Tuesday, November 17, 2020

Books From The Bin: Splinter of the Mind's Eye

Remember back in the before-times, when the world was young, hope was in the air, and we had a Star Wars Expanded Universe? Ah, those were the days, when we didn't have to wait for Disney Plus to trickle out exactly one piece of ancillary content every year or so, because tons of writers and artists were working on their own takes of the outer limits and future of Star Wars. But that time is over now, ever since our ol' Expanded U got flushed down the gutter after its' acquisition by the Big Mouse. I'm sure we all have something we look back on fondly if we were interested in the imprint, like Young Jedi Knights, or maybe The Old Republic series. But have you ever heard of the first Expanded Universe book? I thought not. It's not a story the Jedi would tell you.

Books From the Bin: Splinter of the Mind's Eye by Alan Dean Foster

Imagine, if you will, living in a world in which there is only one Star Wars movie, and it's just called Star Wars. Weird, right? Imagine further, that you were just as desperate for more tales of the spaceship farmboy and his cinnamon bun bonny fighting the black toaster guy. I'll tell you what, if you were alive back in 1979, this would be the book for you!


Luke Skywalker expected trouble when he volunteered to follow Princess Leia on her mission to Circarpous to enlist their Rebel underground in the battle against the Empire. But the farm boy from Tatooine hadn't counted on an unscheduled landing in the swamplands of Mimban...hadn't counted on any of the things they would find on that strange planet.

Hidden on this planet was the Kaiburr crystal, a mysterious gem that would give the one who possessed it such powers over the Force that he would be alll but invincible. In the wrong hands, the crystal could be deadly. So Luke had to find this treasure and find it fast.

Accomopanied by Artoo Deetoo and See Threepio—his two faithful droids—Luke and the Princess set out for the Temple of Pomojema...and a confrontation deep beneath the surface of an alien world with the most fearsome villain in the galaxy!

Okay, now it's probably the most inconsequential thing in that blurb, but I feel like I need to mention how the author spelled the names of the droids. It's not just in the blurb, every time these characters are mentioned in the narrative, they're spelled all phonetically like that. Which is odd, because they're both clearly just designation numbers and not names because they are robots. If you wanna have Luke call out, "Artoo!" when talking to R2-D2, that's fine, it's dialogue, it makes sense to have little idiosyncrasies like that, but it's every time, and it's weird.

Now that last segment may have felt like it was completely superfluous in regard to the overall quality of this book, but the thing is, most of the book has details that feel like that. Because Star Wars wasn't as reiterated and codified as extensively as today, Alan Dean Foster had to just make up a bunch of this. Like, yeah, sure, Leia, who grew up on a lush fertile blue planet full of lakes and rivers, is afraid of water, while Luke, who spent his whole life on a desert planet and has likely never seen a large body of water, is not.

I don't know if I even need to go over the plot; that blurb went into so much detail a recap seems redundant. Let's be honest, we all know who "the most fearsome villain in the galaxy" is. It ain't Boba Fett, because he didn't exist yet. It's Vader, though his dialogue gives me the same vibes as "Artoo Deetoo." He's a lot more of a mustache-twirler, and Lucas hadn't decided Vader was Luke's dad yet, so with the knowledge of the sequels in mind, his character makes even less sense. Oh, and he calls Obi-Wan "Ben Kenobi."

For the most part,this book's only interesting as a curiosity. I can imagine being in a world where there is but one Star Wars movie and you need MORE. But nowadays, where we're inundated with every War that could happen in Stars, it's at most your standard sci-fi novel with details that seem at odds with Star Wars Canon. Though not to say everything in the book was thrown out, the crystal mentioned in the blurb turns out to be a Kaiburr Crystal, and while it doesn't seem to match up exactly with our current conception of a lightsaber crystal, it at least seems to have passed down the name, if not the concept of a force crystal.

In an odd twist of fate, this seems to have suffered the same fate as the Expanded Universe works that would follow, only much quicker. The things that happen in this book make exactly zero impact on the movies. It was made irrelevant as soon as a bigger piece of media followed. I mean, hell, I like to think I know a bit about the Star Wars, but I never heard of it. Alan Dean Foster, as it turns out, first wrote the novelization for Star Wars (which I also found in a bin) and between his more numerous original works, wrote quite a few movie novelizations, including more recently The Force Awakens.

With things being the way they are and corporate conglomerates owning all popular media IPs with strict control of everything released within them, Splinter of the Mind's Eye hits a little different. It contradicts canon, it's got weird spelling conventions, it takes place entirely on a swamp planet with a weird kinda force-user lady, and it doesn't even have Han Solo. But it's this, "eh, fuck it" attitude that gives the book its charm; it was written before anyone could possibly have conceived of a "Wookieepedia" and the only person who had real financial stakes in these characters was George Lucas. It was the Wild West, and sometimes, even though it's a but off-putting, it's nice to go back to before everything became a parking lot.

Update: The day after publishing this, the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America posted an open letter by Alan Dean Foster to Disney. Disney has not been honoring the contracts it bought from Lucasfilm with its' acquisition of Star Wars. Splinter of the Mind's Eye is just one of the books that Foster has not been getting royalties from. I don't normally have a Call to Action here, but Disney's being a real asshole here, and if there's one thing I know, it's that it's fun to pester multinational corporations on twitter. So, if you wanna tilt at a shitty windmill, there's the hashtag #DisneyMustPay and maybe Foster can get the money he should be for his books.

Thursday, September 24, 2020

And Then You Keep Living

Life is just one of those things, y'know? When I'm not watching Barbie movies or finding the most depressing interpretation of kid's media, I like to watch things that are just regular sad, but bill themselves as comedies because, shit, man, nobody wants to sign up to get sad.

Okay, well, I do.

If you peruse a plethora of pessimistic media like I do, you're likely to see one of two outcomes for them: Either the protagonist dies and the audience is left with the poignancy of tragedy, or a happy ending comes out of the blue, contradicting themes that may have been prevalent throughout the work. Each of them can work, depending on what you're watching. If the show is something like Breaking Bad, the viewer gets catharsis in seeing the main character reap what he sows, or a nice resolution can keep the whole day from being a real bummer, dude. For me, those two endings can feel stale after a while. The Death Ending just closes off any further questions, with the sort of finality it's a little too easy to write, and the Happy Ending can seem just as cheap, sidestepping content I was probably really interested in.

That leaves the somewhat less oft-chosen path, commonly known as The Bittersweet Ending. That qualification is the most vague, essentially a mix of the other two endings in varying amounts. I tend to like these more, and I'd like to go into it by discussing two oddly similar shows; Welcome to the NHK and BoJack Horseman. Needless to say I'll be spoiling the entire plots, so watch them beforehand if you care about that sort of thing.

Welcome to the NHK is a 2002 anime about the life of Tatsuhiro Sato, a 22 year old man who dropped out of college and in the four years since has become what's known in Japan as a "hikikomori." He rarely, if ever, leaves his apartment, has no friends, and lives off money sent by his parents. This changes when he meets Misaki, an 18 year old girl who claims she has a program which can cure Sato of his hikikomori tendencies and bring him back into society. What follows is a series of mishaps as Sato tries to con his way out of being a shut-in, through things like creating a visual novel, selling MMO items for real life money, and joining a pyramid scheme. Most of the time he's pulled from the brink by friends he makes as the series goes on, like Yamazaki, his otaku neighbor, and Hitomi, his old classmate. It's often comedic, with Sato's foibles exaggerated to the point of parody, but can hit hard when you see how Sato truly feels about himself and isolation from the world.

BoJack Horseman, also known as Sad Horse Show, is about an actor who was in a successful TV show back in the 90's, but is now all washed up, living off residuals in a sea of alcohol, drugs, and codependency. Things change when BoJack meets Diane, a ghostwriter hired by a publishing house to write the memoirs BoJack promised but did not do at all. Misadventures ensure, Diane publishes what turns out to be her account of spending time with BoJack, which, though brutally honest, gets him back in the limelight, leading to a shot to play his dream role. Successes and failures come in spades, with BoJack trying to become a better person, but always falling short. Oh and almost everyone is a talking animal-person.

The series of events in both of these shows is essentially a series of opportunities and failures by the main characters in their quest to try to get better without really putting in the effort needed to do so. BoJack, for most of the series, pursues professional success while neglecting the alcoholism and emotional issues that sabotage his accomplishments, and Sato finds himself unable to reenter society despite his efforts. Each show comes dangerously close to a bleak, nihilistic worldview. It fringes upon the idea that only failure is possible.

This would all be too much if we didn't widen our focus once in a while, to the secondary characters. In each of these shows, there's a cast of people who have different problems, that similarly lead to comedy or drama. These characters develop alongside our leads, allowing them to affect one another in different ways. Yamazaki goes from a lonely otaku to a somewhat abrasive friend that even starts dating a girl. Misaki turns out to be an orphan with an abusive childhood, cared for by her aunt and uncle, and struggles with feelings of worthlessness. She takes on Sato's case to prove to herself that someone could be so pathetic that even her life could have value.

Princess Carolyn, BoJack's agent, founds her own agency and becomes a mother. Todd grows out of being an aimless slacker into running a daycare and paying for his own apartment. BoJack and Diane's friendship is the cornerstone of the show, their differences heightened by their sometimes disturbing similarities.

See, as each series goes on, the potential for a happy ending gets further out of reach. In NHK, Yamazaki moves away, removing Sato's one friend, and he rebuffs Misaki's feelings out of shame and anxiety, leaving him worse off than when the series began. In BoJack, the sheer magnitude of his mistakes piles up, and it's hard to see a path forward. In the final episodes, both shows have the main characters attempt suicide. Sato flings himself off a cliff (that Misaki's mother once used to end her life,) in a misguided attempt to absolve Misaki from her guilt, and BoJack becomes dangerously drunk and passes out face-down in a swimming pool after confronting just how far he's fallen. I've seen arguments that these shows could have ended this way, with these people dying, wrapping everything in a nice depressing bow. I heartily contend that this would have been a wrong move.

With the focus these shows put on their side characters, it shows that a person's actions affect more than just themselves. Each step they take is felt by the people around them, for good or for ill. To have them die would shunt that desolation onto everyone else in their lives. Even BoJack, who by the end of season 6 we know let Sarah Lynn die, would have affected those around him with his death.

It would just be too tidy to end a story that way, as far as I see it. You kill a character who seems to be beyond redemption and say, "That's over," seems like a cop out. Because for most of us, when life is at its worst, we don't just die. And even if we do, life keeps going for everyone else. Death is not really the end for us, because there will always be people who have to deal with the things you've done or haven't done. In real life, there's always more show.

Luckily for me, then, that neither of these characters die in these attempts. Sato is saved by some netting set up to stop suicide attempts, and climbs back up into the arms of Misaki. She tearfully reprimands him for his jump, and after a flash forward, we see that Misaki is trying to get into college, with Sato teaching her on nights after coming back from the construction job he hates. They have a new contract, called the NHK1, where neither is allowed to kill themselves or else the other would do the same. They each see themselves as worthless, but couldn't stand the idea of the other dying. As Sato says, "In the end, even after all we went through, none of our problems were solved. And even though things look better now, it wouldn't surprise me if we went back to saying things like, 'I'm useless,' or 'I can't do it.' Still, for now at least, I'm hanging in there. I don't know how long it will last, but dammit, I'll give it the best I've got."

In BoJack Horseman, he is saved at the last minute from the family whose house he broke into, but since what he did was illegal, he is sentenced to jailtime. He is let out for one day to attend Princess Carolyn's wedding, where he briefly meets with each of his friends. The last he sees is Diane, where they have a long talk on the roof. Diane tells hm she got a phone call from him before his attempted suicide, making it very clear what he was about to do. She had built a life far from BoJack and Hollywoo, but this phone call threw that all into disarray. She almost gave up on her new life, but went through with it and is finally happy. She says, "I think there are people that help you become the person you end up being, and you can be grateful for them even if they were never meant to be in your life forever." It's likely BoJack and Diane will never see each other again.

The end of a life is never as simple as the end of a television program. There are always people left behind. You can't wrap a nice little bow on chapters of your life, either. Whether or not you solve your problems, the scars remain, and regret will rear its ugly head. But you keep going. Sato isn't cured. BoJack is still depressed. The difference is we can see a path forward for them now. It's probably going to be shitty for quite a while, but it will continue and there's always a chance for them to make it better. Sometimes, life's a bitch, and then you keep living.

1. Nihon Hitojitsu Koukankai, translates to Japanese Hostage Exchange Association.

Monday, August 17, 2020

Divesting Inspiration From Intent

Or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Fishman

Death of the Author is a tricky concept for a lot of people. Can you really look at a work without considering the author's personal views and convictions? Do those factors influence the work even if the reader isn't aware of them? If one discovers an author holds despicable views, does that change a previously enjoyed work? How do you divorce the two? Is it a good idea to do so? This is, surprisingly, no less complex if the author is, in fact, dead.

In my review of Lovecraft Country, I mentioned how the novel reckons with the views of H.P. Lovecraft in its setting and story. Though set in a world where Lovecraft is real and his worlds are fiction, it contains the feel of a Lovecraftian tale while acknowledging that Lovecraft himself would likely feel a racist animosity towards the main characters. Most Modern Mythos stories, this is, stories inspired by and referencing Lovecraft and associates, prefer to leave this topic unaddressed for the most part. On the contrary, what many of them do is set themselves in the world created by Lovecraft, and make him a prominent figure who lives in that world.

I don't think that is a good idea.

If we're speaking strictly in structure and story reasons, including Lovecraft is an easy way to pull the reader out of the story. It's likely the reader already knows that this is Mythos, and name-dropping an author only serves as a reminder that this is all fiction. If I'm interested in the direction a story is taking, I lose that interest the minute someone encounters Weird Tales magazine. There's no need to remind the reader that Lovecraft exists and wrote the inspirations for many of these Modern Mythos stories. A much better move in this case would be a mangled interpretation of Lovecraft's name, a la Klarkash-Ton, a name Lovecraft created as a reference to his friend, Clark Ashton Smith, or to use a recurring Lovecraft protagonist like Randolph Carter.

Another minor unintended side-effect of a Lovecraft cameo in a story is to denigrate his writing skill and imagination. If you feature the author of a series of stories as living in the world of their stories, then by extension they become less writer than reporter. In this scenario, very little came from the head of the writer, rather these are transcribed accounts of real life events. Not that I'm putting down non-fiction books or serious reporting, but for something like cosmic horror, it's a bit of an insult to the person who dreamed it all up to imply they didn't.

But that's not what I'm really here to talk about. What I mean to discuss is how this vindicates the author's worldview. Normally, this may not be a big deal; most authors, especially nowadays, aren't bigots. (With a few increasingly egregious exceptions.) But with Lovecraft, he was especially racist even for his time and having just cursory knowledge of this sheds a disturbing light on his stories. "The Shadow Over Innsmouth" is about the dilution of good, New England bloodlines with invaders from across the sea, making the offspring slow witted and grotesque, with bugged out eyes and enlarged lips. I hope I don't have to tell you what the subtext is. In other stories, Lovecraft is only less subtle, as in "The Call of Cthulhu" where the only real worshipers of Cthulhu are poor black people in the Louisiana bayou. And when you position Lovecraft as truthfully relating the state of the world in your story, you bring all of his racism with you.

Featuring Lovecraft as a character is the most obvious way to make this mistake, but unfortunately it's not the only way. Really, all you have to do is continue where he left off without examining the implications of the original work. To wit: There's a short story featured in The Book of Cthulhu II called "Once More From the Top" written by A. Scott Glancy. It's a detailed account of the military raid briefly mentioned in the opening of "The Shadow Over Innsmouth." I know the effect the author was going for, a mix of horror with military thriller, marines gunning down fishmen and their weird monsters. But with my current context, it came off as an act of barbarism by a militarized state against a genetic minority. The missing persons caused by the Deep One rituals are more or less forgotten over the fact that the crossbreeding is seen as abomination. Perhaps the townspeoples' violence against the narrator of "Shadow" is justified, in that his actions the moment he escaped lead to a wholesale massacre of the town.

In a more skewed but garish example, we have the graphic novel Neonomicon written by Alan Moore. You may recognize this name as the impetus for my Open Letter to Alan Moore way back when. I still believe everything I wrote then, but with a bit more nuance about it. There's no doubt about it, I heartily dislike Neonomicon. Alan Moore took what he perceived to be Lovecraft's phobia of sex and decided the best way to interpret Lovecraft was to add rape. I could honestly criticize it all day. What's important for this topic is that somehow he both invoked Lovecraft as someone in the comic's universe but also got all the details wrong.

See, they reference Lovecraft as an author fairly frequently in Neonomicon. They allude to the fact that he must have seen all this cosmic horror shit and interpreted it into his own books. But then there's also a deranged sex cult which brings out a Deep One to rape the protagonist. Moore, in writing, assumed the Fish People were primarily propagated by rape, because that is what he thinks about all the time. But really, the first Human/Deep One mating was done with Obed Marsh and what we can assume was a willing female Deep One. The horror from Lovecraft's end was never about the act of sexual congress, so much as the resultant progeny. And Neonomicon gets that wrong too, as the protagonist ends up pregnant from the Deep One, but with Cthulhu for some reason. It has the effect of glossing over Lovecraft's racist implications and replacing them with the much more banal horror of rape. I just don't really understand what message Moore was trying to get across; the most I can tell is that it's criticising Lovecraft for obliquely referring to something that might be sex, but not showing it in lurid detail, as if that was Lovecraft's real problem. And not, you know, the racism. Which, oddly enough, is mentioned, but not dealt with as a serious topic. It's treated as just a bit of trivia instead of something that informed with works.

So okay, those are some examples of how you inadvertantly propagate Lovecraft's racist ideas. How, you may ask, does one create a work inspired by Lovecraft but not necessarily influenced by his bigotry? I have one answer for you. The Shape of Water.

The Shape of Water is a 2017 film directed by Guillermo Del Toro. Everything about this film astounds me. From the plot, to the effects, to the popular and critical reception. This film won an Oscar! The movie about the lady fucking a fish man! What I love is that it's the Anti-Lovecraft movie. It takes elements of "The Shadow Over Innsmouth" and inverts them entirely, making the good guys into the bad guys and vice versa.

The Fishman, also known as The Asset, is found and captured from a South American river by a secret branch of the US Military, and held in a clandestine facility where Elisa Esposito, a mute woman, works as a maid. Eventually she finds the Fishman and communicates with him through music and a bit of sign language. They begin to bond, with Elisa seeing some humanity in the creature. Then she rescues him from the lab and they fuck. In a bathroom she filled with water. And despite how weird this sounds at first blush, the film frames this as a positive thing. Elisa finds fulfillment with the Fishman, she cares for him and he cares for her. The film wraps up when the military man recaptures Fishy, and Elisa with her friend have to go save him. Elisa ends up shot, but after being puled into a canal she's healed by the Fishman and the scars on her neck turn into gills.

It's essentially a film based on the prompt, "What if we made Innsmouth sympathetic and romantic?" It's sort of like a reverse The Little Mermaid, where the lady still can't talk but it's the dude who comes from the sea and they both end up underwater. The Fishman, instead of being a source of corruption from outside, is a revitalizing force, symbolically as well as literally. The film is about the transformative nature of relationships to the participants themselves, instead of being really concerned about what kind of kid could pop out at the end. The man with Lovecraft's viewpoint is the villain, needlessly violent to contain this creature which, if anything, is too close to humanity.

Although Del Toro has said in interviews his primary inspiration for the film was The Creature From the Black Lagoon, I don't think it's a stretch to say there's definitely some Lovecraft in there as well. He's been known as a fan, having been featured in documentaries about the author, and has been trying for quite a few years now to make an adaptation of At The Mountains of Madness. Not to mention Elisa's odd circumstances and eventual amphibiousness lend themselves to the interpretation that she was always going to end up underwater, like the narrator of "Innsmouth."

It's difficult when stories you've enjoyed become tainted by the light of further knowledge or a more critical eye. Once you know something, you can't un-know it, and it's as if the story you once read has ceased to exist. In my younger years I finished "Innsmouth" without a second thought, not yet quite able to connect the dots. And as childish as I may have been then to overlook the unsettling overtones, it would only be more childish now to pretend I had never noticed them. Lovecraft's case is certainly simpler than some, with most of his stories in the public domain and the fact that he won't be seeing any of the money from collected editions. Things get thorny, however, with those continuing in the Mythos tradition, and you can't be sure if they're blindly or purposely repeating the same themes that make Lovecraft so divisive. The most you can do is keep your eyes open, be willing to learn, and take the time to reexamine yourself and the media you consume.

Friday, May 1, 2020

Concept Corner: Fist Me 'til Your Hand comes Out My Mouth

There's a band I've been listening to pretty frequently for the last few years. It's not one I talk about very often, because it's not like a lot of the other bands I listen to. As you're likely aware of, I like to talk about Power Metal, the bombastic, over-the-top genre that tends, more often than not, to be really fun. But with much of the other music I listen to, it's more difficult to talk about, because it's much more personal. That, and even describing the genre can be a chore. I'm talking about my Sad Music. That stuff I'm sure we all listen to when we're feeling low, the music that speaks to us in our dark times.

For some, it's The Mountain Goats, others, it's Brand New, for me, it's been a little band called Crywank. Crywank is a band formed in 2009 in Manchester, UK. Their genre is nebulous, but best put as "anti-folk" or punk-folk. That pretty much means they take the folk aesthetic with a punk mindset. Usually little more than an acoustic guitar and drum kit, but mostly about the things in life you hate, including yourself.

If you could take a look at my drafts (please don't ever do that) you would see quite a few prospective articles I've began about Crywank. It's not easy to put into words just what I like about this band without embarrassing myself. Hell, the name alone makes everyone I tell it to do a double-take. And to be honest, what they've been doing, and what their appeal is to me, has been changing with each subsequent release.

In their first few albums, it's about what you might expect from a self-pity band you might listen to after a couple too many drinks alone on a Saturday night. That's not to say they didn't do that exceedingly well. Songs like Hikikomori and You Couldn't Teach Me Integrity still resonate with me, and even in these albums there was something a little more than the sadcore fare I was used to. The themes are less "The World is Bad and I am Sad" and more "I am sad because of my internal problems which I can only identify." It's a more introspective sort of pity party.

As the albums go on, the introspection becomes the point. With Don't Piss On Me, I'm Already Dead the focus shifted from how sad one is, to the flaws one has that cause them to be sad. It's overthinking their overthinking. Being sad about being sad. It's a rabbit hole I've traveled down more than once, and it's one of the only albums I've seen that contained a song like I Am In Great Pain, Please Help Me. And I haven't seen a song about writing quite as potent as Me Me Me (Boo Hoo), a personal favorite.

Egg on face. Foot in mouth. Wriggling Wriggling Wriggling. goes in a more metaphorical direction, with much more upbeat tempos, making some of the songs a bit difficult to parse. It's got quite a few more songs than previous albums, and covers a bit more ground. These songs combine criticism of others with the blowback of self-hate you get when you realize you're hardly in a position to judge anyone, or if it's even worth it to bother. An Academics Lament On Barbie is one that hits personally, for reasons I'm sure you're aware of.

Their penultimate album, Wearing Beige On A Grey Day shifts back towards less, but longer songs, and takes on a more structural theme than previous albums. What about society causes us pain, and what do you even call the pain you feel? Doubt comes up with a non-answer that resonates, and Unassimilated Normie looks at how societal standards make us into cowards.

That's all to say, Crywank is a band that's been evolving since Day 1. And their newest and final album is no exception. Fist Me 'til Your Hand comes Out My Mouth is only part concept album, with numbered parts to the story like The Near Future, but the whole album adheres to the themes presented in the first half.

Concept Corner: Crywank - Fist Me 'til Your Hand comes Out My Mouth

The first thing I can say about this album is that it's Crywank trying a bunch of things they've never done before, but at the same time it's so fundamentally Crywank. Fist Me is an album about what it is to be in Crywank. I don't mean what it's like, as if it were something you had to interpret. It's just about Crywank. The previous albums were all about James Clayton, the usual songwriter and guitarist, but to make the album about the band itself is just more Crywank than Crywank has ever been. Songs were either written by Clayton, Daniel Watson, or a collaboration between the two, and more often than not are openly antagonistic against one or the other.

Imagine traveling the world with someone whose issues are increasingly caustic to your relationship, while singing songs about your most shameful moments over and over again. What began as catharsis turns into a needle in your side, you've made all your songs about yourself and now you can't escape who you were. It's like the dark inverse of when a comedian becomes successful and all their jokes become about flying and travel. Crywank, itself, is the issue. The subtitle of the first section is, "I Love You But I've Chosen Me" which could be from either of the bandmates referring to the other, or both of them to the fans.

It's the first Crywank album that really takes you on a trip. There are a few songs that are just instrumental, and some with only spoken lyrics. They were writing and recording these songs while on the road, so they end up having variable sound qualities, even though almost all the song lead into one another. But the overall effect of these is to impart the feeling of being on tour. And that tour being not great.

Musically, this is definitely a step forward, boasting the most similarities to Egg on Face though retaining the Trombone added in Wearing Beige On A Grey Day. There's some club-music bass pounding, there's harmonica, there's even some theremin in there, as far as I can tell. It's experimental, it's fresh, and it's certainly not something I would have expected from Crywank a few years ago. I should've expected it, but I didn't.

Fist Me 'til Your Hand comes Out My Mouth is Crywank's breakup album. This is their last, and would've come at the end of their farewell tour, if a pandemic hadn't fucked it up for them. You never get this close a look at a band splitting, even if there ends up being coverage through music publications later. They made art about making their art, an idea so self-consciously up its own ass I can't help but love it. If you listen to Crywank's records from the beginning (which I suggest you do) you can see the evolution and dismay of someone who started writing sad songs after a breakup, but made it so much more. I'd be lying if I didn't claim to be a bit disconsolate at Crywank ending, but nothing lasts forever. If there's anyone who could have created something in the midst of and about a disintegration, it's Crywank. The album is out now, so you can buy it for yourself on bandcamp.

And if you relate does that make you bad?
And for making you relate does that make me bad?
And do I glorify what it is to be sad?
Should you just turn off?