I don’t know why Frankie Rose’s last album sounds so familiar to me, because I thought I’d only listened to it once.
Maybe I heard Interstellar on Saturday mornings last fall, while curled up in a booth on the porch of the little restaurant where I worked back in Virginia, drinking coffee from a mug as big as a cereal bowl and wishing away a hangover.
Maybe I heard Interstellar on the way to Austin, 16 or 17 hours into the 20-hour drive, when early spring sunshine tricked us into thinking it was warm enough to roll down the windows.
I’ve listened to Interstellar again, trying to remember how I felt about Frankie Rose, and I’ve been drifting. Upward, quickly but evenly. Through shades of lavender and smoke. Along a breeze.
Is this relevant context, or am I just avoiding Herein Wild? I’ve listened to Herein Wild over and over, and I’ve tried writing about it over and over. I’ve got pages of notes, and I keep getting lost. Or distracted.
I almost hear the drama of a relationship disintegrating and what’s left afterward. I almost hear that first night alone, faking sleep, and the next morning, wandering while replaying what went wrong.
I almost hear the differences between dreams. I almost hear nightmares so jarring that they creep into waking life. I almost hear little myths puzzled over and kept close. I almost hear nostalgia.
Instead, I hear distance.
Frankie Rose told Pitchfork that she wants to make an album that’s long and weird, but that for now she has to make pop music.
I’ve been thinking about pop and listening to pop, because Herein Wild almost sounds like the kind of pop I’d want to keep playing over and over.
Those pop songs, not the ones on Herein Wild, remind me that no matter how hard I try to be a badass who rarely ever starts shit and stays cool and never gets caught up in feelings, sometimes I can be a mess.
Those pop songs remind me how much 380 miles hurts, so much that I can feel all those miles tangled up in my bones and pulling.
Those pop songs remind me that I’m in love.
Those pop songs ruin my life by provoking obsession, but I’m obsessed with how that feels.
Those pop songs confess everything and never apologize.
Herein Wild just disappears.