I’ll admit it, I’m a bit of a hillbilly. My family migrated from the hollers of Kentucky to work in the factories in Michigan, and they brought with them a culture I still really love. I grew up with Sunday family dinners complete with food cooked in literal tubs of lard. (I know because my grandma would keep her empty lard tubs in the garage when I was growing up.) My uncle was a racecar driver, and I have fond memories of going to the local speedway to watch him along with the bus races every September. Trust me, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen ten school buses going full speed in a figure 8. I listened to exclusively country music until I was about seven and discovered Bon Jovi. I remember going muddin’ with my neighbor and fishin’ with my dad as a kid. My wife’s from the bougie suburbs north of Detroit, so when I tell her about these things, she looks at me like I’m speaking Greek. But that culture was a huge part of my childhood.
Fish love me, women fear me, or something like that.
As I write this, I’m getting ready to take aforementioned wife to a racetrack for the first time in her life. It’s for the Fourth of July; they’re going to be lighting off fireworks at the end of the night. It should be a fun night, and I’m excited to show her part of what made my childhood special. But I can’t shake the feeling that we’ll be surrounded by MAGA hats and people who would want us dead if they knew we were together. It’s an unfair assumption to make, especially since racecar driving has been historically very “woke” and NASCAR is actually a pretty vocal ally to this day. Still, I’m not oblivious. I know the kinds of people these events attract, and…
They look like me. They look like my family.
Sometimes I feel like I’m being forced to choose between the culture I grew up in and living as a queer woman. I’m sure I’m not the first person to feel this way, but it’s jarring for sure, especially when you’ve been in straight-passing relationships for most of your life. Suddenly, your very existence is political, and it’s weird and uncomfortable. People who don’t care about you are making laws about you and you have to actually start caring about who gets voted into office. I’m very blessed that my family tends to lean progressive politically, but I still feel like I can’t engage in parts of my family’s culture without feeling “othered.”
I wish we could enjoy these little pieces of American culture without that weird feeling. After all, we’re all Americans, even the people the right-wing media say are not. Remember all the “This is my pride flag!” posts last month flaunting the American flag, as if the two can’t co-exist?
Shared by a “friend” of mine. Need I say more?
Hillbilly culture, and American culture as a whole, shouldn’t be restricted to only straight, cisgender folks. This land is my land, too, and we’re just as American as the flag-flaunting MAGA hat-wearers. (I’d argue we’re more American, as we didn’t try to, ya know, overthrow the government.) Don’t let stupid memes and conservative media convince you otherwise. My culture is mine. My heritage is mine. My country is mine. And I’m done letting people take that from me.
I have a confession: I’m fascinated by the worst people. It’s probably detrimental to my mental health, but I often find myself looking in the comments section of absolute cesspools on the internet for hours on end.
In my more naive years, I’d often debate people like this. I’d craft some well-written argument about how yes, trans folks are valid, gay folks should have a right to be with who they please, and black folks should, ya know, exist. This is usually followed by guys with profile pictures that look like a frostbitten toe laugh reacting the post to hell. I’ve since stopped because it’s no use arguing with people who look like this:
Apologies to this man for using him as an example but like, do better bro.
I consider it a matter of knowing my enemy. I want to know what these asshats’ talking points are so I can watch for signs of that shit in everyday conversation. The second someone brings up TERF rhetoric or starts talking about how we need a “straight white pride” month, I know to run in the opposite direction as fast as humanly possible. But also, it’s just kind of fascinating to me. Like, what leads a person to that level of hate? What makes one devolve into posting bullshit like this?
Ahh yes, the worst thing a woman can be, the mother to a biracial child.
It costs zero dollars to not suck. Imagine if people just minded their own business and didn’t brigade random people’s posts because they shared a picture of a queer person having fun? The other day, I had to put one of my own posts on private because it kept getting shared to hate groups. Like, why though? What are people getting out of this? I wasn’t even that mad — haters make me famous and all that — but the notifications were annoying as hell, and I was tired of seeing Greg’s thumb-looking ass popping up on my feed every few minutes.
I guess to me, it’s a reminder of what I fight for everyday. I use my platform on here to humanize the queer experience. I realize a lot of these folks have probably never met someone who isn’t exactly like them. I was similar when I first went off to university. I repeated the whole “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve” BS because my high school friends would say it — God knows I’d never admit to being bisexual in front of them. But a funny thing happened when I moved to my college town. I met other queer folks and even came to terms with my own queerness, and I changed. But these people have never left their hometowns. They’re in a white, cishet circle-jerk forever, and it’s actually pretty sad. There’s a lot of beauty in human diversity and the way we connect with one another. We’re just people, and we want to live and love too.
Imagine seeing something this precious and being like “wow, I hope they all die.”
I should probably cut back on my “patrolling” these ugly spaces though. Even reporting doesn’t do any good — the comments never get taken down (thanks, Zucc!). Maybe I should look more toward the beautiful things in life and focus my energies there instead. Even the Bible says so:
Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.
This past weekend, my beautiful partner and I attended a “sleepover” hosted by a South Bend-based company that puts on little dances and other fun events. No one actually slept over, but it was structured to give the feeling of a real teenage sleepover, only for adult women. The company rented out a huge fancy-ass Airbnb for the shindig, and we all piled into the enormous living room for typical slumber party activities. It was silly. It was fun. But most of all, it was strangely healing.
I didn’t grow up with a lot of friends. I had one friend, Shanna, who didn’t go to school with me. Otherwise, I was completely on my own. I remember watching the other girls do those handclap things that little girls do with each other on the bus and wishing I had someone to do them with. I’d replicate the motions with the seat back in front of me and pretend it was another girl. I never got to do the “steal mom’s makeup and do each other’s faces” thing. I remember eating lunch in the library because sitting next to ugly awkward Jessica Salisbury was a social death sentence (and also to avoid being pelted with ranch dressing packets). Needless to say, I didn’t have a lot of female friends to live out youthful rites of passage with.
Like starting a cult.
Things got a little better with my friend Chelsea in middle school, but even then, I was still largely the pariah. I didn’t get invited to things. I was last to be picked for, well, anything. In high school, I went to a few sleepovers, only to get my underwear frozen in a block of water. I was the butt monkey of my “friend” group, usually only brought around to make fun of. My friendships with other girls tended to be toxic and life-sucking.
So being surrounded by positive feminine energy at this silly little slumber party event was, somehow, a way for me to process my unresolved bitter feelings about girlhood. I wasn’t the only one — my partner, being trans, was socialized as a boy, so she never got to experience the magic of sleepovers with other girls either. Toward the end of the night, we held each other and cried happy tears, both having reconciled with parts of our childhoods and teenhoods we missed out on.
Including our friends doodling on our faces while we slept.
There’s something magical about coming together with a group of other like-minded girls and living your best lives together. We humans are meant to be in relationship with one another — no man (or woman) is an island. Connecting with each other is such a healing experience, especially after you’ve experienced the trauma that comes with bullying and ostracism. I wish I could tell little-me that she’d find her people eventually, and that the pain doesn’t last forever.
Me and my partner as kids. I’d like to think we would have been friends ❤️
I was browsing Barnes & Noble when I happened upon these little cards. It’s a box of 70 writing prompts meant to inspire self-love and reflection. I need some fresh material for my blog other than giving life updates, and this seemed like the perfect way to spark some creativity. Sitting at a hookah bar with my wife, I drew my first card:
And I blanked immediately. How do I feel connected to the earth? That’s such a lofty concept, I’m not sure I know how to answer that. The first thing that came to mind was my dabblings in magic and witchcraft. I hesitate to call myself a Christian witch (which is not an oxymoron surprisingly), as I don’t practice nearly enough. But my personal religious beliefs align somewhere between Christianity, witchery, and science. And a connection with our life-giving planet is a crucial part of all of those philosophies.
When I lived by the lake, I liked to take walks and collect various things I found along the way. Little pinecones and flowers and such. I’d put them on my altar alongside my favorite crystals and religious symbols like pictures and statues of saints I admire. I took a lot of pride in arranging my findings to be aesthetically pleasing. It was soothing, and I felt like I was bringing a little bit of Mother Nature home with me.
Another practice I enjoy when it’s a little warmer out is grounding by standing or laying on the grass or dirt with no shoes. Someone once told me it’s a great way to feel connected to the earth, and I agree! Is there anything scientific to it? I doubt it, but it feels good. I like standing in water even more though, feeling the waves hit my feet and my toes buried in the sand. I think it’s the Pisces in me, or maybe the Michigander in me. I just really like lakes, okay?
On a grander scale, just existing alongside other living beings makes me feel like part of something greater than myself. We’re all part of this beautiful cosmic experiment called humanity, and it’s pretty awesome when you think about it. We’re eight billion interconnected stories, all unfolding at once. Someday, God willing, I’ll have kids of my own, and perhaps they’ll have their own kids eventually, and the great cycle of life will continue. It’s the same cycle that’s been happening since the dawn of time. I’m someone’s great-great-granddaughter, and maybe one day, I’ll be someone’s great-great-grandmother. It’s all very overwhelming and exciting to think about.
I think being connected to the earth is much more than just being connected to a clod of dirt floating in space. It’s being connected to each other, to flesh and blood, and it’s being connected spiritually. You can’t love the planet without loving one another. We’re all a part of this together. And that’s pretty dope actually.
It’s amazing how fast things turn around when you’re actually following the path the universe wants you to follow.
This time last week, we were in an AirBNB in a nowhere town on the Indiana border with no prospects as far as apartment-hunting goes and little going on job-wise. My wife Crass was working a dead-end apprenticeship that had her answering phones and not doing much else. I was a music teacher in name only, since I couldn’t recruit students fast enough to pay the bills. We were running out of money fast. If something didn’t change, we were going to end up having to move home with our parents — or worse, on the streets.
Then, Crass suggested something wild.
“Let’s go to Kalamazoo.”
Which is the name of a real place, for those readers who are not from the Murder Mitten.
And it made sense. We’d toyed with either Kalamazoo or Chicago in the past, and Kalamazoo seemed like the best choice. It’s in Michigan, so we wouldn’t have to change our hard-won Medicaid insurance to another state. It’s also conveniently almost equidistant from Detroit (where our parents live) and South Bend (where my other partner, Olivia, lives). There’s a robust art scene, and Western Michigan University is there, so I can go to grad school when I’m ready. It seemed so perfect, something had to go wrong.
But it didn’t. In fact, as soon as we decided on Kalamazoo, things started falling together. We found an apartment complex that wouldn’t judge us for not having any recent paystubs and would give us a chance based on credit history alone. And it turned out to be a three-bedroom townhouse bigger than anything we’ve ever rented before! Crass will have space for her art and merch manufacturing machines, and I’ll have a room for a studio and all my instruments. When we went job hunting, Crass almost immediately lucked into a managerial position at an office supplies store, and I managed to impress the folks at Guitar Center enough that they’ll likely hire me on in the next few days. I also have an interview for a dispensary coming up next week. Gotta capitalize on Michigan’s weed-friendliness, ya know?
Did I say “Murder Mitten”? I meant Marijuana Mitten.
I was excited to start a life in the Michiana region at the suggestion of Olivia, but the truth is, not a lot is going on as far as the Michigan side goes. I love South Bend and Mishawaka — but I can’t live there without losing my insurance (and the protection of Big Gretch, who recently posted a video in support of the queer community). Nothing was working out there, and I was languishing without any direction. I’m still mourning the fact that I won’t be able to see my darling Olivia every day the way I’ve gotten used to these past few weeks, but I need to be somewhere where I can be the best version of myself. For me, and for her, and for Crass, and for our future family.
Pictured: the reason I do things.
This has been a rough year. We dropped everything to move to Fort Wayne for an internship that didn’t pan out, and I found myself reevaluating my entire trajectory when music therapy turned out to be something I couldn’t see myself doing my whole life. When that failed, we retreated to that AirBNB in hopes of starting anew. When that failed, I almost lost all hope for the future. I didn’t think I’d ever get the career and the family I’d dreamed of. I was in a dark place. But there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and I’m pretty sure it’s not a freakin’ freight train this time, because I’m sick of getting run over again and again. I’m actually excited for this new chapter and what is hopefully going to be some stability in life. I’ve been so stressed with all these twists and turns lately. I even got my first gray hair!
If I’m gonna go gray at 31, I’m going all in.
In other words, I’m cautiously optimistic. I’ve been burned too many times these past six months, but as my therapist always says, “What if it all goes right?” This next step is exactly what I need. And I hope you’ll all be there to watch me finally thrive.
If you didn’t already know, I tend to straddle the line between emotions and logic. I’m an almost perfect blend of my parents in that way. My brain works almost too well — if I swing too hard into the emotional realm, I’m good at thinking it over until it’s not as scary. But sometimes my logical side overpowers everything and I overthink the everything.
This can be dangerous. Especially when it comes to creative endeavors.
There’s a French term analogous to deja vu called deja entendu, and yes, I know this from my problematic faves, Brand New.
Me, emo? Never.
Deja vu means “already seen,” but deja entendu means “already heard.” It’s the auditory cousin. And it’s haunting me. You see, there are 12 notes in the Western music scale, including the sharp and flats, and each of those notes can build major and minor chords in addition to other weird chords nobody talks about. There should be seemingly limitless combinations of sounds, but I keep getting hung up on the fact that there is a finite amount of combinations you can make. And unless you want to make weird artsy proggy stuff like two people will listen to, there are formulas to stick to for the sake of making things aesthetically pleasing. My problem isn’t that I can’t write good music — it’s that I feel like nothing about write is original, or even can be original, because everything good has already been written.
It’s the weirdest writing block I’ve run into.
I’ve been doing a lot of recording and producing lately, and although I’m proud of how my music is sounding, I can’t help but wonder if someone else is out there doing it already and doing it better than me. There are eight billion-ish people on this planet. At least a couple are producing their own mediocre pop-rock anthems too. What sets me apart from them?
I think this is where my emotional side comes in, because it’s the part that reminds me that my music is valuable and my perspective is unique. I’m the only person in the world with the lived experience I have, and no life will ever unfold the way mine did again. If Jack Antonoff or Rick Rubin came in to produce the exact same song I’m working on, it’s not going to sound the same because they’re not me. My music is mine. What makes it unique isn’t the chord progressions or the lyrics or the fancy microphone I’m still paying off. It’s the human aspect, the fifth element.
It’s her!
Still, it’s frustrating when your brain won’t let you believe anything you create is unique. I’m pushing forward despite being mired in this feeling. I don’t want to lose the momentum I’ve gained. I’m going to keep moving and keep creating.
I swear whoever makes the prompts for WordPress is stalking me.
What is your career plan?
…is a question that has been on my mind constantly since deciding to step back from music therapy, aka the only career path I saw myself on for literally my entire adult life. Funny how things change so quickly.
So basically, I’m back to the drawing board as far as my career plan goes. I’ve been busy regrouping and trying to figure out my next steps, and I feel like I’m finally getting to a place where I can accept myself as someone other than Jess J. Salisbury, MT-BC. She was someone I’m not, and that’s okay. Adulthood is about constantly rediscovering who you are.
But while I don’t have a solid plan for moving forward yet, I do have a few ideas for how I’d like things to fall together in the future.
Step One: Teach Music
Straightforward enough. I need a job to survive, and I’m not a bad music teacher. I actually enjoy it quite a bit! I’ll need a stable job to fund the next step.
Step Two: Start a Recording Studio
My dream for my music therapy degree was to start a studio akin to this one. I wanted to help people of all ages and abilities to create music they can be proud of. And the good news is, I don’t need a music therapy degree to do this! I can just, you know, start one. Of course, a music therapy degree would add some legitimacy for marketing purposes, but so would…
Step Three: Get a Master’s in Music Production
Okay, maybe I’m just inspired by my girlfriend getting her master’s degree recently (CONGRATS LIVVY!), but I’ve always wanted to get a higher education in…something. I always used to joke that I refused to die before I had “Dr.” in front of my name. I still would like a doctoral degree in something, but first things first. Berklee has a completely online master’s program in music production that looks awfully tasty.
Step Four: Record My Friends’ Bands
When I asked a music producer friend in Nashville what her advice was for getting involved in the industry, she said word-of-mouth was the key to success. So to get my name out there, I want to record music for my friends for free. From there, I can build a following and a client base.
Step Five: Start an Art and Music Collective
This is a bit of a pipe dream, but I want to open a facility for people to safely create in their preferred medium. This could take the shape of a coffeeshop or music venue that puts on shows and has space for artists to work. I want to promote creativity and expression in the community and give back any way I can.
I’m realizing one of the biggest motivating factors behind everything I do is my fear of being forgotten. It’s part of the reason I want kids. It’s part of the reason I want to make recordings of my songs. It’s part of the reason I want to donate a shitton of money someday to get a bench with my name on it. One day, when I die, I want people to remember my name. And I hope my career plan leads me to that sort of immortality. I want to have been a pillar of the community. I want to leave a legacy.
Not a humanitarian crisis, although there are plenty of those happening in the world too.
You see, maybe I’m friends with the wrong people on Facebook, but it seems like almost daily I’m inundated with memes like this one:
Or this one:
None of those good enough for ya? How about one that’s both transphobic and threatens physical violence?
Double the assholery, double the fun, or whatever that gum commercial said.
The funny thing is, most of the people who share these memes will turn around and share DO YOU LOVE JESUS?! TYPE AMEN! types of posts in practically the same click. It would almost be funny if these same people didn’t have so much power. But as we learned with the overturning of Roe v. Wade, these folks can and will take away fundamental freedoms from us. Freedoms. You know, the very thing the right loves to brag about preserving.
“Expand freedom” my left asscheek.
I don’t know at what point in history “helping others” and “being a decent fucking human” became a partisan issue, but for some reason, it is. And I blame toxic individualism.
A certain amount of individualism isn’t bad. It’s what enables us to stand out and create new things. Nothing great would be accomplished without someone pushing against the grain. It’s when individualism evolves into “I got mine, so screw you” that it becomes toxic.
Kinda like this.
It’s why people turn against each other so easily these days. Remember when people didn’t give a shit about being transgender? No one was boycotting Pokémon back in the 90s for having Meowth be voiced by a trans woman. But somehow trans people having more rights takes away rights from cisgender people, and right wing pundits utilized that fearmongering to make trans folks public enemy number one. All because people are afraid of losing their rights to a group that is honestly muchworseoff than them.
Why are we as a people so dead-set on fucking over other folks? Why do we as a society pit groups of people against each other?
“It’s the same string of arrogant assumptions that spawned the master race theories of Herr Hitler: ego deification, social Darwinism, arbitrary stratification of human types,” this article ponders. “Adapted for capitalism, it becomes the divine right to plunder, a license for those who own nearly everything to take the rest, because they wish to, because they can. Because the weak don’t matter. Let the big dogs feed.”
“Success coaches” like Andrew Tate espouse the same kind of individualistic BS — life’s about making your own money, popping out your own babies, and bowing to that primal urge to get yours before someone else takes it from you. But is that a way to truly be human?
Anthropologist Margaret Mead famously said the earliest sign of human civilization was a healed bone. In the animal kingdom, should a creature break a bone, that would almost certainly spell death for the poor thing. A stronger animal will easily overpower it and claim it as a snack. But someone protected and cared for another person long enough for their injury to heal. The thing that makes us different from animals is our ability to care for one another for unselfish reasons. This is our humanity. This is the very thing these “survival of the fittest” types want to erase.
Call me a bleeding heart librul, but I’d rather pay a little extra in taxes so some kid can get a free lunch or someone’s grandpa can get the cancer treatment he needs. I can learn a few Spanish phrases to make immigrants’ lives a little easier. I’d make small sacrifices like getting used to a friend’s new name or pronouns if it means welcoming in marginalized folks. It honestly isn’t that much of a sacrifice — we honor newlywed women’s name change requests all the time. American right wing politics make no logical sense to me. At some point, it just seems like people are going out of their way to be dicks to folks they don’t even know.
I’m not saying voting blue will change everything overnight. Everyone knows even left-leaning politicians are bought off by companies and individuals with less than wholesome intentions. A revolution isn’t going to magically happen anytime soon. But maybe we can start by not actively being jerks to other people. Maybe we can start by embracing our humanity.
Here’s a shocker: I’m a bit of a Swiftie. I know I’ve written a defense of her before, but never a proper album review. Since The Tortured Poets Department just came out, I figured now was as good a time as ever to write one. I’m no music journalist, but I do have a degree in music and journalism, so I might as well put my useless skills to use for a Music Review Nobody Asked For.
First things first: The Tortured Poets Department is not an album. It is a cry for help. I have never in my life heard a more depressing two hours of music. Even her obligatory “glitter gel pen” song of the album is sad as hell when you get past the bouncy synths and actually listen to the lyrics. Like, she literally screams “I’m miserable!” at the end of it.
“And no one even knows!”
I differ from most Swifties in that I really don’t give a shit about her personal life. She’s a billionaire I’m never going to meet. It’s the same reason I don’t care about sports. When everyone back home was freaking out about the Detroit Lions doing important stuff, I was indifferent. I don’t know those guys. They’re just some stinky dudes. That’s how I feel about Taylor. I admire her for her songwriting, but I feel like I get more out of music when I don’t know who the song is about. That way, I can relate the song more to my own life and in turn get more out of it emotionally. “Teardrops On My Guitar” isn’t about Drew, it’s about my middle school crush Kyle Kelley, damn it.
And it’s probably for the best that it’s NOT about Drew, because Drew sucks.
The thing about TTPD, though, is that the album hinges on the fact that people know who it’s about. And supposedly it’s mostly about this guy:
This is the muse, y’all.
I know nothing about Matty Healy except that he’s 1. the frontman of The 1975, a band I also don’t care about, and 2. kind of a dickhead, but who am I to judge her taste in men? I don’t exactly have a pristine track record when it comes to dating dudes (which is probably why I switched to primarily women), so I have no room to talk. But apparently other Swifties do feel the need to judge her for her less-than-stellar choice. Like, some fans literally wrote her an open letter telling her to stay away from this guy, which is kind of wack, and also the inspiration behind like, half of this album.
But Jessa, isn’t this review about the music?
Well, yeah. I don’t want to ruminate on this topic for longer than I need to, but it’s important to contextualize this album. This is essentially a concept album about a forbidden romance, and one Taylor seemingly caused herself. You see, dating Matty Healy would taint her brand, but if the songs on this album are any indication, she thinks he’s the love of her life. What would you choose — the reputation and career you’ve built up for yourself since 2006, or the guy of your dreams? I can see why she wrote these songs the way she did. It’s a weird situation to be in, and not a situation I envy.
But let’s get into the music. There’s two parts to the TTPD — the album proper, and The Anthology, a companion album of sorts released two hours after the initial release. As a whole, the first half of the album is soft and synthy, owing to Jack Antonoff’s production, while the second half is closer in vibe to the folklore/evermore sound, with Aaron Dessner producing much of it. The fandom seems pretty divided on which half is better, and honestly both halves have some great songs and a few duds. For better or worse, the album is pretty cohesive — no one song really “stands out” as THE BEST, but most of the songs are pretty strong. Let’s look at some of the highlights.
Fortnight: This is the lead single, so I’m obligated to comment on it, but honestly, I wasn’t too impressed by it. It’s the same chords all the way through and is constantly building, but never really gives us that “oomph” moment it promises. Post Malone’s vocals add a little pizzazz to it, but it’s pretty lackluster for a single. I was expected Taylor to punch me in the face with whatever single she had lined up for this album, but it was a mild slap at best.
The Tortured Poets Department: As the title track, I feel obligated to comment on this as well. The 80s-ish drums grabbed my attention, but musically I wasn’t too impressed with this one either. Lyrically, it’s fairly strong, though. I think people miss the sarcasm. She’s calling out her boo for fancying himself a tortured poet, and maybe calling herself out as well. He’s as much a Dylan Thomas figure as she is Patti Smith. The theme of self-deprecation is recurring in this album.
My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys: This one’s a skip for me. The music’s alright, but nothing to write home about.
Down Bad: People seem to really like this one, but it’s a skip for me too. I feel like Taylor’s just trying to see how many f-bombs she can sneak into a song without it being grating.
So Long, London: Everyone was really anticipating this one since it was rumored to be about her doomed long-term relationship with Joe Alwyn. The light almost-choral vocals in the beginning remind me of “My Tears Ricochet,” one of the standout tracks from folklore, but it doesn’t hit me as hard as that song did for some reason. The line “I’m pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free” did send me for a loop, though. Imagine wasting the best years of your life with someone who ultimately let you down. I hate the whole trad-fucko ideology of “marry young so you can pop out a ton of babies before menopause” (which a lot of trad-fuckos pushed onto Taylor — looking at you, Stefan Molyneux), but there is something to be said about squandering all that time you could have spent building a life for yourself. It’s a sad situation all around, and this song captures that feeling.
But Daddy I Love Him: Now we’re cooking. This is the strongest track on the album so far. At a glance, it’s the big sister of “Love Story” — a tale of forbidden love, a modern Romeo and Juliet. The melody even has a sort of country cadence, throwing back to Taylor’s roots. Looking closer, it almost seems to be a takedown of those unhinged fans who wrote her that aforementioned open letter, the “judgmental creeps…sanctimoniously performing soliloquies” she’ll never see and the “saboteurs” saying “stay away from her.” The music takes it to the next level, bombastic and triumphant as she cries that her love is her choice. This is one of the highlights of this album and not a track to be skipped.
Fresh Out the Slammer: I’ve listened to this album probably three or four times now and I remember nothing about this song.
Florida!!!: This Florence + the Machine feature isn’t one of my favorites, but pleasant enough. I enjoy the cheeky “Is that a bad thing to say in a song?” as the lyrics imagine the bodies of past lovers sinking into the swamp.
Guilty As Sin?: Taylor really likes punctuation marks in her songs it seems. As a level-headed Christian, I at least appreciated the religious imagery in the bridge, which seems to have pissed off the right people. (Sean Feucht can go Feucht himself.)
Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?: Upon my first listen, the first time she screamed “WHO’S AFRAID OF LITTLE OLD ME?” was a bit of a jumpscare. And this song is supposed to be scary. The “circus life” made her deranged and disturbed, even using the metaphor of a performing lioness with her teeth removed. The song is bleak and upsetting, as it should be. This is one of the first indications that Taylor’s mind isn’t all rainbows and sequins but a dark, unsettling place.
I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can): This song is sparse and brooding-sounding as she croons about a lover she insists she can change before the final line realization that maybe she can’t. This isn’t a standout track, but worth a listen.
loml: Another tearjerker along the lines of “So Long, London.” She recalls promises of rings and cradles, only to have her hopes of stability dashed. The instrumentation is appropriately sparse. Not one of my favorites, but again, worth listening to.
I Can Do It With a Broken Heart: This is the one singular “glitter gel pen” song of the album, and it’s still a bit of a bummer. She sings about how her life is falling apart around her, but she has to keep up appearances, still smiling and giving us a show even when it hurts. The synths are bubbly and poppy, contrasting rather starkly with the lyrics. At the end, her voice cracks as she screams “I’m miserable and no one even knows!” This woman is literally on top of the world, and yet this song proves how terribly lonely she is. I think back to Britney Spears’ “Lucky.” “I’m If there’s nothing missing in my life, then why do these tears come at night?”
The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived: This is probably her most biting song yet, a vicious takedown of an ex-lover who wronged her. Most of the song is pretty calm and subdued, but the bridge gave me literal chills the first time I heard it. Taylor’s the queen of bridges, but these might be some of the angriest lyrics she’s ever written. Hell hath no fury like a singer-songwriter scorned — trust me, I’d know.
The Alchemy: A skip, in my opinion. Nothing really stood out to me about this one.
Clara Bow: First thing I noticed about this song was the amazing bass-driven riff that carries the song. It adds such a darkness to the song musically. The lyrics, according to Taylor herself, are inspired by the way the entertainment industry markets upcoming female performers as the “new and improved” versions of their predecessors. It’s a time progression song that starts in the silent film era with actress Clara Bow, then travels to 1975, when Stevie Nicks was on top of the world with Fleetwood Mac. Finally, Taylor namedrops herself as the one whose star would eventually be eclipsed by a starlet who has the edge she never had. It’s the kind of self-deprecation I mentioned earlier that is ubiquitous throughout the album. This is an appropriate finale to the first part of the double album.
The Black Dog: Arguably my favorite song on the album and quite possible one of my favorites in her entire discography. It heartbreakingly tells the tale of a woman watching as her ex-lover goes about his life, oblivious to how much he’d hurt her. “I just don’t understand how you don’t miss me,” Taylor laments. The music crescendos at the end of every chorus, building up to a climax that ultimately never happens. Normally that kind of let-down would drive me nuts, but it works for this song, representing a love that ultimately went nowhere. The song also namedrops The Starting Line, a relatively obscure emo band, which made my inner 16-year-old squeal. I feel like people forgot that Taylor is a MySpace millennial too.
imgonnagetyouback: All of the commotion I’ve heard about this song revolves around how it’s a similar concept to Olivia Rodrigo’s “Get Him Back.” I think they’re different enough, but unfortunately, Taylor’s take on the idea doesn’t do much for me. It’s a fairly forgettable song compared to the other gems on this half of the album.
The Albatross: This is Taylor at her folklore/evermore-est. She does folk-tinged pop well. No notes on this one, just a solid song.
Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus: The chorus is emo poetry at its best. “If you want to break my cold, cold heart, say you loved me. And if you want to tear my world apart, say you’ll always wonder.” Those lines remind me of “Your House” by my one of my all-time favorites, Jimmy Eat World. “If you love me at all, please don’t tell me now.”
How Did It End?: Another somber tearjerker. One line really stood out to me — “My beloved ghost and me, sitting in a tree, D-Y-I-N-G.” The way she turns a childhood chant into something heartbreaking is chilling. Hey kids, spelling is fun!
So High School: This song is a 90s alternative-flavored bop reminiscent of a more optimistic “Hits Different.” It contains all the giddiness of being in a fresh relationship with someone who reminds you of the butterflies you got from your first crush, along the lines of Katy Perry’s now-legendary “Teenage Dream.” A lot has already been said about the lyrical content, particularly as it relates to Taylor and her most recent relationship with football star Travis Kelce, but as a guitarist, I couldn’t help but fixate on the gorgeous guitar tone present throughout the song. Aaron Dessner really outdid himself with this airy nostalgia-fest.
I Hate It Here: Not my favorite, but I don’t dislike it. A lot of the discourse around this song revolves around her line about wishing she lived in the 1830s minus the racism and sexism. People have called her out for addressing such heavy topics so flippantly, but it’s worth noting that she even points out how silly her fantasies are in the subsequent lines. This song feels like it was very much written from a childlike perspective, if said child was very loquacious.
thanK you aIMee: Yes, she formatted the title like that. I feel like the Taylor Swift/Kim Kardashian feud is very passé at this point, but Taylor has to kick the corpse of the dead horse one more time. If you ignore the fact that this song is obviously about Kim, it’s pretty solid, especially if you interpret the lyrics as a takedown of a childhood bully. It was cathartic screaming these lyrics to my own “Aimee” in the car. (Fuck you, Carissa.)
I Look in People’s Windows: Some more self-deprecation as she calls herself a “deranged weirdo” for creeping on people’s get-togethers through the window, hoping for a glimpse of her lost lover. It’s another tearjerker, although I don’t consider it one of her best songs on the album.
The Prophecy: Probably the saddest song on an album chock full of wildly depressing music. In this song, Taylor pleads to a higher power to “change the prophecy,” offering to trade her fortune for some true companionship. Her voice sounds almost pained as she begs for another chance at real love. It’s a powerful reminder that money can’t buy happiness, and it’s one of the standout tracks on this half of the album.
Cassandra: There are some similarities between this song and Taylor’s “mad woman” from her folklore album, both musically and lyrically. The songs speak of hunting witches and burning bitches, and it almost seems “Cassandra” is a sequel of sorts. The snake allusions hit two-fold, both as a callback to the snake motif associated with Taylor’s reputation album and as a nod to the actual Greek myth of Cassandra, who could hear the future when snakes licked her ears.
Peter: A solid song about a lost love of one’s youth. No real notes on this one.
The Bolter: This is easily one of the strongest songs on the album. It’s got a catchy melody that works in tandem with memorable lyrics that detail the life of the titular “bolter,” as her childhood associates called her. It’s a bittersweet tale — while her many trysts never panned out, she’s “got the best stories” to tell, which made it all worth it.
Robin: I’m pretty sure this song is about childhood and innocence. She seemingly talks to a younger person — “The time will arrive for the cruel and mean, you’ll learn to bounce back just like your trampoline.” The title is never dropped in the song, but it’s suspected that the song is addressed to Aaron Dessner’s son, whose name is Robin.
The Manuscript: This one has potential to grow on me, but it’s not one of my favorites at the moment. I appreciate the heartfelt lyrics for what they are, but nothing really hooked me in. I feel like “The Prophecy” or “The Black Dog” would have been a better album closer.
So those are my thoughts on the new album. What are your thoughts? Which tracks stood out to you? What are your “skips”? Let me know in the comments!
Imagine my surprise when I got this writing prompt today:
Describe a risk you took that you do not regret.
I’m writing this literally fifteen minutes after finishing my final music therapy session ever. As in, I will never lead another music therapy session again. I didn’t think I’d ever write those words. I thought I’d become a music therapist and do that forever until I inevitably die (probably while doing music therapy). I sunk my entire adult life into this career. I never pictured myself doing anything else.
I remember how giddy I was to move to Fort Wayne and start my internship. I have several past blog posts about my journey getting here and how excited I was to enter the professional world and make something of myself. The future seemed so bright. I’d won a scholarship for music therapy. I had all my professors watching me in anticipation of great things. Moving here was a huge risk — I had no money except my wife’s Christmas check from her parents and the stipend I’d been awarded, and I knew nobody in the area. But I was willing to take a chance and leap.
There’s an old quote that was plastered on the wall of my elementary school’s library, where I spent most of my lunches to avoid being pelted with ranch dressing packets (which is another story entirely). I still remember the little astronaut on the poster that read:
Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.
Norman Vincent Peele
In a way, I feel like moving to Fort Wayne and starting this internship was my way of shooting for the moon. My biggest fear was missing it, but as I approached the moon, I realized the moon wasn’t really where I wanted to be. Maybe my place was among the stars, and maybe me taking that shot was the first step in getting there.
Music therapy is a beautiful thing, but it’s not where my heart is. Music therapy is very cold and clinical compared to how I approach music and people. I realized I’d rather make music that makes people happy and help other people make music that makes them happy. That’s what music is about for me.
I’m glad I got the experience in music therapy that I did, because now I feel better prepared for working with people of all ages and abilities. That’s what I want my studio to be — a safe space for people to make music that makes them happy regardless of how old they may be or what their diagnosis is. I’m also glad I moved to Fort Wayne because of the incredible people I’ve gotten to know. And had I not moved away from the Detroit area, I might have never left and gotten to see what else is out there.
Well, it’s still the Midwest, but baby steps, ya know?
This chapter of my life has been my “shoot for the moon” phase, and I’m about to enter the phase where I dance amongst the stars, where I truly belong. I don’t regret the blood, sweat, and tears that got me here. (Okay, maybe I do regret spending thousands of dollars on a degree I’m not going to finish, but whatever.) In a few short weeks, I’ll be moving to the South Bend area, where I plan to start my recording studio and eventually start the biggest project of my life — a family. I might not have ever done that if I never left my hometown.
So no, I don’t regret this chapter at all. I’ll see you in the stars.
JESSA JOYCE 