Two weeks ago, I went to my annual oncologist appointment. I have spent the last twelve years cancer-free. Still, after three rounds of chemo, three surgeries, a loss of personal identity, and enduring PTSD, the anticipation that it will somehow return, statistics aside, remains. A giant shadow is cast over late February every year.
I recorded and eventually released a collection of demos from this period called Ride The . A demo is a roadmap for a later “professional” recording. This demo ended up being the final product. No other versions were ever recorded. However unpolished and messy, the recordings contain the voice of someone going through chemotherapy for stage III cancer, and that’s just something that can’t be re-recorded without losing the soul living within them. In a review of Adrianne Lenker’s new album Bright Future, the critic Andy Cush had the following to say about the straight-to-tape approach, “By demonstrating so explicitly that this is how the music sounded in this room, on this day, they’re also implying that it might have sounded quite different in another place, another time.” I could not agree more. This isn’t just an analog vs. digital argument but also an autobiographical statement. Producing commercial-sounding records becomes a real “who gives a shit” kind of scenario when you’re working on leaving the living.
A few years ago, I heard a record that probably would have helped me through this time. John Grabski and his brother Benjamin, performing as Teeth, put out The Strain in 2012. They had traveled to Chicago to record with Steve Albini following John’s cancer diagnosis. He would pass away shortly after its release, but the record stands as one of the most outstanding Grunge records ever recorded. The record’s release coincided with my diagnosis and hospitalizations. I wish I had known about it at the time. Its anger, frustration, dark humor, honesty, and pure visceral energy would have comforted me in moments of desperation.
After hearing an interview this week with Marisa Dabice of Mannequin Pussy in which she talks about having a rare form of cancer in her teens, I wondered if that was part of my immediate connection to their music when I first heard it some eight years ago. It could very well be that their music just fucking slays (definitely check out the new record), but I like to think that, on some level, I was listening to a singer whose emotional language was one that I also spoke fluently.
Strangely, I don’t remember finding comfort in music while sick. There was no soundtrack to the disease. The only song I vividly associate with that time is Kenny Roger’s The Gambler. And this is only because I ate a really potent pot brownie that my grandmother made. Bald, with Zofran holding back chemo sickness and stoned out of my mind, I decided that this was the perfect moment to dive into the complexities of this song. I got really lost in the music, going beyond the veneer, and by the time it was over, it seemed like a few days had passed.
Generally, though, I was too focused on the idea that I might soon be doing my rock-and-roll shuffle off this mortal coil. I wanted to leave something behind, so the only real music I listened to was what I had the energy to make myself. But, if I had been listening to music, I would have liked to have at least one playlist like the one I put together this week. I have attempted to collect a range of music from performers knowingly navigating serious illness while recording. Most of the playlist contains short tracks from J Dilla’s Donuts between each track (I ran out near the end - he recorded 31 tracks for the record - his age at the time of its recordings). Most of these songs have “sad” endings in that they were the last recordings the artists made (exceptions being Neil Young’s Prairie Wind and Wilko Johnson’s Going Back Home).
But it is essential, I think, to note that perspectives on mortality shift fundamentally when faced with its invitation via disease. They are more so perspectives on life, since death is really just a moment. The common thread being the questions, “What have I learned here? What was important?” J Dilla’s Donuts was released three days after his death from an incurable blood disease. Yet, it begins with Donuts (outro) and ends with Welcome to the Show. The song People from donuts contains a sample of Mujhe Maar Daalo by Asha Bhosle (1973). The lyrics to the song when translated tell the story of a woman, close to the end of her life, who wants to prove that death is not the end. It is unclear whether Dilla knew this, but I personally think, awareness aside, that these things are never mistakes. Donuts are records, but more importantly they are little circular metaphors for the the continuation of spirit. Goodbye by Lee “Scratch” Perry holds the same position. This is a fond farewell to this plane of existence and a greeting card to the next.
That’s not to say that there is no gloom going on.
Illness brings on a complex flood of emotions. 20220207 by Ryuichi Sakamoto, with its bursts of beauty and hope, exists on a framework of despair accentuated by his labored breathing. On You Want It Darker, Leonard Cohen sings, “ a million candles burning for the help that never came.” The song seems to be saying, I’ve spent a lifetime observing the human condition, “Hineni, hineni, I’m ready, my Lord.” Sometimes, understanding comes in the form of complete bewilderment and, ultimately, surrender. Neil Young sings, “It’s a dream, only a dream. Just a memory without anywhere to stay.” Young, who was undergoing surgery for an aneurysm during the production of this album, was perhaps seeing himself out. But Young is still with us. He is still renting space inside “the memory” for the time being. Hey, hey, my my. Rock and Roll can never die.
This playlist may not appeal to all, though I think meditations on death can and probably should happen more often - not just in the presence of illness. It certainly shouldn’t be viewed as off-limits by anyone. I am finding comfort in this music with a clean bill of health and over a decade after my diagnosis. Maybe some of this music will also speak to someone currently undergoing a health issue and feeling alone, offering up a few musical companions who have been in a similar place. Music is therapy and not confined to songs of optimism, sound healing, or New Age music. All those things can do the trick, but so can any piece of music in relationship to a specific emotion or situation. I recently lost Hanky, my Pomeranian protector and constant companion for 16 years. She is the one riding the rocking horse on the cover of Ride The alongside my other departed dog angel, Dharma. In some of our last moments together, we lay on the wood floor as fireworks from the baseball stadium went off in the twilight. Together we listened to Pua Hone by The Brothers Cazimero. This is a song of deep mourning now, but also one that has the power to transport me through space and time. I am instantly back with my best friend. In that way, it is also a song of remembrance, appreciation, and healing.
Listen to the playlist here.
Life Is—Jessica Pratt
Lyrically, this relates to my main rambling for the week. Theme aside, I can’t stop listening to this song. It begins with a perfectly, naturally executed Ronettes-style drum beat, followed by strings that hover, winged beside a bass line, cautiously strolling along. Then, this ethereal, otherworldly voice enters and helps us along the path. Her voice feels like it exists in the same universe as Julee Cruise but just on the other side of darkness, the Garmonbozia no longer needed for sustenance.
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