Monday Melodies: St. Vincent –“Masseduction” (2017)

There was a point in writing last week’s entry that I found myself intrigued by something that I never realized before. Along with Lorde’s “Melodrama,” Jack Antonoff also produced one of my favorite albums with Lana Del Rey’s “Norman Fucking Rockwell.” In general, I’ve come to realize that I’ve liked his work and I wanted to know what else he’s done. Sure, he did a few Taylor Swifts, but what compelled me was what I hadn’t heard before. Looking through his discography, I came across a certain title that had escaped me in 2017, but that I had been curious by due to the infinite positive reviews: St. Vincent’s “Masseduction.”

I’m ashamed to say that the last time I listened to a full St. Vincent album was 2009’s “Actor.” If this is your only entry point, then “Masseduction” will seem like a bit of a curveball. To be fair, I had seen her iconic performance with Dua Lipa at The Grammy Awards and remember liking it, though as I’ve quickly come to realize it wasn’t a proper representation of what her 2017 album was going to sound like. It was a slowed-down version of “Masseduction” that was done more in a flirtatious manner, as much relying on Lipa’s soothing voice singing a rendition of “One Kiss” as the audience cheered them on.

Still, if you had to ask me who St. Vincent was I’d think of a very specific archetype. She is a quiet, tortured soul who has a love for these dark, moody harmonies. What drew me to check out “Actor” was that she wrote songs like she would an orchestra for her favorite movies. She would put The Wizard of Oz (1939) on mute and try to compose for different scenes. Despite being an album that I really liked at the time, she faded into my subconscious and only ever emerged when someone used “Paint the Black Hole Blacker” in a TV show. Even the fact that my friend talked about her self-titled album obsessively that year wasn’t enough to put on those headphones and give it a shot.

“Actor” is a dark record, and it’s difficult for me to properly put into context with “Masseduction.” Where the slower songs clearly have the same drive, there is more heart and soul in her 2017 album, finding a singer experimenting both in the soundscape as well as lyrics. As I read on her Wikipedia that she tries to embody different personalities on each of her albums, I began to feel guilt that I hadn’t been into her all along. If they’re as immediately fulfilling as “Masseduction,” I can only imagine her jumping up into my favorites. It’s not just that she plays guitar with this erotic passion. She genuinely has a grasp on her identity and those bold risks are incredible.

She at times feels like a disciple of Prince, constantly pushing the boundaries of subject matter while not being afraid to be vulnerable. She isn’t afraid to dive more into glam rock and new wave, making the beat overwhelm her vocals. It also is impressive that she’s so capable of guiding a song that when the last third shifts to something more harmonious, it works despite being a stark contrast to the busier beginnings. She yells with an intensity, finding something grandiose in every decision. It’s a deeply emotional album and one that even feels that way in the guitar slides and high-pitched whines.

“Masseduction” is so full of confidence, at times reminding me of the more sexual side of Madonna records. The way that she openly discusses her identity, her willingness to put herself out there. She even has her ex, actress Cara Delevingne, do back-up vocals on “Pills.” I’m not entirely sure if this is an album that I would’ve appreciated three years ago, but right now it’s one that captures longing and desire that is vivid. It especially feels true on the closing song “Smoking Section,” which transposes a poem into a question about what could possibly be greater than love.

Of course, it opens with a similarly fraught declaration with “Hang on Me.” In her familiar breathy whine, she recalls a relationship on the verge of falling apart, the synths beating like a heart out of time. She declares “We’re not meant for this world,” suggesting that everything may be coming to a close. And yet, there is that hope, that wishes to keep things alive. The instrumentation grows woozy, feeling the melancholic as the desperation grows, the chorus continuing to find St. Vincent asking her lover to “hang on me.” The orchestra swells, finding the bittersweet kicking in as the acceptance becomes more clear. It’s tearful, finding the hope of dying inside as the song concludes.

This is immediately followed by what comes across as a deranged left turn, finding St. Vincent moving from her melancholy into an electropop form, finding optimism in the idea of “Pills.” As she rattles off the title 20 times in a single chorus, she comments on her numbness, turning it into some fantasy of escapism. Everything needs a pill to work, and she’s turned it into a delirious pop song, where to sing it feels like consumption. She’s almost too upbeat, especially when paired with verses that parody the drug addiction stories of rocks stars as she suggests that:

I'm behind the wheel, I'm leavin' your state

I can't even swim in these waves I made

From the bath to the drain, and the plane to the stage

To the bed, to give head, to the money I made

There’s a numbing quality to it, finding St. Vincent eventually shifting away from the tempo into something slower, coming to terms with her altered state. She encourages everyone to join her at “the wall,” It’s the feeling of being burned out, that every piece of escapism has left her feeling empty, unable to creatively function.

It’s a nice counterpoint to the next song, the upbeat, aggressive tones of “Masseduction.” It’s the most alive song on the record, finding her vocals receiving moderate distortion as she sings about “I can’t turn off what turns me on.” She sounds like she’s teasing the audience, giving in to her desires, as cryptic as they sometimes come across. Still, it’s the alluring guitar that gives the song its personality, making one able to feel the weight of her passion. It’s a full-bodied song, expressing every last desire inside of her, and it’s amazing even if some of it doesn’t make sense. At this point, you just have to trust St. Vincent. She is putting herself out there, and you’re in awe of how shameless it all is. Add in “Sugarboy” right after, and you get the most enjoyable section of pure, unadulterated rock on the whole album.

Another thing worth mentioning about this album is that the music videos are some of the most perplexing ones I’ve seen. On the one hand, it’s always been a staple of art-rock to push boundaries, confusing viewers, and evoking complicated emotions. St. Vincent exists in that realm, and I think has kept the tradition alive for many of her videos for this album. “Pills” feels like a hallucinogenic retro advertisement. “Masseduction” features dancers dancing at fragmented pacing while nuclear bombs go off. It eventually ends with signals being sent while crossing over each other, almost hypnotically and possibly looking like breasts, which makes the war/sex parallels more perplexing.

It continues on “Los Ageless,” which continues the personal exercise of understanding this world through her eyes. The song itself comments on how the fears of growing old don’t exist. It’s borderline sci-fi as she sings of girls playing guitars in cages and claiming “I’m a monster and you’re my sacred cow.” She finds something haunting in it, and it’s matched by the music videos, featuring beautification processes straight out of Brazil (1985) as her skin is pulled and she consumes strange plants. With vibrant backgrounds, the whole thing subverts the image, suggesting that something more unpleasant and supernatural is going on. 

This is a city of the ageless, and it’s interesting to find this idea perfectly matched up with a direct jolt. In some respects, it could even be argued that she comes out of a cosmetic store in Los Angeles and finds the Johnny of “Happy Birthday Johnny” sitting on the sidewalk. This city is known for having an obscene homeless crisis and St. Vincent seems to be mired with regret over this particular instance. 

It’s a sympathetic song, finding the struggle to deal with a self-destructive friend. It’s the worry that you’re never there for them. The lack of vanity on this song, reducing more to a ballad structure. There are tears as she begins to comment on how tough it was to get along:

But if they only knew the real version of me

Only you know the secrets, the swamp, and the fear

What happened to blood? Our family?

Annie, how could you do this to me?

The choice to end by saying that she hopes he finds peace makes for a somber conclusion, but an ultimately hopeful one. There’s been regret in her voice, at times counterbalancing the self-absorption of earlier tracks and the need to notice the problems of the world. It puts her life into context, the need to care for others and for others to care about themselves. It’s not the happiest of songs, but it definitely comes with the hope that a new year brings with it resolutions that are fulfilling, worthwhile. 

I think it picks up in the back section. After more intriguing songs that range in tempo, the closing numbers bring with it a certain sense of sadness and acceptance. Amid songs like “Fear the Future” and “Young Lover” (itself one of the kinkier songs since “Masseduction”), she finds herself questioning her place in the world. Starting with “Dancing With a Ghost,” she transitions into the separation, the acceptance that everything didn’t work out. The orchestra becomes richer during this part, capturing the ennui that exists inside of her. She sings of the “Slow Disco,” haunting backing vocals kick in and play like memories keeping her company, themselves losing their muster.

The closing number, "Smoking Section," is a quiet poem that uses a repetitive structure. The piano plays its somber march as she talks about different stages of her life. In each case, she ends by singing “Let it happen, let it happen, let it happen.” There is a need to push herself, and it focuses on being starved for attention, possibly even referencing suicidal thoughts regarding guns and jumping from tall buildings. In each case, she repeats those three words in hopes that something will make sense. 

Despite all the rumbling of negative emotion inside, it ends with a direct statement of:

And then I think

What could be better than love, than love, than love?

It’s not the end, it’s not the end

In its simplest form, St. Vincent perfectly captures the will to go on, finding that happiness somewhere in her life. In an album mixing joys with fears, she has found that both are inescapable parts of life. This isn’t the end, and you can’t help but admire that. It’s a dark depression that a lot of people face, and getting to that conclusion is very difficult. Given the journey that this album takes, it makes sense that she’s as vulnerable about being herself as reflecting on those that reject her for the same reasons.

What I love is how personal this album feels, managing to convey pop and rock into something accessible while also being wild and out there. I’m still disappointed that it took me so long to listen to my second St. Vincent album, especially since she’s a gifted storyteller whose musicianship is pretty wonderful. There are endless points on this where I was impressed, wrapped up in emotion, and understanding the value of art as expression. I can’t say that I understood it all, but that’s what listening to it again and again is for. It’s a love story, a satire, a deconstruction of ourselves. We shouldn’t be afraid to be who we want to be, because those who really love us will accept it.