75. Father John Misty - “The Memo”

You’ve heard of the phrase “love to hate”, well Father John Misty is one of those artists that I hate to love. Don’t get me wrong, I think he’s a brilliant and witty individual that’s incisive and insightful in an intellectual and endearing sort of way that sets him apart from the majority of artists. However, I also think he’s a pretentious and haughty individual, so much so that it taints my affection with an oily sheen of regret.

Now I don’t think this is entirely his fault. In fact, if anything I think it’s my fault. I relate to him in a way (especially my college-aged self). Having both had the same upbringing of privilege I can see a lot of myself in him. We both enjoy criticizing things from afar, preferring to do the heavy lifting with our intellect and wit rather than through actual action and sacrifice. It’s the classic “the world is fucked and I know its fucked, so let me set myself a part and display my intellect by criticizing it and talking about how fucked up it is, and then I can excuse myself from actually caring or trying to do something because its so fucked up that its beyond repair and any attempt to fix it would just be silly, naive, and futile” mentality a.k.a. young white nihilistic-leftist male mentality a.k.a. so woke we’re asleep mentality, and it achieves nothing but a sort of removed and selfish narcissism while those who are vulnerable and actually suffering continue to do so.

Anyway, all those shortcomings aside, I think his songs are great commentaries, especially for anyone who appreciates literature and therefore lyrics. This jam in particular tackles the hypocritical dilemma of the previous paragraph. Father John Misty isn’t oblivious. He recognizes his faults, and yet he also realizes how impossible it is to change. Almost as if he’s a microcosm of the world at large, so intertwined with the whole that changing himself seems just as futile. It’s a perfect take-down of our modern social media-driven and technologically dependent society – a sort of exposé of post-modernism, the pot calling the kettle black, railing against the system even while caught within its clutches. It’s like looking into a mirror and suddenly seeing yourself for what you are, struggling to change and escape from it, only to eventually fall back into line, marching to the same ‘ol rhythm while following the same inextricable and indomitable ruts of those who came before.