​I Broke Up with Movies and Fell in Love with Music

If done right, art shouldn’t be much different from lovemaking. After finding out what works for you, both can provide you with that feeling of metaphysical elevation that (literally) makes you glow. Your object of affection (in this case, your favorite art) becomes a safety net—and, oh, how it hurts to see them grow cold.

I’ve been a cinephile for as long as I can remember. From Hollywood classics to indie masterpieces, I used to devour everything without ever getting bored. But it’s been awhile since I last found comfort in a movie. Much like the Commons food you eat just to keep yourself from starving, the films released in the past two years never gave me any real satisfaction. It’s when your favorite activity becomes a chore—search, play, rate 6/10, repeat—that you know you have to change things up a bit. It hurts to type this, but…cinema, we need some time apart.

While I was (sort of) coming to terms with the fact that movies and I were no longer a thing, I realized that I needed an affair—and what a better time for my Apple Music feed to spam me with relationship–related content (oh, the irony!). Not wanting to leave my comfort zone, I decided to “swipe right” for every new release that fit under “alternative.” Seeing what I found, I don’t regret it.

The first glimmer of hope showed up at some point in late April, when I came across Mac DeMarco’s newly released This Old Dog. I must admit, while I remember listening to Salad Days once or twice, I hadn’t paid close attention to any of his songs before (except maybe “Chamber of Reflection,” which I like because of its Tame Impala–esque vibe, both in lyrics and in sound). He’s known to be a stereotypical stoner: really chill, laid–back and arguably eccentric—which is great, but usually means that his tunes don’t have much lyrical substance. So, was I wrong to start listening to This Old Dog with low (verging on non–existent) expectations? Very. In exploring his complicated relationship with his father, DeMarco strips himself bare of all his previous clownish cover–ups, revealing some deep emotional wounds. What remains is the raw, candid story of a boy who grew up without a paternal figure—except the little boy is not little anymore, and his late 20s existential crisis is triggered by the fear of turning into the man that let him down. What makes the album special for me is its simplicity: the instruments perfectly complement DeMarco’s lyrics, which flow in a strikingly lifelike way. More often than not, it feels like you’re talking to a close friend whose pleasure–seeking lifestyle is just a wall he built to avoid facing his demons. This Old Dog is what happens when that wall comes down: 42 minutes of downcast self–reflection, in a bold move to expose a beautiful heartbreak.

Of course, this surprisingly successful encounter left me wanting more. Luckily, one of my favorite bands, ∆ (alt–J for convenience), had already announced their third album. What is more, the three teasers they released sounded more than promising: particularly “Adeline”,co–written by Hans Zimmer, left me smiling impatiently at my laptop screen. This was undoubtedly alt–J, yet more daring, more experimental and far more mature than before. My expectations were confirmed when Relaxer was released on June 2—one week before the projected date. Though initially underwhelmed by the album’s length (eight tracks), after listening to it in its entirety I was amazed. Despite establishing themselves as a band whose art lacks coherence, the guys in alt–J finally did something that fixed that: they incorporated themes into their songs. As I see it, Relaxer tells the story of a misunderstood man who is mad at the world. What results is a rather odd mix of sorrowful resentment and bizarre lust, placed on the backdrop of a troubled past. Perhaps the album’s greatest achievement is its finish, if you can call it that: though unpolished, oneiric and ethereal, Relaxer somehow sounds more genuine and logical than alt–J’s previous albums. The band manages not only to tell stories, but to move away from the pseudo–American lampoon that was This is All Yours by sampling the members’ own culture: the rendition of folk–classic “House of the Rising Sun” is one of the most powerful songs they ever released, while their more–than–affectionate references to the British ethos make us, the non–Brits, feel like voyeurs.

Speaking of voyeurism, my latest obsession almost makes me feel guilty of intruding into a very troubled, yet stunning mind. London Grammar’s newly released Truth is a Beautiful Thing is an album that I’ve been expecting for four years now, and while most critics condemned its similarities to the debut record If You Wait, I thought the wait, long as it may have been, was worth it. Though the band doesn’t stray away from its distinctive sound—chilling strings accompany Hannah Reid’s unique contralto, which remains London Grammar’s finest asset, there is an obvious evolution in terms of lyricism. That youthful sparkle that was so characteristic of If You Wait is gone: instead, Reid sings about love, life, paradoxical loneliness and existential despair, unveiling a frailty that renders her already hauntingly beautiful voice almost hypnotic. “You’re the only thing I’ve ever truly known,” she declares in a daring tone that spins gracefully into the upper strata of her vocal range. The album is speckled with many such stark statements, that are surprisingly effective in delivering their message—that is, if there is a message to be delivered in the first place. Much like DeMarco’s aforementioned release, Truth is a Beautiful Thing feels a lot like a confession; except in this case, Reid’s choruses are not cathartic, but somewhat hollow—and that’s the entire point. The complexities she tackles are givens: she doesn’t see vulnerability as something negative, but rather as the one imperfection that makes love beautiful.

Right now, I’ve accepted that my relationship with cinema hasn’t been working recently. For me, it’s that one ex you find impossibly hard to forget, and I still have hope that the second half of 2017 will rekindle our love. But seeing how, for the first time in a while, I have an art–induced afterglow, I’m lucky enough to say that I’ve found an unexpectedly effective band–aid.