Branching Animals
Getting out of the comfort zone while trying to stay (relatively) in touch
At the beginning of 2009, I made a mental note:
Deliberately branch out.
The previous year (2008, for those wondering which year came before 2009) had been overly on-brand for me musically speaking. By that I mean: the albums and songs I liked and listened to the most and that ended up on my End of Year Favorites list were predictable and—stylistically and genre-wise—uber-narrow. So I made a goal to deliberately branch out more, try new things, test my palette. It’s not the flashiest New Year’s resolution, I’ll admit. But for someone who loves their comfort zone like I do, it was big.
The first new (in 2009, for those needing clarification) album that I ran into after making my goal seemed as good a candidate as any to sidestep musical atrophy and, since it was raking in critical and popular acclaim1 left and right, it was as safe a bet as I could’ve hoped to find: Merriweather Post Pavilion2 the eighth album by Maryland’s experimental pop dudes, Animal Collective.
I hunkered down with my headphones, ready to deliberately branch out3. My very first listen to Merriweather Post Pavilion might best be illustrated by this gif:
I was trying to like it. So hard. And so earnestly. I was convinced it would make sense soon. I was trying to keep my goal and my optimistic spirit intact.
I reloaded. Shook it off. Circled back.
My second listen to the album was this image:
When all was said and done, I listened no fewer than eight times all the way through. I bet the final count was in double digits. And it never clicked. In fact, it did the opposite of clicking. It turned me against Animal Collective—who I’m sure are lovely Marylanders—to a degree that’s unfair to the band. But all the repeated listening felt like being in a relationship and you give so much to a person without getting anything back (unrequited listening?) that the resulting negative feelings and resentment are tenfold what they might have otherwise been. Nobody harbors deep resentment for the person they went on one measly date with, right?
Animal Collective and me? We went on A LOT OF DATES.
I hate to admit that, after spending most of January and February (2009, just clarifying) chasing the windmill that was Merriweather Post Pavilion, I reverted to my narrower lane4 for the remainder of the year. Just another New Year’s resolution that failed before the end of Q15. What a cliche.
Still, Animal Collectives notwithstanding, most years—this one (2023, just to be clear) included—I make a conscious effort to keep some kind of finger on the pulse of what’s happening in music. Because for every Animal Collective bellyflop, there’s something like my unexpected affection for Beyonce’s 2016 album Lemonade or Olivia Rodrigo’s 2019 debut Sour. So I keep my ears open. I try stuff.
Nevertheless, as I get older, the top artists on Billboard/Spotify grow more unrecognizable (Bad Bunny? The Weeknd? BTS?). Some of the band/artist names seem like they were made up by an SNL writer. And I start to feel like a cross between out-of-touch Homer Simpson6 and poor old man-out-of-time Brooks7 from Shawshank Redemption, with time cruelly passing me by. My ability/desire to stay up to date seems to diminish. Like I said, I try. But each year I “get it” a little less. I get a little farther behind. A little less in the know. A little more, as the kids say, cringe.
But wait! What’s this? An epilogue?
Inspired by a recent post by author George Saunders on his fascinating and insightful Substack, I gave Merriweather Post Pavilion another shot. What could Saunders have possibly written to wrest me out of my Animal Collective Hater stance? (Or was this re-listen in the same vein as women who somehow forget what pregnancy and childbirth are like and want to have kids again?)
For me, the pull quote from Saunders’ post was the quote below. Now, he’s talking about literature, but it definitely applies to art in general.
”Our lives as writers and readers and human beings are best served, I think, by an ongoing feeling of humility – taking the ‘blame’ on ourselves, if a piece of writing alludes us, while resolving to keep working at it.”
He talked about how sometimes the timing is wrong and it’s just a matter of tucking it away for another time, which I did. When I revisited Merriweather Post Pavilion this week for the first time in 14 years, I found myself genuinely enjoying it. Not trying to. Not hoping to. But genuinely enjoying it. WHO KNOWS WHY?!? It certainly didn’t change.
If I believe (which I do) that sometimes we intersect with art at precisely the right time, then it would stand to reason that the other side must be true also: sometimes we intersect with art at a time when it simply cannot connect with us. Something about where we are and what it is just isn’t going to jibe. It’s not our fault (though Saunders uses the word “blame”, I think that word is a shorthand stand-in for the bigger concept of timing) and it’s not the art’s fault8.
The epilogue to the epilogue:
After unexpectedly warming to Merriweather Post Pavilion, I remembered that a friend had liked one of the members of Animal Collective, Panda Bear9’s album, the aptly-titled-for-this-particular-change-of-heart-essay Reset. I listened. I liked it so much that I started recommending it to friends whose tastes seemed to be on that wavelength.
Again, I can’t tell you what changed. I really can’t.
But it was awfully fortuitous given I’d just read George Saunders’ piece and was in the process of writing this one.
Merriweather Post Pavilion was the group’s most commercially successful album, peaking at #13 on the U.S. charts. It was also their best-reviewed album, receiving a whopping 9.6 from Pitchfork, 8/10 from NME, with an aggregate score of 89/100 from Metacritic. Uncut called it the landmark American album of the century!?! The critical drool was almost unbearable.
Merriweather Post Pavilion, besides being an Animal Collective album, is also a concert amphitheater in Maryland where you can go see, like, Luke Bryan and O.A.R. and Dave Matthews Band.
In a moment of self-awareness, I can admit that this particular branching out was still just a bunch of American white dudes making indie-ish pop-rock, so perhaps was not the distant branch I had framed it as in my mind. More branch-y in 2009 would’ve been, say, experimental metal band Sunn O)))’s Monolith’s & Dimensions, rapper Mos Def’s The Ecstatic, Tiesto’s Kaleidoscope, or even jazz pianist Vijay Iyer’s Historicity, all of which I just now had to google.
Here are the mostly-folkie-Americana albums that ultimately comprised my Best of 2009 list (which I’m sure you have memorized but will post here again for the rest of the people). I’ve bolded the albums that skew towards Paul Jacobsen’s Regular Programming (which I’m defining as either right on the genre target or by a band I’d been a big fan of for some time)
Megafaun - Gather, Form, & Fly (I wish these guys would make another record)
Swell Season - Strict Joy
The Avett Brothers - I and Love and You
Camera Obscura - My Maudlin Career
The Low Anthem - Charlie Darwin
Sara Watkins - s/t (her covers of Tom Waits' Pony and Jon Brion's Same Mistakes are unreal)
Fanfarlo - Reservoirs (even though it was pretty much Arcade Fire 2.0)
Sparklehorse - Dark Night Of The Soul
Thao - Know Better, Learn Faster
David Rawlings - A Friend of A Friend
Laura Gibson - Beasts of Seasons
Wilco - (the album)
Dave Bazan - Curse Your Branches
Phoenix - Wolfgang Amadeus Phoenix
Joe Henry - Blood From The Stars
I once told a friend, he should kill me if I ever started referring to time periods in my life in “Q”s. Jared, if you’re reading this, I rescind my request.
(Brooks’ letter about his new freedom to his friends back in Shawshank)
Dear fellas,
I can't believe how fast things move on the outside. I saw an automobile once when I was a kid, but now they're everywhere. The world went and got itself in a big damn hurry. The parole board got me into this halfway house called "The Brewer" and a job bagging groceries at the Foodway. It's hard work and I try to keep up, but my hands hurt most of the time. I don't think the store manager likes me very much. Sometimes after work, I go to the park and feed the birds. I keep thinking Jake might just show up and say hello, but he never does. I hope wherever he is, he's doin' okay and makin' new friends. I have trouble sleepin' at night. I have bad dreams like I'm falling. I wake up scared. Sometimes it takes me a while to remember where I am. Maybe I should get me a gun and rob the Foodway so they'd send me home. I could shoot the manager while I was at it, sort of like a bonus. I guess I'm too old for that sort of nonsense any more. I don't like it here. I'm tired of being afraid all the time. I've decided not to stay. I doubt they'll kick up any fuss. Not for an old crook like me.
P.S: Tell Heywood I'm sorry I put a knife to his throat. No hard feelings.
Brooks.
Some art, though, is simply and fundamentally just Not For Me, as Austin Kleon has talked in depth about. Taste and preference are real. Sometimes it’s just not gonna connect, no matter what.
The whole band employs pseudonyms: Panda Bear, Avey Tare, Geologist, Deakin….but their actual names are Brian, David, Josh, and Noah. I’d make fun of them, but I love plenty of bands with made-up pseudonyms….the Traveling Wilburys, the Ramones, Beastie Boys…
And here I am still stuck on Harry Belafonte and The Beach Boys, among others