A Snapshot of 2022: Ethel Cain’s “Preacher’s Daughter”

I don’t know how often one can truly recall a moment when you know a song will stay with you for a while. Despite the medium catering to strong, naked emotions of every kind, it is rare for me to be overtaken by a song to the point that I feel chills down my spine, like I’m transported beyond this mortal coil into the ether that my headphones have created. For those few minutes, I am somewhere else, captivated by what the artist has to say. Maybe it’s the way that the guitar or piano lingers a note, a weeping harmony connecting so succinctly with inexplicable emotion. Suddenly it becomes clear. This isn’t just another song. It’s something more than that.

There wasn’t a lot of reason to suggest that listening to Ethel Cain’s debut album “Preacher’s Daughter” would have a profound impact on me, especially on a first listen. I was the type of person who needed a few run-throughs before calling something great. Given that I had seen the cover art for “Inbred” and mistakenly thought she was a metal singer (something about the crosses and miserable-looking women who stared into your soul), the journey to “A House in Nebraska” was one that was parlayed. I wasn’t wanting something aggressive and shouty. That’s not my style. I want quieter, more introspective melodies to run through these ears. And yet, when she began being called The Southern Gothic Lana Del Rey, it felt mandatory. Sure she hates the title and I’ve grown to think it’s inaccurate, but it got me in the door.

But I start with “A House in Nebraska” not so much because it’s where my journey with Cain starts, but more that it was solidified here. The third time was the charm as I listened to the piano kick off the near eight minute track. It echoed into a void. Every note felt so far apart, as if there was a distance. It’s a track that sounded dark, like yelling into a field, hoping that among the reverb was someone shouting back. But alas, it was a piano simply providing that melancholic cry for something more. It’s by no means the prettiest hook, but what it does implicitly is slow your pulse down, preparing you for something self-reflexive, everything that this album would do so perfectly.

You wouldn’t expect a song whose lyrics begin with “Labored breaths and bed sores” to hold deep meaning, and yet it does. Cain’s voice was deep with remorse, reminiscing like a deeply repressed thought on someone she so longs to be with. By the chorus, she recalls “a dirty mattress on the second floor” where she was happiest. Together with this unnamed lover, they lived a simple life, and it was perfect. The sparse harmonies only add to the ache and suddenly the prose comes to life. Everything builds with clarity. The notes come closer together until her voice drops out, crying “I feel so alone” before a weeping guitar accompanies her.

“A House in Nebraska” is a song that I fell in love with a bit too quickly. It was late one night and I was using my recent Spotify account to discover new music. Over these 75 minutes, I would be transported to a world created by the self-acclaimed Mother of Cain, the artist who claimed that this was a concept album that "centered around the character Ethel Cain, who runs away from home only to meet a gruesome end at the hands of a cannibalistic psychopath." She spoke to a queer identity from The Bible Belt of America, one so used to Christian iconography and desired to escape it for a world of more tolerance. She spoke of a perspective that I hadn’t seen much in my limited pop music experience. This was no Rina Sawayama sticking up a middle finger to homophobes with bops. She was an aching, earnest singer with her own worldview. Front to back, no album touched me so immediately and frequently in 2022 quite like “Preacher’s Daughter.”

In hindsight, I realize that a reason this song resonated was in part that it was one she had been fine-tuning for years. It was a long time fan favorite by the time I finally heard those notes and felt every convulsive emotion run through me. As someone who adores musicians who favor storytelling, Cain had an immediacy that was undeniable. I may have been a lapsed Catholic going on 18 years, but the conflicts that come with that guilt are prominent, questions never entirely going away. I may be at a better place, but the idea of whether it was all good or bad is difficult. Again, this wasn’t the artifice of Sawayama’s “This Hell” meant to dance the pain away. This was a story that creatively captured a sincere effort to find heaven.

Every listen brought me closer to loving the album more. Whereas I often put on records as background, “Preacher’s Daughter” was special. It was a moody piece of provocation meant to consume my whole attention. As my Spotify Wrapped would show, Ethel Cain only came in second to perennial favorite Lana Del Rey in most listened to artist. “A House in Nebraska” was my second-most listened to song (“American Teenager” would also crack the Top 10). It’s true that I am not listening to a thousand albums a year, but the fact that I kept returning to one over and over meant that something was going right. So what was it?

A major reason that I got a Spotify account in 2022 was to expand my taste in music. I personally believed that I had gotten stagnant and could do so much more to better appreciate contemporary artists. I’d listen to new tracks on Fridays, taking notes and tracking down albums. I think I came across a string of storyteller singers after listening to Phoebe Bridgers’ “Destroyer” several times in a row. Having come out of a rough 2021, I wanted to embrace a “gentler” sound, where I was more peaceful and willing to embrace a vulnerability that I had often ignored. Somewhere in my head, I wanted to believe it would improve my outlook, that suddenly I could see hope in the world.

So sure, falling in love with a baroque pop album that ends with a song like “Sun Bleached Flies” that talks about the afterlife is maybe not the most optimistic way of looking at things. There are times within the album that are hellish, like “Ptolemaea” where a piercing scream awaits her death. It’s a work I haven’t really seen this beautifully captured since Tom Waits’ “Mule Variations,” where an artist details their life and effort to escape pain only to find redemption somewhere unexpected. The album ends with a redemptive farewell, suggesting that the journey wasn’t the success she wanted it to be. It was gruesome, uncomfortable, but also a new form of spiritual for someone whose faith was fading fast.

Among the many profound lyrics that cross this album’s path is a particular phrase that has felt truer in recent years. Given that many conservatives have latched onto Don’t Say Gay legislation and harmful anti-trans rhetoric, it’s easy to see Cain singing “God loves you, but not enough to save you” as something greater than meeting her demise. It’s a message she’s always been told since the beginning. Because she’s queer, because she’s different it’s easy to believe that the church’s view of Christian kindness doesn’t apply to her. As stated in “American Teenager”: 

Sunday morning

Hands over my knees in a room full of faces

I'm sorry if I sound off, but I was probably wasted

And didn't feel so good

Head full of whiskey but I always deliver

Jesus, if you're listening let me handle my liquor

And Jesus, if you're there, why do I feel alone in this room with you?

There is an irony that the guitar line near the end of the song calls back to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing.” In this moment, she is a teenager questioning everything. The first verse talks about a soldier “coming home in a box” and that “maybe it was his fault.” In some ways a foreshadowing of the death to follow, but also the sense of unequal parallels for why people left town. He died in war, so he’s noble. She died escaping looking for something better. Who truly is right? It’s a perfect moment that captures Cain’s ability to observe small town attitudes while turning the blame of a dead soldier into a flippant remark that could be applied to her later. Maybe it was her fault for leaving.

Like in “A House in Nebraska,” the beauty of this song is how Cain knows when to pull back, to allow the space to become introspective. As much as this is her riff on Taylor Swift, it’s the declaration of a singular voice as well. There’s so much accomplished within the 24-year-old’s debut that makes one envious. How is she so in tune with every facet of her music? Everything is perfectly placed to capture an eeriness, like on “Family Tree” where her voice grows shaky with a pseudo-gospel tone underlying the haunting melody. It’s the type of sound that is inescapable. She tries to move past this trauma, and yet it’s part of her. 

It's evident in later songs like “Western Nights” and “Thoroughfare” where she tries to dream of a life in the west, in a more progressive and imaginative place. California will provide their freedoms, maybe even happiness. All they have to do is find a way there. Whatever happens, it has to be better than where they are now. Given that a lot of the instrumentals find long stretches of bridges and breakdowns, Cain is creating a whole atmosphere that feels as much like a progressing narrative as it is a journey through the emotional stimuli that makes up her brain. The difficulty to break free of her past self is impossible to escape, and yet something drives her. 

The journey is something cinematic. It’s so beautiful that being an accomplice makes one able to unpack their own biases and struggles. Maybe as a Californian, I cannot relate to The Bible Belt mentality being so suffocating, but I can the effort to believe that your identity is valid and not something to be ashamed of. No matter what happens, you deserve to be proud of who you are. The fact that this could’ve ended cynically and instead ends with a dark perverse sign of hope is evident that there is some value to spirituality. It’s just not something found in judging others over unchangeable things. 

As I write this, Ethel Cain recently came out with a collaboration with Florence Welch. She has been named an artist to watch in 2023 and “American Teenager” has been featured on several Best Song lists (including President Obama's, bewilderingly). I am grateful that there’s a world outside of me who has fallen in love with this album as much as I have. It’s inspired me to work backward (“Inbred” is a pretty good hint at what’s to come) and keep an eye on her Instagram. No matter what, she hasn’t left my most listened to artists column ever since that day I discovered “A House in Nebraska.”

A lot of albums over the year have resonated with me for various reasons, but few have managed to capture so succinctly what I love about music. It’s the potential to create conversation, building an atmosphere that overwhelms with so many contradictory emotions at once, finding new meaning in identities not often seen. Even if Sawayama’s excellent “Hold the Girl” also dealt with queer identity, it’s unlikely that she’d end it with her grisly murder like this. It’s a moment that elevates everything, making one amazed at her potential. This is a character study, and one that is difficult to imitate. This involves commitment, to understand oneself on a deeper level and be willing to go on a journey. It’s a perfect album and one that leaves you feeling fulfilled by the end. 

I’ll end by saying that I’ve long had trouble finding music that speaks to me and is considered universally great. I always feel like I’m off with that. In 2022, I just accepted that I have my own tastes, and this is among that list. I could be doing more to expand my pallet, but for now, I’m loving Ethel Cain. Given that there’s a B-Sides planned for 2023, I’ll have more reason to embrace her wonderful perspective. For now, I leave with a post she made about the future release: “the vibes for the b-sides EP is just friday night lights season 1 but like an episode when someone gets hit by a car and they have a vigil in the park.” Sounds lovely. Can’t wait.