to.

It’s not hard to see why. Narcissist Cookbook is a leftie, “queer icon???,” self-deprecating, honest, folksy, punky, artist. It’s right up my alley, and I would absolutely recommend it to anyone interested in folk/punk/folk punk. Especially because this album is no less honest, but perhaps more approachable than the previous albums.

This isn’t a statement against “Moth” or “Hymn.” Both of his previous albums are phenomenal works, but they’re also highly confessional. As he says in “Matador,” “The Narcissist Cookbook is an attempt to counterbalance that impulse / It's a reminder not to lock the scary things away / Whether they're bulls or ghosts or dragons / We don't run / From these things here / We don't dance around them / Ideally we don't even fight them / We just see them / Look directly at them / Try to understand them.” This creative spirit is part of the reason I love the Narcissist Cookbook. Above all else, the work is honest. It speaks to something sincere, wonderful, and often painful. “This is How We Get Better” is no less honest despite there not being any deeply confessional or personal moments. Instead, we receive a series of affirmations, degradations, and existential questions about life.

The album’s opener, “Practically Imperfect” sets the tone immediately. It is an anthem of bodily reclamation, and the acknowledgement that many people can see the beauty in others’ flaws but not their own. Maybe it’s the fact that I recently realized I’m a woman, but the instant laundry list of things the singer hates about his face, followed by an acknowledgment that to “be a human being is to be a total mess” was a sentiment I really needed to hear. The catch of the song is pretty good too. Narcissist Cookbook keeps bringing the acoustic chords and the catchy hooks, and they keep working out. It’s a direct but gentle entry into the album and welcomes the listener in.

“GOOD MORNING SUNSHINE” is an anthem for everyone who’s struggling to get out of bed. The heavier chords and electric guitar backings come in thick, and the second-person perspective is a welcome twist on NC’s usual spoken word pieces. Maybe it’s because it feels like a message to the audience in addition to it being for himself, and this inclusion feels intentional. The message is so universal, that I can’t help but think of the countless others who are struggling alongside me in the world. That invisible solidarity is present here. This is where the name of the album comes from, and Narcissist Cookbook’s message of strength and persistence carries the piece.

The fourth track, “The Simplest Words” probably hits me the hardest out of everything on the album, so I’d be remiss not to mention it. It’s one of the more melodic tracks on the album, bringing in NC’s self-made acapella beats which pull the audience along and keep the rhythm running smoothly through the song. “This is How We Get Better” differentiates itself by not being an exploration, but an excavation, of self-hate. He plainly says, “I hate this body. I am more scared of myself than I am of anyone else.” The simple truth of these words really hit home for me. But more than that, I love about this work because it does not beg me to interrogate this. By highlighting the fear at the root of this disgust, he points out the harmful and useless nature of self-hate. It is not a celebration of self-deprecation. It acknowledges it for what it is.

The singer doesn’t ask for you to help him. He doesn’t ask you to look inside yourself and really question why you’re listening to this song. He doesn’t demand of you any further questions or answers, simply letting this truth be. In the same year that Bo Burnham’s Inside made waves, I am much happier knowing this album exists in an unpretentious, truthful space, expressing the raw moments of depression and anxiety that many of us face without shaming us or begging our forgiveness or permission or mercy. The Narcissist Cookbook instead reaches out a hand and acknowledges we have more in common than we do different, welcoming a chorus of voices that sing, “This body is built on the ruins of all the people I have ever been. Wise men build their houses on rocks while the rest of us settle for skeletons.”

It is not often that I feel seen in a piece of media right now. However, I feel this sentiment particularly captures the current time of literal and metaphorical transition in my life. I do not know what to do with the last 22 years now that I have discovered some deeper truths about myself. I suppose I keep building. I go back and I patch the faulty walls and the uneven foundation, and I work to make this place somewhere I can live. Skeletons will have to do, I suppose.

The rest of the album is full of great hooks, some thought-provoking spoken word, and the catchy guitar riffs that characterize Narcissist Cookbook’s work. From songs about mycelia hiveminds, to the sentient spaces created by our own collective wandering and characterizing, to the things we ingest and consume, Narcissist Cookbook continues to delight.

The final major song I cannot go without mentioning is “STOPPING A GARDEN HOSE WITH YOUR THUMB.” It is the most explicitly confessional song on the album, detailing NC’s foray into kissing someone while still being in a separate relationship. This entrance to polyamory exposes the truth, “We really do make a point of teaching kids that there is precisely one person to be / One way to live / Straight / Cis / Overworked / And monogamous.” The metaphorical garden hose is the truth. It’s something that inevitably bursts out, getting everything wet and leaving you and the surrounding area a mess. I’d been holding my thumb on a garden hose for twenty-two years. I hope NC, whoever reads this, and whoever listens to this album gets to relieve some of that pressure. I know I feel better having done it, and I am glad there are others out there discovering themselves in similar and different ways, as we all learn to face the terrifying and exciting possibilities of being so much more than what we thought of ourselves.

So, in conclusion: if you’re queer, trans, mentally ill, sad, happy, or just want to hear some folksy, ballad bops, go listen to this album. And thanks to Narcissist Cookbook for the memories and the inspirations.

https://thenarcissistcookbook.bandcamp.com/

[digitalhovel]

Late to the Party: Wolf 359 and personhood

I wrote the first draft of this piece in July 2020, but I never got around to editing it before my Fall classes started and my life became a hectic world of crunch. So, finally edited: here are my incredibly, remarkably am-I-too-late-to-comment thoughts on Wolf 359. New posts coming soon!

           Wolf 359 was an audio drama created by Gabriel Urbina that ran from 2014 to 2017, featuring an incredible group of voice actors, excellent writing, and a story that is, at various turns, humorous, adventurous, haunting, tragic, and compelling. It was a forerunner for the podcast explosion that has swept through pop culture in the last decade and continues growing. Perhaps it just feels that way because of how much I’ve seen it lauded on the internet, but I believe it’s true.

           If I were pitching this podcast to someone, I would sell it on the story. A small crew of people orbits a faraway star, listening to the frequencies of space for any signal that may be unusual. Though it begins as a relatively campy, workplace comedy about toothpaste rationing and plant monsters, the story takes steep turns into hard science fiction and rich, character-focused drama that captures the listener and drives them through to the story’ completion. Through the close quarters of the increasingly unreliable Hephaestus space station, the writers never give the characters enough space to avoid their problems and slow the plot down. This closeness also creates a sense of kindred and family that pervades the show’s themes and makes the audience feel that the characters really have something worth fighting for. Those characters begin relatively archetypically: Renée Minkowski is an uptight commanding officer, Doug Eiffel is a slacker and all-around generic man, Alexander Hilbert is a “mad scientist,” and Hera is a governing, feminine A.I. presence. However, by the end of the show, each is given the agency and opportunity to be the main character of an arc, and each grows beyond the limits of their original shells. The craft in the writing and design of this show is remarkable on its own, but the messages it delivers in the story set it apart as more than speculative fiction.

           Okay, so I’m about to go hard into spoiler with this one. If you haven’t listened to the show, I would highly recommend doing so if you’re interested. If you already have, or if you don’t care, on we go.

           Wolf 359 has many themes. It questions the values of discipline and rebellion, it contemplates what sacrifices are worthwhile to achieve a greater good, and, most existentially, it asks what it means to be a sentient, living person. The podcast confronts this issue time and again, examining it through the lenses of clones and artificial intelligence. The fundamental conclusion the series suggests is: if you appear to be a person, and if you have all the memories of that person, and you continue striving to be that person, then you functionally are that person.

But what happens if you suffer complete and total amnesia?

           In the final episode of the series, Doug Eiffel, bad idea extraordinaire, sacrifices his memories in order to also wipe the mind of Dr. Helena Price, one of the show’s primary antagonists. Because of this, Eiffel ends the show reflecting on a life he can’t remember, comforted by his friends, whom he is now 100% more respectful towards. So, if this new man is Doug Eiffel, what does that mean for him and his arc as a character?

           Doug Eiffel is a jerk. He disobeys instructions, he calls people by insensitive or offensive nicknames, and he acts as if his needs are the only ones that matter. He is the archetypal ideal of a straight, white man. His casual attitude provides a great deal of humor throughout the series, especially during its less plot-centric beginnings before space things start happening. It isn’t until the final season of the show that he learns how his actions have hurt and alienated the people around him, the only friends he knows. After this, he makes an effort to correct some of his behaviors, but he doesn’t have much time, because he is soon sucked into a star and put through a series of plot developments that prevent him from experiencing evident growth in how he treats and respects other people. This makes his sudden mind-wipe reversal seem like a shortcut. The new Doug Eiffel recognizes his previous self was an asshole and can now start again, but the emotional journey necessary to reach this point naturally is cut short. He gets a free pass on moral development, and it denies the audience a truly satisfying end to that part of is arc.

           The other significant part of Eiffel’s arc and motivation is the revelation that he has a daughter, whom he was prevented from seeing after he kidnapped her while drunk and proceeded to get into a car crash that injured his daughter and the passengers of the other vehicle. This information came to light in episode 35, during season three. The possibility of seeing his daughter again became the primary motivation for Eiffel, when before it was simply escaping space so he could get back to the luxuries of Earth such as porn and television. Honestly, this revelation works well. It provides conflict between Eiffel and Minkowski, who now has to decide whether Eiffel is a good person or not. It also provides depth and a severe flaw to Eiffel’s character that makes it difficult to accept him as the plucky “everyman” he acted as for the majority of the show. His memory loss comes at the immense cost of forgetting everyone he cares about, but he barely addresses this in the finale after waking up with amnesia. Perhaps this is the most sensible conclusion. With no memory, his daughter is just another person he has forgotten, and his logged memories will tell him more about the crew of the Hephaestus than his own family. But again, this removes the emotional weight from his character.

           This could mean any number of things. The plot could have required this, and Doug, needing that moment of selflessness to develop as an individual, was the most fitting crew member to lose their memories. It could be that Doug’s memories were wiped because the writers realized he was beyond redemption, and only a new slate would provide him the opportunity to change. It could be that this complication was intended from the beginning, and ending Doug’s arc without complete growth was both a human choice and a message about people who don’t change before its too late. No matter what, Doug’s arc ends abruptly, and it feels dissatisfying to have a magical reset button for him when the other characters have to keep their own memories of trauma (some caused by him, even).

This calls into question what Wolf 359 says about personhood. Personhood is defined by memory and experience in the series. This includes, most importantly, trauma. Betrayal, responsibility, and insecurity induced by trauma severely shape the arcs of every crew member of the Hephaestus. Eiffel escapes all this. It comes at a high cost, but if the show’s message about personhood is that it comes from memories, then Eiffel’s character arc ends in a single selfless act that acquits him of the consequences of his previous mistakes and wrongdoings. The Eiffel who wakes up with no memories is a different character, and pretending he isn’t does a disservice to his story in the previous 60 episodes.

           Wolf 359 has a wildly humanist message, and though the conclusion of Eiffel’s arc undercuts some of them, the series still gives many of the characters the endings they deserve. It is at turns hilarious, terrifying, and awe-inspiring. The story delivers on its evolution from hijinks into philosophical contemplation, and for that it deserves recognition, respect, and another binge listen once I’ve made it through my back catalogue.

[digitalhovel]

A review of “Juno Steel,” a hilarious and emotionally-driven queer space opera

           I recently began work as a DoorDash driver, and you know what that means: living in fear because you have to constantly expose yourself to shitheads who aren’t wearing masks? Yes. And also, lots of time in the car with nothing to do but listen to stuff. Which means I decided to go back and binge the first two seasons of one of my favorite podcasts, The Penumbra Podcast’s “Juno Steel” series. “Juno Steel” is an enjoyable, enthralling story about home, mental illness, and what it means to be good.

           The Penumbra Podcast, created by Sophie Takagi Kaner and Kevin Vibert, is an anthology series that focuses on telling interesting stories while representing marginalized sexual, romantic, and gender identities. It began with a Twilight Zone-esque series of narratives, each with a different setting and characters, but they now run two main storylines: “The Second Citadel” (a fantasy setting examining prejudice and relationships) and “Juno Steel” (a dystopian space noir set in Hyperion City, Mars). The Penumbra Podcast is one of the first podcasts I ever listened to, and it’s still going strong.

           The following contains spoilers for “Juno Steel” season one. If you want to give them a listen, try the remake of “Juno Steel and the Murderous Mask.” Episodes are 30-60 minutes, but the commitment is well worth it in the end.

The characterization in “Juno Steel” is one of the series’ strongest points. Juno Steel is a classic noir detective: determined, depressed, and damn stubborn. The first season of Juno Steel follows him as he uncovers a plot to harvest ancient Martian tech in order to kill the citizens of Hyperion City. Along the way, he develops a complicated relationship with a thief, Peter Nureyev, and their lives become inextricably linked. Juno is an ex-cop and struggles with several issues: trusting someone whose expertise is being untrustworthy, and also trusting literally anyone else. (Note: there is a brief, problematic moment between Juno Steel and a woman PI named Alessandra. I’ll explain at the bottom if you want a warning before listening.)

          Juno Steel is blunt and focused on good, on solving the problem, on doing his best even if it kills him. He struggles to take into consideration the wants and cares of others, and he often jeopardizes his relationships by jumping to conclusions and acting before thinking. Peter Nureyev is suave, collected, and always has a plan. Their dynamic is incredibly fun to listen to because

1.      The acting by Joshua Ilon (Juno) and Noah Simes (Nureyev), is incredible (as is the work of everyone in the cast), and the writing carries their chemistry incredibly well

2.      They are forced into situations where each must give up their expertise and authority to help the other

This challenges their pre-conceived notions of the world, and it gives their characters places to develop and grow throughout the season. It also provides rife opportunities for comedy. Juno is sardonic and blunt, and Nureyev is witty and concise. Every character has a distinct voice, a distinct sense of excitement, and a distinct humor that makes each episode worth listening to as the creators tackle various tropes in the genre and spin an exciting mystery. While Juno often has a low speaking tempo, his secretary Rita gives monologues in seconds. These small moments of contrast build a broad and unique cast that make every interaction dramatic, and often hilarious. These character beats continue to influence the characters in season two, as Juno has to begin grappling with his own senses of responsibility, his past, and his guilt as he continues trying to do good in the world.

          This idea of ‘good’ pervades the message of both seasons of Juno Steel. The Juno of season one is obsessed with self-sacrifice and self-destruction. The creators have never been shy about Juno having mental illness, namely, depression. In his case, he lashes out at people who disagree with him and can’t see consequences of actions that aren’t his. Somehow, it’s always his fault. But the rest of the characters disagree with that philosophy. The Penumbra Pod presents a great deal of viewpoints on coping with feelings of grief, responsibility and guilt, from self-destruction to bottling it up and moving on to just trying to live every day to forget about the one before. No one is right, but the diversity of opinions provokes genuine thought in the listener. The show deals with heavy themes but the characters are grounded and deal with their grief, guilt, and fear in realistic and dynamic ways, letting the audience learn alongside Juno as his perspective slowly opens up.

          The following contain serious spoilers for “Juno Steel,” season two.

          It’s a testament to the writing that Juno learns from these lessons. In season two, he’s less self-destructive, but still driven to making the world a better place, fueled by his guilt and his past. Season two of Juno Steel features and more nuanced villain, Ramses O’Flaherty (heavily influenced by Walt Disney). Ramses wants to create a good world, plain and simple. The issue is, he thinks his version of good is universal, and he has the power and resources to try to enforce it with impunity. It’s a tense narrative that forces Juno to examine his own motivations for doing his job and perspectives regarding the place he calls home. He struggles between idealism and defeatism, even deciding whether violence is needed or useful in his line of work. But again, the core message of the series is simple: we can never make those changes alone. Only by working willingly with others and listening to them can Juno begin to decide what he considers to be good. While the political situation of “Juno Steel” season two doesn’t mimic our own (I wish our public leaders had only good intentions [they don’t]), it is an inspirational story about the value of trying to grow as a person and begin accepting help from others and trusting them when it’s needed. Because goodness is based in how we affect the world and the people around us. These days, found family can be more real than blood relations, and solidarity is the greatest path towards building a better world.

          In short, The Penumbra Podcast is great. They’re telling interesting, unique, entertaining, queer, gender-diverse stories through personal and diverse lenses, and they’re doing a great job of it. “Juno Steel” has been influential in my life, both as validation for my emotional and psychological experiences, and my changing perspective as I try to learn about myself and do better all the time. Because Juno isn’t perfect. He makes mistakes; we all do. But we get to watch him learn, and in the process, maybe learn something about ourselves.

          If you do listen to them and enjoy it, here’s a link to their website, where they host episodes (you can also find them on most podcast-listening mediums), and their Patreon.

*The creators of The Penumbra Podcast have addressed this, but in “Juno Steel and the Prince of Mars, part 1,” Juno non-consensually kisses Alessandra Strong. The writers have said they wish they hadn’t done it or could redo it because it’s a problematic noir trope, and they wrote it in to confirm that Juno is canonically bisexual. The incident does not come up again, and in future discussions, Juno and Alessandra have a relatively healthy working relationship. Some other concerns have been raised with their presentation of other relations on TPP, and the creators have acknowledged that they are also growing and trying to do the best to present their stories in a positive way, but they also can’t be made into pillars of the queer community. They have individual perspectives and are trying to reflect that. I, for one, believe them, and I hope you’ll still give their podcast a try.

[digitalhovel]

Celeste is a fantastic game, and a great metaphor for mental illness

Celeste is a brutal, unrelenting game. It is also one of the most heartwarming gaming experiences I’ve ever had. I suppose that’s not a terribly high bar: I simply haven’t played many games with a good deal of emotional development, and even fewer with an outright focus on mental health. What results from the combination of those heartwarming moments and the (sometimes infuriating) platforming puzzles is one of the most satisfying gaming experiences I’ve had, both mechanically and in its message.

Celeste was created by a small team of independent artists and programmers, headed by Matt Makes Games. The game feels carefully crafted; every dialogue line is realistic, every screen is a unique challenge, and every stage is delightful in its unique obstacles and design elements. Want to fly through a pastel skyscape? Celeste has your back. Want to explore a lost jungle? Celeste has that too. Want to investigate abandoned, ancient ruins of castles and occult sites? Yep, that’s also an option. There’s a bit of everything on the eponymous mountain, and that alone makes the journey worth it, even if that journey is a tough one.

I am a masochistic gamer. I enjoy games that taunt the player with the promise that every jump, every dash, every challenge is possible. Not easy, not even worthwhile, just possible. Celeste does have an assist mode that can be toggled on, allowing players to complete the game with less punishment for dying and less stress on the difficult sections. It’s a glorious feature that marks (hopefully) a change in how we define playing and beating videogames. This only supports the reasoning behind the difficult design: everything is possible. If things seem impossible, there’s an option to even the playing field back out. Celeste isn’t about doing the impossible; it’s about doing something difficult in the face of internal (and external obstacles).

The game takes its name from the biggest obstacle: Celeste Mountain. The player controls Madeline, a woman dead-set on reaching the mountain’s summit, no matter what. But Madeline doesn’t have a backstory-heavy, lore-filled reason for doing this. Sometimes, you just need to climb a mountain. Madeline also has depression, and the game does great work of representing some of the symptoms of this: self-doubt, unintended hostility, anxiety, and panic attacks, to name a few. That’s the beauty of the possibilities Celeste dangles in front of the player. When living with mental illness (disclaimer: I cannot speak for everyone, and I only speak from my particular experiences), tasks can seem overwhelmingly daunting, even when you know they remain completely feasible.

I most often deal with obsessive intrusive thoughts, and sometimes dealing with symptoms of mental illness feels like being stuck on a stage in Celeste. I can see the end goal, and I have an idea of how to get to it. I then try to brute force my way there, using the same tactic every time, waiting until it works out. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I have to change my plans. But at the end of the day, I get to decide when I give up or move on. There is no mockery for this. The game never degrades the player for giving up. Instead, the game offers acceptance and the knowledge that if I feel like it, if I learn more, I can come back later and finish what I was doing. In this way, Celeste trains its players to forgive themselves for their shortcomings.

The levels remind the player there’s always another chance. You don’t lose anything when you die in Celeste; you simply respawn at the front of the screen, exactly where you were twenty seconds ago. This breaks something insurmountable into tiny, achievable pieces. While on their own they can be frustrating, looking back at them, I can only feel pride and remember the difficulty fondly because I surpassed it. While I may not review life challenges with a similar plucky nostalgia, I can be happy that I have persisted beyond them and that they don’t define me. It’s one of the main reasons videogames are an excellent art medium for exploring issues like mental illness in a gentle, yet direct, way. There is a safety in the world of the game that reality does not often allow.

I would be remiss to talk about this game and its relation to mental health without mentioning dynamics of support. Celeste is not a dialogue-heavy game; it’s a platformer. There aren’t NPCs to barter with, there’s no merchant for upgrades, and there certainly aren’t social mechanics like in Stardew Valley or Harvest Moon. Instead, the game offers optional discussions. Knowing this, I entered Celeste Mountain with only one personal goal: to complete every conversation with every NPC possible. The characters Madeline meets are all unique, humorous characters who all have a reason for being there. Whenever the player meets one of them, Madeline’s first dialogue is usually skeptical and suspicious, but after that, the player can leave. The player is under no obligation to continue speaking with the other characters. Making these conversations optional is one of the most rewarding choices I’ve seen in game design. It feels like the player is a willing participant. Characters don’t just monologue at you; they want to talk with you (even if all the responses are scripted). Because of this, the developing relationships feel far more real than many of the triple-A titles where characters fight and die for each other after little more than a few words spoken in the shadows. Taking the time to get to know these characters also allows Madeline to open up and grow in a way many game protagonists don’t. Her struggles and motivations become more clear, and the player gains a sense of the self-acceptance Madeline needs to build in order to accomplish the feat of climbing Celeste Mountain. I know I wouldn’t be where I am without the support of friends. Those relationships are crucial to figuring out oneself, and nothing makes facing the hardships more worthwhile than knowing there’ll be someone to talk to on the other side. Those conversations are maybe one of the most rewarding sequences in any game I’ve played, and they make the incredible experience of Celeste even more worthwhile,

Celeste is a game about self-discovery and self-acceptance. It’s about recognizing limits and working within them to achieve great things. It’s about seeing the near-impossible as doable. It’s about living with mental illness and persisting. More than anything, it’s about growth and accomplishment. Whatever mountains we may face, we will surmount them, one step at a time, with our friends there to help us.

(Special thanks to Harley Harris/Heckadoodles, who helped me edit this piece)

[digitalhovel]

Malafrena By Ursula K Le Guin

Malafrena by Ursula K. Le Guin is, like every Le Guin piece I read, an instant favorite. The story is set in the country of Orsinia, a fictionalized version of early 19th-century Europe that reads like a novel of the time. But Malafrena isn’t a romance in the truest sense, nor is it entirely a story of heroes, adventure, or aristocratic happenstance. What Malafrena truly is, is a coming of age story about youth, freedom, revolution, and hope in the face of unrelenting mundanity.

Malafrena is about a young man named Itale who wants to be a revolutionary and overthrow the imposed Austrian government to replace it with a democratic constitutional monarchy. Malafrena is also about a young woman named Piera who wishes to find her true calling, or love, or both.

Though there are passages that follow other characters like Laura, Itale’s sister, much of the action is split between Piera and Itale. Both stories feature conversations among aristocrats and young, honest minds. The characters are independent and stand alone, never fully agreeing with each other, never understanding themselves. They are all sometimes confused, all human, all excellently written. Le Guin’s wit shines through as journalists foment revolution and political intrigue, as eligible bachelorettes and bachelors dance and chat in the hushed hours of the night, yearning for things that cannot be spoken. Le Guin has a mastery of scene and description, and she whisks the reader between the plotlines flawlessly, capturing the pinnacles of action and making every conversation matter, as each shapes the main characters’ perspectives and forces them to think about life and the meaning of it.

The book is not perfect. It covers five years, and it’s often difficult to track the timeline without consistent mention of the year in which events occur. It also focuses largely on a man protagonist, and many of the women in the story find or seek fulfillment in marriage and romance. I would argue this is due to the setting of the novel, and the depiction of their strength and freedoms well outweighs the patriarchal tendencies of the story’s world. Piera declines marriage and breaks off engagement several times, and this shows her character as strong, not indecisive or childish. Luisa, a love interest of Itale’s, does suffer from largely being characterized by her connection with him and with men, but Le Guin also depicts her inner turmoil, her independence in choosing her relationships, and her will and spite at being ignored by the men of society. Overall, Le Guin captures specific experiences, refusing to generalize, and the story is all the better for it, as even if a character’s ending is tragic, it exists in itself for its own reasons.

The following paragraphs contain spoilers for the end of Malafrena. I genuinely suggest ordering a copy online if you’re already interested (not from Amazon, if you can help it). Elsewise, read on!

The book’s finale caught me off guard. When the reader comes to the final part of the book, Itale is a defeated, returning to Malafrena in exile. Piera is denied freedom by the men around her, who are boring, unsatisfying, or impatient. The ending is not a listing of accomplishments, a grand celebration of heroes and freed women and change and glory. It is a test. A test to see what they have learned in five years. The story does not end in this fatalistic place; it ends with a recognition of the infinite possibilities of the future, an ending that assures the audience the story isn’t over, even if the pages have run out. Itale will return to politics, because he must. Laura has found love, and will find freedom. Piera has found her calling, her authority, and the person she cares about most. These people inspire each other, leading each other on to that ethereal future they all seek. Without that hope, their lives would be tragically stagnant. But with that hope, they are massive.

I wrote down two quotes while reading this book. Both observations by Piera, one of Itale, one of herself:

“He had had to go off and try to find what it was that he and only he could do, what was necessary to him” (224).

“There was no way to serve fear and be free” (226).

This is the message of Malafrena: to chase life, and one’s desires, as far as possible. To seize the possibilities afforded and claim one’s own existence. Self-actualization. Responding to fear is a survival mechanism, but it is not the life to seek. It is not an option many people have. So, the goal: to give people that Freedom so they can use it for themselves. An idea as old as civilization, even though some might say otherwise.

The stories of the characters deal heavily with one thesis: if things are pointless, why keep shouldering on? The answer, unraveled over the course of the novel: even if action is fruitless, if it feels pointless, you will have still acted. Start a revolution, even if it gets squashed, for victory is never certain and an attempt at change is better than acceptance of stagnation. Importantly, the story does not depict any of its characters as extraordinary. They are human, and they suffer sorrow and discouragement and trauma. The elegance of this work is that this very human reality is accepted. The characters are not embellished. They are not larger than life, they do not defy death. When tragedy strikes, it strikes hard, and it often seems that hopelessness will win out. But it never does. There is always hope to be gained, from oneself or from the people nearby. From friends or family, and especially the friends who are family. The moments of action between the conversations, the encouragement, and the dining, those define this novel.

Finally, the story encourages rest. There is no way to suffer loss and continue on without change. It is, perhaps, the greatest reason that fantasy and action heroes rarely respond to grief without seeking revenge. The driving force behind such stories is entertainment, the pursuit of motion. Malafrena isn’t afraid to show the rests in between. The needed sleep and weeks of burnout, fatalism, and stagnation that come when fighting for one’s life against seemingly immutable power. In a time where corruption is stronger than ever and many people would rather resign to futility than continue trying, this is a story we need. Because inevitably, hope returns, and the characters pick themselves up once more, stepping forward slowly, steadily, into the light of the thing we all seek, that glory called Freedom.

[digitalhovel]

Cats 1983: The Musical: The Album is pretty good

So. I just listened to the 1983 official soundtrack to the Broadway musical Cats. And let me tell you, it was pretty good actually.

This will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me, but, alas, despite my BFA in acting, I have seen about ten musicals in my life, none of which were Cats in any form. My only experience with this musical was the incredible review of the musical by Polygon’s Simone de Rochefort, and the awe-inspiring twitter thread by the person who saw the 2019 movie rendition three times in one day. Until now, I kept myself free from any actual Cats content directly entering my eyes or ears.

The official soundtrack isn’t perfect. I read along with the Wikipedia synopsis, so I could understand what was happening, because if I didn’t, I would have no idea who Munkustrap is. I still don’t. But that’s okay. The official album doesn’t include the Pekes and Pollicles song, but that’s also okay, because this musical is about Cats, and a song about dogs is just wrong, right?

So. The music.

The instrumentals are neat, but I have no way to critique them. I have no knowledge of music or how it works, or even whether it sounds good (a matter for a different time). Anyways, they’re there, and that’s fine. I would also argue that “The Naming of Cats” isn’t a song; it’s a chant with which to grant your housecat sapience and the ability to kill you if it desires. As such, I recommend keeping it from the ears of your pets at all times, lest they grow too powerful. However, do let them listen to “Jellicle Songs for Jellicle cats,” because that song slaps, and I broke out into dancing while it was playing because Jellicles can and Jellicles do, and that’s the sort of enthusiastic attitude we all need while trapped inside and bored out of our gourds. Finally, the biggest musical number I heard, “The Jellicle Ball,” was a solid series of instrumentations that projected excellent colors on the inside of my brain (no drugs necessary).

Now, the cats of Cats. A review of this music would not be complete without an attempt to parse what has happened and who deserved to be the Jellicle choice.

Munkustrap is clearly showing favoritism to JennyAnyDots, otherwise he wouldn’t have her in mind. While she has done something impressive by orchestrating cockroaches and mice, unless she creates a business reviving dead dinosaurs, she’s not a true venture capitalist. Munkustrap is a mystery; he is the omnipresent narrator, the audience stand-in, the ringleader of the program, even if he doesn’t have Jellicle authority. As such, he is the wizard behind the curtain of the Cats universe, and therefore is incredibly powerful and probably deserves reincarnation, but his services to Cat-kind would be a loss. Also, I imagine he has no physical form, and is just an ethereal voice, so he can probably float to the Heaviside whenever.

I really didn’t expect to be annoyed by Rum Tum Tugger, but I was. I mean, clearly the song is about a cat who is annoying to its owners for always being contradictory. It’s a real thing, so it’s funny. But I cannot listen to this man list things he likes and doesn’t like and then list them in reverse for four minutes without wanting to disown this cat because it’s a jerk. The Rum Tum Tugger is a curious cat, but he’s also like that friend who agrees to go see a movie then starts complaining on the drive there because it got bad reviews and it’s not even a Tarantino for Christ sake so what’s the point.

Edit: upon seeing a visual of Rum Tum Tugger, I get it. He’s still a nasty, horny lad, but I get it. So he’s fine, actually.

Bustopher Jones and MungoJerry and RumpleTeazer sit together in my mind. They’re fun, they’re entertaining. They’re chaotic, and they know what they’re about. But also, they are clearly too materialistic to be jettisoned into the glorious skybox that is the Heaviside layer. Similarly, Mr. Mistofeles does cool parlor tricks, but he probably just laces the other cats’ food with catnip and then lies really good about what he does. Also, he issues seven new kittens into the world using only his hat, which is a crime against the earth and a hostile opposition to TNR programs and everything Regis Philbin stood for.

          So, who deserves to go into that beautiful clown circus in the sky that is the Heaviside layer? Skimbleshanks. He provides a good service to the world and is proud of it. His pride isn’t the self-involved absorption of narcissism, but the healthy self-contentment of seeing and owning the products of one’s labor. However, he can keep that up for a while, and he should. Unionize the cats, Skimbleshanks. I believe in you.

So, the three cats of an appropriate age for recycling are Old Deuteronomy, Grizabella, and Gus. Macavity may be old enough to be reincarnated into a small glowing cube of fur and joy, but he’s a criminal, an adulterer, and a tax evader. We don’t support dirty capitalist criminals here. So, the other three. Gus: an old theatre actor, but probably a racist (this album included the tale of Growltiger, the only song I didn’t finish because it was fucking racist). Old Deuteronomy: Who said he can’t pick himself? What if Deuteronomy looked around, found out everyone else was kind of annoying and self-centered and left them to burn instead of teaching them about life and loss and the meaning of happiness? Finally, Grizabella: enigmatic, tragic, sorrowful.

          About halfway through, I was rooting for Gus. He’s an old, old man, and he deserves a break from life and a chance at being great again. But then his bravado and bragging became an entire musical number, and no one likes the actor who keeps reminding people of that time in college when he played Seymore in Little Shop. Old Deuteronomy clearly has to stick around because he’s the only hope of teaching the other schmucks about life. So, let’s lay it out: Grizabella’s voice is a moving powerhouse. She laments, or praises the fact that she still has the memories of her life. She has lived a full life of experience. Now, that aforementioned twitter thread suggested that she was ignored and deserved to be reinstated with the Jellicles. But, she clearly wants to leave them. She knows what her life has been, and she wishes to see beyond, to see the sun, the moon, the true face of things. She wants access to the test room where all the good assets are held, uncorrupted and perfect. Grizabella is old, frail, and dejected. Is it kinder for them to let her back in? Yes. But even she’s dejected, and instead of trying to make her feel like she matters, the Jellicles give her what she wants: escape from them and their bitter, self-centric dance-routines.

          Grizabella is the most mature of all the cats. She demonstrates acceptance with her life and also with the idea of leaving her memories and her past behind, despite the beauty she once had and all the good times before everything went south for her. As she is absorbed into that godless place beyond space and time, she leaves behind her memories. It’s a tragedy, but she is happy for her new life, and probably to be rid of all the Jellicles, who are largely mean to her and nuisances.

          So, what did I learn? Well I learned that Jellicles can, and Jellicles do. I learned that happiness is the maturity to leave your past behind and accept a new day, and I learned above all else, that cats are not dogs. In general, this album ruled, and it was a good listen for an hour-and-a-half while I twiddled my thumbs and tried to avoid doing other things. One day, I’ll watch the other Cats products, but for now, I’ll let this one float around for a while, until I’m ready to move on and look fondly back on the memory.

[digitalhovel]

The oddly moral escapism of Doom Eternal

https://gf.me/u/x9vbh2The Doom series has a reputation for violence. It influenced the founding of the ESRB, it caused suburban parents unnecessary stress and fear about their kids’ wellbeing, and it never apologized for being itself. However, unlike violent games based in realism (such as The Last of Us, Tomb Raider, or Red Dead Redemption) which have disturbingly accurate depictions of bodily trauma, Doom’s gratuitous rampages never feel sickening or inappropriate (Polygon’s Patrick Gill made an excellent video comparing Doom’s violence to slapstick comedy). The game feels better than its contemporaries partially because of the story: the legions of Hell have invaded Earth and begun wreaking havoc. You control the Doom Slayer, the one person capable of stopping the invasion. This element of fantasy makes it an enjoyable matter of fiction, not a recreation or analysis of humanity’s actual capability for violence. The violence in Doom also works because, like slapstick, it transcends the realm of the normal into the extravagant and humorous. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, the violence in Doom works because the creators develop a moral framework that justifies the story, making its escapism uncomplicated and satisfying.

I love Doom (2016) and Doom Eternal, but I need to mention a blatant issue with it before I laud it as moral in any sense. Stretching this game’s political messages to the real world gets messy for a few reasons. One, if you ignore the generally humanist and anti-capitalist messages of these games, it becomes easy to construe the story simply as one man’s quest to shoot all his enemies. That’s a scary takeaway, and it plays into unhealthy and dangerous ideas of violence as masculine and guns as beautiful and necessary things. This message, like those of most shooter games, could quickly stretch into xenophobic territory, which I fundamentally despise and believe is untrue to the intent of the game. Two, the reboot series has done an utterly poor job of representing non-male/masculine characters. The main antagonists of both games have been feminine-coded, and the only other named, feminine voice in the series is that of a scientist who begins to view the Doom Slayer in a religious context. Is this because there were no women on the writing team? Probably. Is this intentional or malicious? I hope not. However, it’s worth acknowledging at the very least. All art has a message, whether intentional or accidental, especially when interpreted broadly. As such, I will be looking at Doom and Doom Eternal in their own context and the escapism of playing fun games, not as cultural or moral landmarks of any kind.

Almost everything about Doom Eternal feels mechanically better than its contemporaries. The action is fast-paced and rewards mobility over cover. An improvement on its predecessor, it cuts down on available resources and ammo, encouraging the player to use a greater variety of tools to rip and tear their way through the enemies. Jumping twice always brings more joy than jumping once, and the much-lauded meat-hook attachment on the super shotgun allows for an even greater range of mobility as you fling yourself toward some unsuspecting imp’s soon-to-be corpse. The game delivers a shot of adrenaline at every turn, and the combat, though challenging, rewards the player for persistence.

That persistence sets the game apart, not because other games haven’t featured stubborn, unrelenting protagonists, but because the Doom Slayer has different reasons for trudging onward. Many shooters feel great to play, with exciting movement mechanics or comically splatterful effects (looking at you, Titanfall and Gears of War), but very few of those games have ever questioned the nuance of the characters’ moral positions as they mow down opposing forces. Some have tried. Bioshock tries to make the player feel bad for playing a game they could have turned off. Some military-based games have questioned why soldiers commit war crimes (and then never follow through). But all of them dance around the issue or ignore it, forcing the player to compartmentalize those themes if they just want to enjoy the experience, since the game never gives the player enough agency to stop the plot and make the “violence is bad” moral meaningful. Doom Eternal does the opposite. It leans into the relationship between the player and the enemy, and it makes the player good. Nobody ever stops to ask whether the Doom Slayer should be killing demons because… they’re demons. Inherently evil, murderous, fireball-spewing demons. And every single one of them wants to kill you.

The true key to Doom Eternal’s adrenaline rush feeling doesn’t lie in the Slayer’s movement, but in the unrelenting nature of the enemy AI. They shoot missiles that can track you, they can predict your movement and launch a fireball before you get there, and they can often move just as fast as you, penning you into corners and cutting down your movement options. In short, they’re assholes. These giant brain-spider, cyclops-mech, flesh golem, teleporting, laser wave, punch-drunk jerks want your blood. And when they get it? They cheer above your corpse. The glorious irony of stabbing a sword-wielding juggernaut with your wrist-blade satisfies the frustration of said juggernaut killing you in a previous spawn. This design makes the violence feel unapologetic. It doesn’t feel desensitizing in the way that putting another arrow through someone’s ribcage in Tomb Raider does, nor does it carry the weight of shattering human bodies with high-caliber ammunition in Uncharted or Call of Duty. The game never wants the player to feel bad for their actions; you’re saving the world and using badass weapons to do so. The developers encourage this action by designing the enemies as mean and sadistic, making victories against them feel earned and rewarding. This allows for the game to be an escape, not a moral quandary I’ll have to mull over while eating dinner (am I the bad guy for wanting to play a videogame?). Morality has its place in art. But shooters fail to deliver on a morality the genre inherently opposes by making killing fun. Doom prioritizes its fun and eliminates the moral mess, making it the most eloquent member of the genre I’ve ever played.

Doom Eternal also has an inherently humanist message which defies the sort of libertarian interpretation that some might otherwise attach to it. The developers have excellently balanced plot and lore. For those who want to know the history of Doom Eternal’s world(s) and why the Doom Slayer exists, they can collect dozens of documents that flesh out the story in a way that feels genuine and never overbearing. For those who want to blast demons with shotguns, they can simply ignore the documents and get back to the action. The lore reveals the story of a man who was given superhuman powers by pseudo-scientific processes, and now he lives only to kill demons and protect humanity. The Doom Slayer silently, unrelentingly faces danger and sacrifice in order to give humanity a shot at survival. The Doom Slayer doesn’t care what sort of humans they are, only that everyone left doesn’t get eaten by demons, even though he left them long ago. The Doom Slayer fits the generic hero archetype in a brutal fashion, but it gives the game a greater moral compass than most shooters, giving the character a broader sense of belonging than the solipsistic self or the borders of a country. The Doom Slayer is, first and foremost, a human, and he values humanity above all else, no matter who those humans are.

The developers allow the player to enjoy Doom and Doom Eternal for what they are: games. Not as metaphors or experiences, but as games. Games where the protagonist is absolutely good, and the enemies are absolutely evil. Games in which you can chainsaw a zombie and turn it into a piñata. Games where you can shoot a laser ballista into the big, squishy eye of a hungry orb monster. Games where doom represents hope. I have to believe that simple joy, that simple humanism in saving people, means the developers made this with the innocent intention of crafting a fun experience. In a time where media consumers and analysts need nuance to appreciate anything, and a world where the demons are not always clear or within punch-able distance, Doom Eternal continues to offer the satisfaction of destruction and escape into an enjoyable world of heroics and fire.

Thank you for reading! If you made it this far and want to help support people fighting real, unjust violence inflicted by the police and unidentified federal agents, donate to the Portland Bail Fund:

https://gf.me/u/x9vbh2

Or to groups like It’s Going Down, a site for antifascist reporting on the rise of authoritarianism stateside and across the globe.

https://itsgoingdown.org/

Stay strong, stay safe, and thanks again.

[digitalhovel]

The Fifth Season, a story about earth-bending, trauma, and freedom

           In N. K. Jemisin’s The Fifth Season, the world ends in the first five pages. The frankness of this event sets the tone for the rest of the novel: a fast-paced exploration of a dystopian society built on a continent of cataclysms called the Stillness. The characters take nothing lightly, and they have no room for personal error. The stakes only ever increase, sweeping the reader into the crucial and brutal moments of the characters’ lives. N. K. Jemisin’s Hugo-winning story is an incredible piece of fantastical fiction and a complex rumination on identity and trauma.

           The following contains contextual spoilers for the novel, but no major plot spoilers.

          The novel follows three women, each at a different age, each undergoing a life-altering event that will fundamentally change her sense of self and identity. Each is an orogene, a rare individual with the ability to use the violent energy of the unstable and shifting continent in order to move mountains, literally. Damaya’s family sends her away for being something different, wrong, and dangerous. Syenite works for the Fulcrum, the facility that acts as a lifelong prison and training ground for those with orogenic abilities. Essun is a mother in a small village, far from the state that uses orogenes as weapons, and her husband has just killed their son.

          Jemisin attaches the narrative perspective closely to each character, even opting for the second-person in Essun’s case, connecting the reader directly to each woman and her experiences. Jemisin’s language and tone prevent the issues that books with multiple characters can have: uneven pacing, a lack of stakes, or a slow build. It is honest, even when things grow dark. Grimness, whether in humor or determination, permeates the book and drives it ever onward, through the shadows of the past and the present. The story and narrator hold no secrets from the audience, openly declaring their intentions from the start. The world has ended. Things will get worse. However, that might be okay, because it will be a different worse than what came before.

          The concept of orogenic powers hooked me easily, as a person with a love for geology and physics. However, Jemisin never allows these powers to become cartoonish. While she beautifully illustrates the shifting of earth and stone, she also focuses on the consequences of these actions. The laws of thermodynamics rule all, even those who can shatter the earth, and Jemisin’s commitment to this only elevates the story. First and foremost, the focus on the results of orogeny directly contributes to the power dynamics in the novel: orogenes are viewed as dangerous, and they are controlled through physical, emotional, and social trauma. Even using the term orogene is a falsehood, for many members of the populace use a far more derogatory term to refer to these people. This coding of a racial slur into the social framework of the book’s world draws parallels between the slavery of the Stillness and that of our own history, making the arcs and character choices meaningful and gloriously defiant. Highlighting the effects of orogeny also illustrates the pervasive hatred the characters experience, and it shows the reader the perspectives fostered by internalizing that hate while under constant duress. The frank clarity of the cost of orogeny also allows the reader to view the story’s events objectively, to see these powers as neither monstrous nor a gift. This nuance makes the humanity of these characters even more evident, as they struggle with the aftermath of their choices while continuing to persist and fight onwards.

          It is a revolutionary story, and a heavy one. Jemisin places the impact of lifelong persecution front and center in the characters’ arcs. It affects their memories, their choices, their actions, and their abilities to freely and easily think and feel and love. Jemisin never shies away from this trauma, but she also doesn’t use it for exploitative or shock value purposes. She highlights it honestly, through each character’s voice, always personal and never pleasurable. Jemisin reveals the extent of the wrongs undertaken in the Stillness slowly, bringing the reader through the characters’ journeys and teaching them to analyze the systems of control at play in the novel, a skill we need more than ever in real life.

          Another critical message of the story is the importance of knowledge. History can be changed with rhetoric, time, and careful exclusion of dissent. Jemisin brings this horrific idea to full fruit in The Fifth Season. Her world never forgives its people, and Jemisin does her characters the justice of never allowing them an easy lesson. This, in turn, highlights a form of rebellion that enables the destruction of the institutions perpetuating slavery and abuse. When those in power hide information, the search for knowledge becomes rebellious. Educating oneself about the truth, even at the cost of the bliss of ignorance, is an empowering act and one the characters undertake in pieces. The power of knowledge contains more worth than raw anger or outrage because it makes those feelings righteous. The Fifth Season’s structure cuts to the core of this by revealing these lessons in order, making each subsequent dissension more satisfying, and allowing the reader to realize, retroactively, why the characters have acted as they have. This non-linear structure provides a sense of exploration and growth to the characters and the reader, making the experience that much more enjoyable.

          The growth the characters experience goes beyond righteousness in action. It gives them agency in an oppressive society, and it develops them as people, giving their decisions more weight and their motivations more depth, even as both become more drastic with every turn. The characters survive. They do not thrive, they do not excel; they persist in the face of trauma, and yes, it affects them. It may define them; it may not. But Jemisin’s work highlights the chains of events leading to radicalization and change, even when they are gut-wrenching. She does not write about trauma with resignation. Not with a sense that this must have happened to the characters, but with a sense that it did,and accepting that will bring a greater understanding than hiding from it, allowing the characters to harness their strength and face the world again, ready to shake the earth to its core.

          I cannot wait to read the next book in the series, and I would highly recommend The Fifth Season to any fan of fantasy, to geology geeks, and to those who want to watch deeply developed characters using their wits and strength to survive a hostile world.

[digitalhovel]

The Royal They is a jarring, aggressive punk album, and it rules

           If all you know of me is this blog, you may be surprised by my taste in music, as it’s a far cry from songs about Cats or musicals in general. I have, historically, been an amateur punk and metalhead, and in recent years I’ve taken it upon myself to find better music than what I knew growing up: NOFX and Metallica. Luckily, there’s a lot of better, more relevant stuff out there.

           Today I decided to write about one of my new favorite albums, by a band I have enjoyed since I first heard them. The Royal They’s eponymous album, first released in 2016, has some incredible songs on it and is full of quick, shredding chords and righteous, explosive lyrics. The Royal They is an NYC-based punk band composed of Michelle Hutt on guitar and vocals, Darrell Dumas on guitar, and Rick Martinez on drums.

The album comes out swinging with “Truncheon.” The mixing in this song perfectly sets the album’s tone. It begins softly, the singer’s voice just audible over muted drum hits and single notes strummed out deliberately and methodically, but soon Hutt’s vocals turn to an attack, and the cymbals and heavy chords come crashing in. This is the album’s core ethos, to hit hard and hit fast: “I can’t be vaguer, understated, so I guess I’ll be blunt. / Yeah, I just wanna fucking be done.” There are no minced words and no second chances. It’s an encouraging message that we don’t owe assholes anything. The album is absolutely feminist, dissecting and eviscerating dynamics and relationships based in misogyny and power control. Hutt’s vocals are visceral and paint a picture of people who play at falsehoods to get what they want while expecting the singer to remain silent. So, it’s time to push back, and this opener makes that remarkably clear.

          However, the album isn’t all outright anger and lightning. “Understate” is one of the more enigmatic tracks, having to do with self-acceptance and identity. The chord progression leads the listener along “spiral staircases.” While “some go as they should, some go in circles.” As someone with anxiety, it’s a relatable feeling. The lyrics attempt to transcend the limitations of this struggle: “unweavable are we / the endless few / with something to get through” but end with a fear that “you’ll push me in.” While “Truncheon” is a battering ram, “Understate” is a lockpick. There’s something haunting about the lyrics and their lack of clarity, especially amidst the bluntness of the rest of the album. But this works, because the act of self-discovery is a sensitive one, and this song underlies both the beauty and danger of it when other people can play the devil. Even though “Understate” is a slower song and far less heavy than the other tracks, its tonality in coming to term with the self is gorgeous and effective.

          The album switches back into heavier beats and picks up the pace again with “Laurels” and “Lyric Machine,” both songs that take a critical look at people in positions of power. “Laurels” targets those who have been given unworthy praise, and now they’ve become complacent and ineffective. It expresses a great frustration with stagnation, and it uses a unique metrical structure to emphasize this staggered, strange system. It addresses the subject and forces them to reckon with their place, resting on their laurels. “Lyric Machine,” on the other hand, appears to be a direct criticism of the music industry and people who are obsessed with profits at the expense of artists’ rights and emotions. The song’s lyrics are vicious, asking if the subject is “just predictably lazy?” and if they would “pay me to stay alive on a prayer?” It’s an effective assault on those who offer platitudes, thoughts, and prayers without actually supporting the people they claim to care about. Both songs have catchy hooks and, while they don’t hit as hard as “truncheon,” they’re solid, enjoyable listens.

          CW: Some of the following lyrics mentioned imply circumstances of abuse.

          With songs like these, this album sets itself up as a wicked critique of power structures, in both professional and personal settings. It’s some good punk, with crunchy guitars and solid drumlines that drive the beat through the end of the song. But more than any other song on the album, “Full Metal Black” sets The Royal They apart as something special (it’s also their most well-known song, as it was featured in an episode of Nightvale.) “Full Metal Black” depicts an abusive relationship. Coming right off the tail of “Lyric Machine,” “Full Metal Black” starts with screeching guitars and an immediate look into the speaker’s life, dealing with someone “made of malice and meat, whiskey and shitty TV.” This song has an incredible energy, and in each chorus break Hutt gives her all into the shouted lyrics and the determination that the speaker is stronger than ever. The song isn’t about suffering, it’s about redemption and recompense. The speaker asks, “You gave me bullets for bones, who’d you expect them to break?” These lyrics, are a visceral, deserved celebration for those who must rise from the ashes of something terrible to find life again. It’s a heavy song, but its unrelenting pace carries the weight of the subject matter into screaming crescendos with crashing cymbals and a self-confidence that has brought tears to my eyes more than once. And at its core, it’s a message about using one’s strength to fight back, which is something anyone suffering under a thumb can find release in.

          “The Royal They” (the album) is a little over 30 minutes long, and there’s never a dull moment in there. Every single song is catchy and inspiring in a way that sets your hair on end and gets your blood rushing as you pump your fist straight through the sunroof. The album’s opener makes it clear that the band won’t beat around the bush, and they don’t. They attack the corrupt and the coercive directly, each time with greater ferocity until the album’s finale in “Shinburner,” where all three band members chant together and finish with a final, powerful note. It’s a quick listen, and well worth the invested time. I’ve been listening to them on Spotify while saving up to buy their albums, which are available on bandcamp. Give them a listen, and don’t give up.