The Bad Arts 003: The Album Josh Tillman Made That Inspired Me To Reconsider My Disdain
No, that's not a song title from Mahashmashana, the sixth studio album from Father John Misty, it's my how-I-stopped-worrying-and-learned-to-potentially-like-Father-John-Misty-crisis.
“Every aspect of Pure Comedy has been given careful consideration to make a greater immediate impact. The execution of how he has brought the songs to life through the overall production of the album has resulted in thirteen perfectly crafted compositions.”
“However, when you strip away the theatrical instrumentation, obnoxious quotes from Pitchfork interviews and the character traits that define Father John Misty (arrogant, sleazy, misunderstood) you have to wonder what is left? Where does his appeal come from?”
These are two contrasting summations of Father John Misty and his work, which arrived a mere fifteen months apart, made by the same person. That’s right, it was me and not the writer who rejected the opportunity to review his latest record due to their own misgivings with Mr. Tillman.
The first excerpt is taken from a glowing review of Joshua Tillman’s third outing under the Father John Misty moniker, Pure Comedy . The second, and more soured critique, are my final thoughts on the prompt 2018 follow-up, God’s Favorite Customer. That was the moment when the light dimmed on my flickering fandom of the former Fleet Foxes drummer who, over a decade ago, seamlessly slipped into the role of verbose 21st Century commentator. For several years after that favourable review of Pure Comedy was published, as much as I tried to forget it, it would crawl back into my consciousness. Sometimes quite literally stopping me in my tracks, ruthlessly sending a nauseating pang of anxiety to the pit of my stomach. It sounds ridiculously dramatic, but I’m not exaggerating. As the things I gravitated towards in songwriting evolved, those conflicting critical evaluations were cemented online even though my feelings towards some aspects to the work had changed. Any admiration I once had for Tillman off the strength of the first two Father John Misty LPs — Fear Fun and I Love You, Honeybear — was replaced with absolute abhorrence.
In the intervening years, I’ve thought extensively about the conundrum of listening to someone you find painfully irritating but whose musical sensibility is alligned with the artists and genres that are wired into your DNA. It’s a trivial problem to have, I fully appreciate this, but I’d so stubbornly shut the door on Father John Misty in 2018 that to relinquish that stance now would somehow compromise the integrity of my negative response to God’s Favorite Customer. Changing your opinion is obviously allowed, especially when it comes to art. A song, a book or a film can unlock something in someone if they come to it at just the right moment. That’s one of the stranger aspects working as a music critic because sometimes you aren’t sure which key will fit the lock in-front of you when your time is limited.
Collaborating with producer Jonathan Wilson, the go-to guy if you’re seeking a lush 1970s chamber-pop orchestration or wistful Laurel Canyon folk instrumentation to pair with your wordy and often surrealist lyricism, since the dawning of the Father John Misty age up to the latest offering, should provide a solid throughline in his discography that’s enough to maintain some interest in his artistry. Tonally, yes, Father John Misty chooses well from the artists and songs that he wants to rip off and Wilson does an excellent job at recreating it for him. So, musically, the progression across the six albums has been more palatable.
It’s Tillman himself where my grievances reside. From the moment he uttered, “Last night I wrote a poem / Man, I must have been in the poem zone” on ‘The Palace’, I rolled my eyes dangerosly far to the back of my head and fired a few profanities in the direction of the speaker. I was done. The comical absurdist streak in his lyricism now felt conceited. Thereafter, headlines about him performing in a Scott Walker celebration concert, having ‘Real Love Baby’ soundtrack every second influencer’s Instagram story of their morning matcha on a sterile kitchen counter, and his recent return to social media would send me into an irrational spiral.
However, when I learned that Father John Misty would be releasing his sixth studio album, Mahashmashana (a Sanskrit term that translates as “great cremation ground, all things put going thither”), I would be lying if I said I wasn’t remotely intrigued. My curiousity was surprising given that when Chloë and The Next 20th Century came out in 2022, I reluctantly made it through the first three tracks before turning it off out of frustration only to complete my first full listen through last month. Perhaps it was the invocation of death, burial and a potential rebirth that made this seem like as good an opportunity as any to get reaquainted with Father John Misty. Would he be a changed artist? Would I enjoy his music as I had before? Could I set aside my disdain and listen to these eight tracks without the weight of my God’s Favorite Customer baggage hanging over them?
In preparation for Mahashmashana’s release, I undertook a listening exercise; go through Father John Misty’s catalogue chronologically (I realise this has become a bit of a recurring theme on The Bad Arts) and see how I responded to the songs a decade on, in some instances, from when I heard them first. And to see how his songwriting had evolved over the years, especially now following a period that, even from the briefest of glances, seems to have been informed by self-reflection and having a serious talking with himself. I was also curious to hear what the reference points for Mahashmashana would be given the sometimes Harry Nilsson, sometimes vaudeville turns on Chloë and The Next 20th Century. Would this be the Father John Misty goes to India album? Well, no.
When I did eventually press play on Mahashmashana’s expansive opening title track, I wasn’t entirely surprised to hear him essentially recreate the Phil Spector-like orchestral bombast of Leonard Cohen’s 1977 LP, Death Of A Ladies Man. Initially, I was irked by the overt rip-off of the sumptuous soaring strings and thundering drums in the opening moments of the album.This seems illogical because to me that album is Cohen’s masterpiece and Spector’s signature Wall of Sound style is easily my favourite type of musical expression. Later on, Tillman adorns a ‘True Love Leaves No Traces’-like cloak embellished with shimmering flutes, tumbling bongos and soft drums elevated by a stirring sax solo and pedal steel on the “emotionally charged” ‘Mental Health’.
Heralding Death of A Ladies Man should be a positive thing, right? In theory, yes however in practice, it felt a little derivative in how closely it stuck to the blueprint. It’s actually astonishing how much he’s ripped off the arrangement to the title track of Cohen’s track, so much so that you can sing the original lyrics over ‘Mahashmashana’ and it still works! That said, I did find Tillman’s presence on the chorus to be captivating, more so than the copied orchestration that comes close to consuming him. He sings of doing a corpse dance, procreating in a porsche and questioning the very existance of God. It’s dense material (and a lot of it went over my head because I still don’t feel compelled enough to care about what he’s pontificating about), and yet, whilst taking a break from work to watch L.A. Confidential I couldn’t get the central refrain of the song’s title in the chorus out of my head whilst trying to keep up with the ins-and-outs of the Night Owl murders. For that, I must commend Father John Misty’s evergreen propensity for a hook.
One of the more surprising reference points on the record is Sea Change. The drama of ‘Josh Tillman and The Accidental Dose’ — a sort of sequel to ‘The Night Josh Tillman Came To Our Apt’ — is accelerated by the string motifs akin to the mesmerising David Campbell arrangements on Beck’s ‘Paper Tiger’ (itself a nod to Serge Gainsbourg circa Histoire de Melody Nelson) where he recounts an uncomfortable encounter soundtracked by Astral Weeks. Later, he croons, “Around this time, I publicly was treating acid with anxiety / I was unwell, and suddenly /Her clown portraits spoke to me,” referring to a period from 2016 during which he described dosing himself with LSD to aid three separate PTSD diagnoses. Again, this was another instance where my first encounter with the song was met with an eye-roll induced by the Van Morrison nod, the “Pynchon yuppie” character and the use of the Humpty-Dumpty line, “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men” (which also features in ‘Song of The Lake’ from the latest Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds’ LP). It was another moment where I just flabbergasted at how blantantly he was copying instrumentation, vast and rich orchestration, which is impressive even just from its sheer breadth to a casual ear.
In spite of my amusement at his tonal thievery, I tried to allow myself to appreciate the production quality, different strands of ambition displayed in the varied arrangements and Tillman’s audit on his lyrical density without compromising on pointed jibes at the music industry. However, it feels like you actually need to care to reap the full benefits of his sardonic quips. The disco-fused, clavinet-laced ‘I Guess Time Just Makes Fools Of Us All’ is amongst Tillman’s finer lyrical outings on Mahashmashana in how he manages to incorporate Allen Ginsberg, Goliath, a “himbo ken doll” and his dealings with a once respected music publication in one song: “Yours is easily the least famous / To turn down the cover of the Rolling Stone.” A reference to a publicist at Sub Pop being told by Rolling Stone magazine that Father John Misty was, as the lyric goes, the least famous artist to pass up a chance to pose for their cover. I have to hand it to him, that’s pretty funny.
I’ve spent the week listening to Mahashmashana and aside from my frustrations surrounding the lack of inventiveness in furthering his interpretations of other artists sensibilities — in this way, I do think that his first three albums is where his tonal textural identity is most evident, now it feels like he’s trying to show off his record collection — or the fact that there’s still something in the persona that just doesn’t appeal to me twelve years into this character, there are elements to the album that are appealing and I cannot completely disregard.
As ever, his vocals move smoothly through the songs and the arrangements somehow cohesively shift between minimal accompaniments and maximalist expression, sometimes occuring in one song as ‘Screamland’ (featuring Alan Sparhawk lending some searing guitar tones) can attest. That was one of the more compelling compositions (although not without its foibles) on the album for its contemporary complexion courtesy of the electronically-charged eruptions in the chorus where Tillman’s vocals reach immense heights as he howls, “Stay young / Get numb / Keep dreaming.” Its cinematic edge conjures images of a trailer for an apocalyptic space-based action blockbuster starring Glen Powell.
In the end, was revisiting Father John Misty’s albums in preparation for Mahashmashana worth it? I mean, no but I’m moreso glad to have done it than not. It wasn’t a complete waste of time, but I also can’t see myself reaching for his music again anytime soon. There’s nothing in his musical identity that excites me in; he’s a melt and hasn’t got an original melody floating around his head. It was fun to revisit the songs scattered across his first three albums that I used to really love and see how some continue to resonate while others have slipped through the cracks. I enjoyed the freedom of approaching Mahashmashana without the pressure of critically evaluating it for work. Instead, listening to the album, it had that new car smell where you’re the driver and not the salesperson. That gave my time with the album a more intimate feel.
This exercise, or Mahashmashana for that matter, hasn’t made me a card-carrying Father John Misty fan, if anything, it’s pushed me further into the “He’s a self-important spoofer” categrory. I do, however, think I can move on from the vitriolic loathing I had for him to a much healthier indifference to the noise surrounding him outside of the work. No more retroactive guilt becasue I once really liked one of his albums. For that, it was all worth it.