keep all of your oxygen

Musical history is strewn with those who sang about their abyss and who could not stand to live with it any longer. When Elliott Smith died, it was noted, somewhat callously, that it was not very surprising that a person who traded in misery eventually gave into it. The reaction to Chester Bennington’s passing was grief and sadness, but not shock. Not really. It is often said that sad songs are cathartic, and while I still believe that is true, the artist is often the one who bears the cost of giving voice to the worst of themselves night after night, year after year. I have not been able to stop thinking about Scott Hutchison; it feels viciously unfair that someone who helped me and many others to make it through the night could not make it through his own. It feels unfair that he offered us catharsis and we could not save him.  You can tell your favourite artists that you love them, you can tell them how important their work is; you cannot make them feel it. Love given is not always love received.

In February of 2019, Julien Baker cancelled her Asia tour midway through, citing “unforeseen personal matters.”  Typically, when an artist pulls out of performances on very short notice, there’s some public backlash; people can be disappointed and irritated. But here, the response was overwhelming concern, contrary to her own repeated proclamations that no one worries about her. The unspoken fear stung like an infected wound: what if this is it. I am not particularly inclined to prayer, and I found myself begging whoever might listen. Please, I need to know she’s okay. Please, I need to know I can be okay.

In June of that same year, Julien released her cover of The Modern Leper, as part of a tribute to Frightened Rabbit that had become a memorial.  It is a song that holds a special place in my heart, to the extent that calling it my favourite feels too trivial. It is like much of Julien’s own work; The Modern Leper is confessional and apologetic and self-lacerating to the point of brutality. It is a love song that says very little about the other except to question the wisdom of their choices. It forces you to look at the bloody cost of the love you have received. More than anything, it makes you grateful for all the love you have been given.

The first time I heard Julien’s version, I broke down sobbing at the line “I am ill / but I’m not dead / I don’t know which of those I prefer”. Julien resonates with her audience because we know what it is to not feel particularly attached to being alive. Those who know what it is to fall exhausted to your knees, fist buried in the chapel door. Those who know what it is to claw desperately through the core of yourself, trying to find something, anything that might make you redeemable. Those who remember how it feels to stare into the eyes of someone who loves you as you let them down again and again and again.

And I know that nothing is guaranteed and that everything could fall apart at any moment. I know that the arc of history is trending towards destruction and that I cannot keep myself or my loved ones safe. But I have this life now, and I am eternally grateful that some of it has intersected with Julien Baker.  I’m glad that she’s stuck around; the world is better with her in it.