The sky is falling
But so am I
When I was younger
I knew how to fly
The first time this lyric found its way to my ears, my heart leapt out at it, kind of like how a child would reach for a dandelion seed floating through the air. These four lines were not only fascinating to me but spontaneously so, such that I felt like I needed to do something before the moment disappeared, forever. You can only hear this lyric for the first time once, but then again, you can only do so much to prepare for it.
The quote is from a song named “Last Leg,” created by a band named Jonnycatland. I can’t comment on behalf of the band, nor am I in any place to speak confidently of the song’s meaning. Allow me, though, to lend you my interpretation: were you without heartache as a youngster? I assume no. Adults don’t lose sight of this truth as much as neglect it, shrink it down. The pain you experienced when you were little was real, and the same wrenching feeling you get when a relationship falls apart is the very same one you would feel if other kids on the playground called you names. Back then, we were no better equipped to confront these tribulations than we are now, but we used to detach ourselves from them more easily, all in the hopes that they were isolated incidents in a big wide world. We have seen much of the world by now, and often, we are bored by the things that are good in it and afraid of the things that aren’t. It is a smaller, and rougher, planet than we thought. The sky is falling, and so are we.
Nevertheless, Jonnycatland’s sophomore album, A Perfect Nothing, wouldn’t have been the vastly sentimental experience it is if it had shouldered a nihilistic worldview, or even worse, blamed its listeners for their ups and downs. The band prefers abstract and mysterious imagery to argument, and they simply lay down all their thoughts here, whether bleak or joyful, as if to say that while none of us know where we’re going, our paths may cross on the way there. The album is no less a textual feat than it is a musical one, and it is electric from start to finish. At some points, it pays tribute to the crisp sounds of ‘70s FM radio. At others, it recalls some of the band’s earlier flirtations with reggae, as in Warm Soup, and dream pop, as in All Good Friends. At others still, it explores new territory that may very well define another unique sound for Jonnycatland, as well as the next phase of their discography. At all times, it spoke to me. I’ve noticed that a handful of albums released this year have a similarly moving power, like Car Seat Headrest’s re-recording of Twin Fantasy and Mitski’s Be the Cowboy. I now add A Perfect Nothing to that list; the words sung on this record lead me to contemplate how many I’ve missed.
One might sense danger looming in the ominous leading chords of the opener, “Come to Light,” which are soaked in their own haunting echoes. We find some welcome comfort in Max DiFrisco’s soothing voice, one that lets us know not to treat him like a stranger. The song spins around on its heels after a soft, sweet guitar intro and launches into an airy cloud of sonic wizardry. For as confident as the band members seem around their instruments, the lyrics imply caution and ambivalence: “I have stayed / And that’s love, I suppose.”
“Come to Light” is a part of the greater nervous system of the album, the root of the tree which the other songs branch off. The themes it touches upon reverberate through Jonnycatland’s vision of young adult life; relationships and promises in “The Feeling”; intimacy and obsession in “Dead Eyes”; the sense of purposelessness in “Where to Start.” I don’t believe that these tracks form a single narrative, but they certainly share a brain, and the listener can almost hear the music from the second half of the album winding its way back to revisit the first half. Dreamlike sounds wade in and out of the frame, as if the shards of a broken mirror have spilled the songs’ reflections in every direction.
Some tracks are able to stand alone, such as the happy single “Fine These Days.” It’s a testament to the mind of a drifter, reminding listeners that it’s not so bad if our plans don’t always come to form. The worry-free tone matches the floating beat wonderfully, and we get an instantly memorable refrain: “Leave me in the road / I’ll find my way home.” On the other end of the emotional spectrum is “What’s Left Behind,” another highlight (in an album full of them) which eerily recounts a relationship warped past the point of no return. The track is simultaneously catchy and heartbreaking, a fine display of the band’s dexterity and Ellie Traczyk’s affecting vocals.
Before it can speak to its audience at all, music must be entertaining, and on these terms, A Perfect Nothing succeeds handily. I particularly love Landon Kerouac’s playful drumming on the deliriously fun “Keeps Me Company,” the soaring, full-blooded lead guitar on “Dead Eyes,” and the hypnotic opening of the “Midwinter / Last Leg” medley, which ranks among my favorite recordings from Jonnycatland. These musicians challenge themselves with a diverse assortment of styles, and it’s a real treat to see their risks pay off. By the time the thunderous “Where to Start” rolls around to top the album off, the triumphant conclusion feels well-earned.
Reigning above all is this record’s inspired portrait of the human spirit. The lyrics here are often cryptic, luring the listener further and further down a finely engineered rabbit hole. However, when the words are plainly and wistfully spoken, they cut straight to the core; the album captures loneliness (“Cold has settled and lingers around / Touching empty faces with a quiet sound”) as sincerely as it does hope and sympathy (“You’re doing fine these days / And I hope it stays that way”). I imagine that people will lean on A Perfect Nothing when they’re plagued by longing, regret, trepidation, or any temporary ill that requires treatment of the soul, or even just an affirmation of what they feel.
It’s those four lines I keep coming back to. I write this on a bus which currently carries fifteen or twenty commuters. These are people who probably eat, sleep, and think like me. Outside my window are even more, living in houses, sitting at desks, shopping at stores. The night sky makes it hard for me to see them, but I still know they’re there. I also know that each and every one of them would be marveled to hear a life story, quite possibly their own, so succinctly yet delicately folded into less than twenty words. Many artists have attempted this, and many more will. It would be a reason to celebrate if only one succeeded.
