It was tough to wait for the US release of the new Throwing Muses album/book, which hit European outlets last month. I felt both a little cheated, them being Amurcan, but also a little nostalgic, as the circumstance sorta mirrored the releases of the Muses’ first eponymous LP. Not to mention, I’d been anticipating its release since they first announced they were working on it some two or three years ago.
When it arrived on Tuesday morning, I’d had every intention to continue my post-tour dive back into regular life work; sending in gear for repair, cleaning the yard, medicating our HIV-afflicted feral cat. The usual stuff. But I made a grave error. I popped the disc into our player for “a quick listen to the first couple tracks.” I didn’t get up until the entire 32-song opus had played through.
Wow.
I’m not a strict Muses purist. For example, despite the initial pull of songs like “Rabbit’s Dying” and “Mania,” Limbo (1996) is one of my favorite of their albums. And now this. purgatory/paradise is not simply an album. Yes, they’ve released it in book form, and kudos to them for that. Having just spent a LA->NY flight listening to and reading the entire thing I can say the the book aspect works. It provides depth to the whole experience in a way that really augments the music. And drummer David Narcizo’s elegant design makes the whole thing readable, accessible, and artistic.
But printing this thing on paper doesn’t quite make it a book. The record stands tall without the text, for these three kooky people have crafted a lovely, aching, weird, wonderful postpunk operetta. Or, perhaps, a sonic novella, if you will, each song a chapter that manages to relate to the songwriter’s (and, indeed the entire band’s) present and past in ways both oblique and plain.
The whole thing is more confident than their previous record, a second eponymous release a decade old now that has always felt to me muscular yet a little anonymous. And the way themes, both musical and lyrical, wander in and out of the picture on purgatory/paradise, paints a picture that, weirdly, perhaps, lifts the entire sketchy narrative while simultaneously enfolding the community of Muses fans and supporters. (Kristin Hersh was one of the first and remains a most consistent fan-funded artist). There is comfort but also onion-skinned depth to repeated themes of water, sugar/candy, holiness/holeyness, home. There is a story here. And it’s a story that not only becomes clearer with explication but then muddies and expands to something that has no start and no finish. Because, Throwing Muses aren’t finished. And who is?
Hersh’s recent demystifying, through prose (both on her website and in her memoir, Rat Girl) of her art was jarring at first for those of us who are prone to over-exalting artists we think we only barely understand. But in truth what she is doing is bringing art back to itself. By lifting the stones to reveal all the little weevils that make up the unromantic truth, she reminds us how what’s beautiful about art is that it really isn’t mysterious. Hersh may experience life in ways that are alien to others, but in putting a larger, literal narrative out there with the songs, she reveals that the reason a lyric like “how much sugar do you need?” rings true because of its ordinariness. Yet as listeners/readers, we are under no obligation to accept her plain take on it, either.
The title of the album sums it up for me. Before holding it in my hands, I thought, “purgatory/paradise: Ooh, dramatic. And Dantean. And Miltonish.” But in reading the text, one of the first things we learn is that the title comes from the meeting of two roads, Purgatory and Paradise on the tiny New England island where the record was recorded. Simple. If you want to end it there.
The beauty of art is the way one person’s experience can ring true for a wide and unintended variety of other people. People who pile their own drama atop the art, for better or worse. I’ll take better, thank you.
You can hear three tracks from the album on the band’s soundcloud.
Aaron, I’ve thought of you several times since hearing of Pete’s passing yesterday morning. While hunting for Betty Goo’s “Henry My Son,” found your blog & find it apt, Tap, to append this note to a Throwing Muses post. (Like you, I had a transporting experience w/ my first P/P listen. Aside: You put “Drive” from *House Tornado* on the first mix you made for me.) Want to thank you for so much: {insert goo-ey heartburst}. Two decades ago I was too keen to impress, too afraid to be found out for a fraud. But tonight I’ll sing “Henry My Son” to my daughter and son. They’ll dream in shades of green and yellow. all the best, James
James! I’m 8 days into a 14-or-more-days stretch of work and this note has completely made my night/life. So good to hear from you. Funnily, I thought of you just a few days ago as I was thinking of the poetry of James Tate. Next time I’m in your neck of the woods, I’m gonna hunt you down for a reunion.
Listening to Betty Goo’s “Henry My Son” from CBGBs. The performance is a time machine. Amazing. Your mention of Tate stirred something in me: then I remembered that I still have your “Distance from Loved Ones”! (Amanda has used it recently in a for-free writer’s group she leads at the Gloucester Writers Center.) It’s now next to me on the kitchen table. When you’re back this way let’s have a grand reunion of selves and book. (Then shelve the book.) This is perhaps the most opportune moment to remind everyone that “Harvard Square/is never “empty.” There is no chance//that I will ever be able to state honestly/that “Harvard Square is empty tonight.” Hope all is well. More soon. (Sudden thought: if a pre-reunion reunion with Tate is desirable, send an address to the email (included in this form: can you see it?) & I’ll send the book with other poem treats (or tricks). My language is breaking down as the hour grows late. Time to “submit comment.”
Ah, yes, “I Am A Finn!” Wonderful stuff. Yes, let’s make a point of having a reading and catching up at The Grog next time I’m up the North Shore.