You Let Me Take My Own Damn Car to Brooklyn, New York, USA
At long last, I went long about Waxahatchee
My favorite part of the podcast “60 Songs That Explain the 90s” is not only does the host Rob Harvilla know exactly where he was the very first time he heard the song he discusses in each episode, but he knows who he was with, the context in which he heard the song, and how it made him feel. I’m comfortable saying that one of the best and worst things about me is (and I swear I’m not exaggerating or bragging here) is that I have somewhat of an exceptional memory; my friends usually look on at me with a combination of appreciation and horror when I recall a specific scene from 10, 15, or sometimes 20 years ago. (I have been referred to, at least by one friend, as “club historian.”)
Yet despite as good as my memory might be, I do not come anywhere close to Rob, who is older than me and remembers the 90s so well that I do wonder if his ability to recall should be studied somewhere. I will even admit to being so impressed by his memory that I DM’d him once to ask him how and why is memory is so good, if he takes supplements, what’s going on here. While he did express his gratitude, he did not specifically answer my question, and thus I remain in the dark.
All this to say, I wish I could remember the first time I ever heard Waxahatchee. How poetic would it be if I could say I knew that the very moment I heard this artist, that I knew her music would come to have a profound impact on my life? Except, unfortunately, I cannot.
I will cop to the fact that I don’t go as far back with Waxahatchee as 2012 and American Weekend (or even before that, with P.S. Eliot or The Ackleys). The only real evidence I have that I hopped on the Waxahatchee bandwagon around 2015 with the release of Ivy Tripp is that I bought a ticket to see her at The Bell House for $15 with my friend Ilana. I was very excited to hear “Under a Rock” and I couldn’t see a thing.
Then, between the release of Ivy Tripp and Out in the Storm came out, my life went through a seismic shift. Circa 2016 I went through a horrible breakup, my mom was diagnosed with cancer, and I felt like it was time to slightly extract myself from my small corner of the comedy world I’d worked so hard to find a place in. I needed something to do, somewhere to go instead of my usual after work shows, so I started scanning local venues’ listings to find bands I could go see. Nothing about this is revolutionary, but it was a departure from how I did things at the time. And with that, my relationship to music changed. I went from a passive consumer to an active, voracious one. I listened and went to shows like my life depended on it, because it did.
So when Out in the Storm came out in 2017, I was ready for it, and well-primed by Tourist in This Town, the Allison Crutchfield solo album that had come out earlier that year. I might not remember the first time I heard Waxahatchee, but I remember the first time I listened out Out in the Storm; sitting at my desk at work and listening to the album over and over. It is trite but it is true: Her songs gave me a vocabulary I previously didn’t have to talk about the anger and hurt I felt. To this day lines like “When I think about it, I want to punch the wall/when I remember everything I wonder if I’ll always feel small” and “I’ll portray the old shag carpet you can walk all over me” stick with me; to this day it is still my number one breakup album. The electric guitar and drum-heavy sound doesn’t hurt, either. St. Cloud might be Waxahatchee’s best album, but Out in the Storm is my favorite.
The reason why I pinpointed exactly when I heard Waxahatchee for the first time is because when I listen to her earlier music now, I can’t help but think about how much her music could have helped me when I was in my early 20s. You can draw a straight line from Waxahatchee’s first album, American Weekend, to her latest, St. Cloud - and even her newest collaboration, Plains, with Jess Williamson.
American Weekend’s angsty lyrics resonate with me more than any emo band ever did, and I came of age at a time when groups like Taking Back Sunday and Dashboard Confessional were at their absolute peak. On “Grass Stain”, Katie (I’m going to call her Katie and Waxahatchee interchangeably, and I hope that is alright) sings, to quote that famous meme, about the rewards of being loved vs. the mortifying ordeal of being known. “And I let you in real slow/And I regret it immediately/And I run away so fast you fall too deep too easily,” but it’s unclear if in that last line the “you” she is addressing is herself. When the song finishes, she knows she’s unable to give her love interest why they want, so why bother? On “Be Good” it’s a similar story: It’s better, easier, to not get too involved. When you’re young, it’s easy to believe that the smart thing to do is to resist your feelings, because ultimately things will end, leaving both parties aggrieved and injured. Not trying, and thereby retaining your pride, is always better than having to admit someone hurt you because you let them. Instead, American Weekend suggests, let’s drink and have fun and not take things too seriously, conjuring up images of shotgunning beers on hot summer nights. When you’re 23, 24, or even 27 (aha ok even 30) and you’re in a small, insulated arts community where drinking is just as much of a pastime as the actual creation of said art, each entanglement has the potential for destruction. And I’ve seen some strong appetites in my time — if not only for the romance itself, but the ability to dine out on the fallout for an extended window thereafter.
Similar themes emerge on Cerulean Salt and Ivy Tripp; Katie talks about choosing “misery over dispute,” walking on eggshells to avoid confronting a partner, relationships that aren’t working, learning to ebb and flow with an unsteady, unstable life. The production (due to budget or aesthetic choices or some combination thereof) remains decidedly lo-fi. It isn’t until Out in the Storm that finally you hear someone who has a strong grasp of who they are and what they want, unafraid to be honest or acquiesce. On “Sparks Fly,” Katie sings “I know you don’t recognize me, but I’m a livewire/Finally.” I hesitate to call any album “audacious,” but that’s how this feels to me. It’s bold and brash, all drum fills and electric guitar. My absolute favorite line is from one of the demos; I think constantly about her saying “You’ll go turn 39/You’ll have your truth, I’ll have mine.” There’s still evidence of youthful vices (“I’m all detached feeling like myself/I’ll drink too much, I’ll cause a big scene”) but even still, you can tell someone is reckoning with shaking off who they were for who they want to be.
St. Cloud feels like a departure from Waxahatchee’s earlier albums and in many ways it is - she’s talked at length about embracing her country roots, and the songs have rollicking melodies and twangy guitars. But it also marks a turning point in her evolution; a natural crescendo for someone who came of age in DIY punk bands, who is now, at last, comfortable with who they are and what they want — something Out in the Storm sets the stage perfectly for. Not to belabor the whole “me in my 20s vs. me in my 30s” of it all, but it’s the kind of self-discovery that comes with age, time, and working on yourself. If “Out in the Storm” is well, the storm, St. Cloud is the calm thereafter. It’s an evolution countless undergo — if you’re lucky — and I’m so glad I have a soundtrack that anchors me in my past, present, and a more hopeful future.
There is not really any significance to me titling this after her lyric “You let me take my own damn car to Brooklyn, New York, USA” from the song “8 Ball,” except that I think it is very funny.
It has occurred to me that I’m supposed to use this newsletter to plug stuff, and to that end—
Rebecca Acevedo and I have our show Francis & Lewis at Cherry on Top Wednesday (5/3) at 7:30 p.m., featuring Art Cai, Jourdain Searles, Shosh Brodman, Ali McGhee, and Bill Wallis. It’s always a nice, fun, wine-filled time.
I’m on Mike Zakarian’s show on Thursday, 5/4 at 8 p.m. at Greats of Craft. I have almost no details except he told me I can do 8-10 minutes and to “live my life.”
I just finished reading the book Severance (no relation to the TV show) and while you may be asking yourself “What, is it 2018 or something?”, if you’ve read it I still want you to talk to me about it.