Posted on

A New Beginning, or the End of Everything?

On her new EP, Noah Cyrus’s maturity shines through, illuminating struggles from which she has recovered and encapsulating the uncertainty of a lonely pandemic.

Noah Cyrus’s 2020 EP, The End of Everything, offers an intimate view of her personal life.

In the midst of a global pandemic with no apparent end in sight, it’s difficult to feel any semblance of hope for the future, or at least the near future. Socially-distanced outings, businesses reopening with limited capacities, and our inevitable marriage-like unions with Zoom events feign some sense of normalcy, but we’ve all questioned if, and when, we would ever again see someone’s smile or feel the crisp fall breeze against our tired eyes during morning strolls. The small aspects of pre-pandemic life that we failed to notice before have become simple memories under the sense of doom we all feel in the core of our being. Is this the end of everything, or at least life as we know it? How do we act as normal teenagers during this unprecedented time, especially while experiencing heartbreak and loneliness? Noah Cyrus, a triple-threat singer, songwriter, and actress, tackles these questions on her 2020 EP, The End of Everything.

Released on May 15, 2020 in the height of lockdown restrictions, The End of Everything grapples with hopelessness, loss, and doubts about self-worth  — feelings that we have all struggled with as of late. Although most, if not all, of these songs were written before the pandemic, her timely release of the album offers a comforting view of the sadness and changes that come with teenage years and becoming a young adult. Combining the fragile vocal style of Billie Eilish with joyous gospel harmonies and the smooth Southern country sound of sister, Miley, and father, Billy Ray, Noah Cyrus has successfully created her own voice. Without even listening to the lyrics of her songs, the emotions pour down like rain on a cool spring day. The minimalist piano accompaniment draws attention to Cyrus’s delicate yet powerful voice on the album’s eight tracks, creating a tragically beautiful and intimate narrative.

The album opens with four soft, pregnant minor piano chords that set a somber mood for “Ghost” before Cyrus’s vocals even come in. When she does enter, she maintains the mysterious and heavy ambience with dynamic swells and decrescendos. Cyrus ends most sentences with a soft whisper that almost cries out for help, deceiving us into thinking that this ballad will end in a quiet stream of tears. Cyrus then unexpectedly introduces her pop side into the song’s chorus at 0:45 with multi-tracked vocals and an electronic music-inspired backing beat. She teeters back and forth between the two moods throughout the song, eventually ending fading away on the latter. It’s a curious and unexpected opening to the album; the majority of the EP (minus the penultimate song, “Wonder Years,”) forgoes pop fusion, instead opting for full country-inspired soft acoustic ballads.

Nestled snugly in the middle of the album, “Young and Sad” highlights Cyrus’s struggles with feeling worthless. A voicemail memo from her famous country-star father starts the song. “Hey bud, this is ol’ dad, just wanted you to know, you ain’t alone, keep a smile on your face, everything’s gonna be fine. I love you.” His words exude familiarity and warmth, giving a direct glimpse into Cyrus’s personal life. We rarely see such personal touches on songs; here, it’s like reading into her diary. Cyrus creates a deep sense of intimacy in the production of the song: It’s as much about her voice’s relationship with the guitar as it is her relationship with her family. She quietly enters after the voice memo with a plucked-guitar melody and vocals drenched in sadness. With poignant, raw lyrics, Cyrus questions her integrity and place in the world, especially growing up in the shadows of her country-pop sensation sister, Miley. While life in a multi-superstar family isn’t an experience that many can relate to, most of us understand the fear of not living up to familiar or societal expectations. The repeated lyric, “Don’t wanna be young and sad another day longer,” resonates with young people around the world: Why are we living our young adulthood, the so-called best days of our lives, pining over people who don’t even care? It’s a question so many grapple with; a question that Cyrus herself may not be able to answer. Instead, her lyrics offer kind emotional consolation to anyone who may be hurting.

Standing in stark juxtaposition to the EP’s flow of lyrically-rich songs, the dreamy “Wonder Years” yet again highlights Cyrus’s musical versatility and stylistic breadth. Her solo voice with which we’ve fallen in love so far on the album has been replaced by a buttery smooth amalgamation of nearly incoherent words. Sung in a sort of Sprechstimme/pseudo-rap/soft folk style, lyrics that were so important on other tracks no longer matter here. Rather, both the ambience and collaboration with singer-songwriter-rapper Ant Clemons tie the song together. Cyrus’s sweet airy mezzo voice dances around Clemons’s smooth digitally-tuned tenor voice, building up into a zenith of swirling vocal sounds, jazzy accompaniment, and powerful cries of repetitious lyrics. The texture builds until it breaks. Suddenly, we’re freed from the encapsulating moment and brought back into the reality of slow, peaceful country roads with nothing but the sounds of an approaching car on a dirt road and the happy whistling of her melody. Out of place in a normal pop song, maybe. But for Noah Cyrus, she’s constantly reminding us of her roots. This is her story to tell.

Cyrus paints an intricate picture of love and loss, self-love and self-hate, joy and sadness, pride and humility. That’s what makes The End of Everything so heartbreaking: you can’t help but cry as you listen to her pain. It’s like sitting around a bonfire with a friend on a cool autumn evening, crying over tea about the boys you once loved or the memories you mourn. The ritual is tragic and cathartic; a coping mechanism. Sometimes recognizing your sadness and allowing yourself to wallow is all you need, something Cyrus already covered in 2018 on her debut EP, Good Cry. But this is more mature, an homage to the end of her teenage years, and not, for this incandescent talent, The End of Everything.

Posted on

Klezmer at Cornell: A Peek into Music as a Religious Vessel

Religion has long inspired music composition, just as music has shaped faith practices since the beginning of organized religion. The most prominent religious works of music are Christian, as almost every major classical composer has been Christian and written music about his relationship with God. In this age of diversified religious backgrounds and increased accessibility to a wide variety of musical genres, there is no excuse for the predominance of Christian music in classical domains.

At Cornell University, Chabad – a facet of the larger Hasidic Jewish organization – strives to provide its members the opportunity to experience spiritually and culturally Jewish traditions. Their virtual Klezmer concert on Thursday, October 8, was a wonderful example of how musical experiences are being preserved during the age of COVID-19. The concert, which was held over zoom, beautifully shared the stunning and spiritual music of Eastern European Jews with members of the Chabad community. Jennifer Levine’s clarinet-playing was energetic and exciting – her notes bouncing off one another as she moved her instrument along with its swells – while David Zakalik’s accordion kept the music steady and added a sweet heartiness to the melodies. Eventually, Rabbi Eli Silberstein joined the duo, his mahogany voice floating above the instruments.

As the director of Cornell Chabad, Rabbi Eli introduced the instrumentalists and briefly explained the significance of music during the holiday of Sukkot – the reason for the performance. While Rosh Hashanah welcomes the Jewish New Year and Yom Kippur serves as an introspective time of repentance and forgiveness, Sukkot is a celebration of the hope of a new year. Before Levine and Zakalik lept back into their jubilant playing, Rabbi Eli invited his audience to take this time to be cheerful, saying, “Tonight let’s rejoice…now we embrace a whole new future!” And with that, the clarinet and accordion dove in again, echoing each others’ melodies and beckoning others at the Chabad house to clap and dance.

A week after the concert, I had the opportunity to interview Rabbi Eli about Klezmer and the broader contours of Hasidic music. He started by explaining that he knows more about Hasidic music, since he grew up with it, and less about the more secular Klezmer that evolved out of the traditional music. “Hasidic music is tied to a deep philosophy about life,” he explained, “most of the music was composed by spiritual people, whose music was just an extension of their faith.” For Hasidic Jews, their entire life revolves around Judaism and they spend much time reflecting on their relationship with God. Rabbi Eli shared a memory of his from childhood, when he witnessed a man who had been deeply reflecting and praying for hours, suddenly burst into song, with tears streaming down his face as once-hidden emotions escaped from the confines of his soul.

Rabbi Eli and I spent most of our time talking about the role that music plays in Judaism, and how this differs from music produced for the secular public. To him, “music is a vessel to arouse deep spiritual emotions. It enables you to transcend the stresses and constrains of life.” He explained that this is why very few Hasidic melodies have words. “Words are limited,” he said, “They cannot express an emotion that is deep-seated in the heart and has an intense energy to it.” The tune, the melody, is the only language that can express an emotion in the soul.” The aching notes of Zakalik’s accordion complemented by the fast-moving lines of Levine’s clarinet, reminded me of the fast-paced life that distracts us from reflecting on feelings that are hidden within us. Levine and Zakalik’s emotions could be felt through their instruments, their bodies moving along with the notes that they produced, beckoning me and others in the audience to feel the meaning behind the music being performed.

Jewish music has significantly developed since its origins, but still serves to unite the Jewish community, both in its cultural and spiritual significance. Rabbi Eli explained that initially, music was simply part of Jewish services, with choirs singing so that “the music could be heard all over Jerusalem. The music was meant to inspire within those attending a soulful turmoil and repentance.” Hasidic music aims to arouse spirituality in its listeners, playing the same role that music did in the first synagogues. Klezmer, on the other hand, “is a more cultural experience,” being played mostly during holidays and bar and bat mitzvahs…hence the charming Klezmer performance that Chabad held for Sukkot. The Klezmer style “evolved into the hands of Jews who were not as interested in the religious aspects of life, but wanted to be Jewish, culturally.” Even if Klezmer may be more secular than its Hasidic ancestor, the music is still unequivocally tied to spiritual Judaism and inspires those who listen to think more about their relationship to religion.

As a rarely spiritual person, I didn’t expect to feel particularly introspective when attending the Klezmer concert. To my surprise, the engagement of the audience – though mostly virtual aside from the few people in the Chabad house clapping along – paired with the dynamic songs brought me deep into the performance, enveloping me and igniting my curiosity about faith. I never felt fully comfortable sitting in a service and listening to people read religious texts; the liturgy always seemed so oddly formal. But being beckoned into the warm hospitable atmosphere of the Klezmer concert, with Rabbi Eli singing soulful syllables over the brisk and jovial tunes of the accordion and clarinet, I found solace. While I would love to say that the Klezmer concert was a spiritual awakening for me, that would be an immense exaggeration. The music did, however, evoke a curiosity in me about the role of religion in my life and what it would mean to be more spiritual. If I spent more time reflecting on my relationship to God, would I sing with the vigor that Rabbi Eli does? Is there a meaningful connection between singer and song that can only found in sacred music?

Posted on

Fetch the Bolt Cutters: We’ve All Been in Here Too Long

Fiona Apple performed three songs off of her newest release.

Fetch the Bolt Cutters Album Art (2020)

“This world is bulls**t; go with yourself,” Fiona Apple famously said during her 1997 Video Music Awards acceptance speech. In just a few dense sentences she established herself as willfully honest. The world from that moment on thought of her as a diva, insulted by receiving the award. She dissolved the pragmatic cleanness that the average popstar held. A year after her critically acclaimed debut Tidal, the American singer-songwriter and pianist, Fiona Apple shattered the fantasy of the pop machine. She implored everyone to do what they individually find cool, not what one would think that a celebrity would find cool. Pompous in 1997, revelatory in 2020. Fetch the Bolt Cutters arrived nearly a month into the strange in-between world that we call quarantine. Through cyberspace I experienced this album; in my bedroom, in my car, on walks, with my one friend down the block. My Spotify social tab for the entire month following the release was full of friends listening to Fetch the Bolt Cutters. This album was made in a reclusive swirl of creativity, all of the sounds and lyrics coming from the confines of her California home. Her five dogs are credited on the album for their barks at the end of the title track. This domestic atmosphere, however, is a limitless well of emotion and lyricism. The poignance Fiona Apple brings to the musical world is unprecedented; she writes with an acute vulnerability where her unadulterated thoughts and poetry coincide. There is no holding back from what should be said on any Fiona Apple album. For a woman who is known for her open and loud mouth, she sings with conviction and precision.

Apple performed three tracks on Fetch the Bolt Cutters live for the first time for the New Yorker Festival which was broadcasted online. She opens with Shameika. She begins by nodding her head, a knowing smile on her face, ready to enter the portal of her art. The song kicks off with a heavy drum beat then immediately rushes into the avalanche of melody played by Fiona on the piano. The notes rock back and forth on a scale that is tonally jazzy and dark. Each movement has purpose, as she dances her hands across the piano. Her voice joins in, enunciating each lyric as each line feeds into the poetry. She shouts “Hurricane Gloria in excelsis deo / that’s my bird in my tree / my dog and my man and my music is my holy trinity,” all whilst pounding rhythm and melody out of the piano. Her visage is strong; eyes shut, jawline taught, voice sharp. In several interviews she has described Shameika as a list of the things she likes about herself, finally. Compared to Fast as You Can, a single from her sophomore album, instead of calling herself crazy, she’s “pissed off, funny, and warm,” and “a good man in a storm.” There is sureness of self in a world where she has cultivated strength instead of weakness. There is less questioning; she takes an event that occurred in sixth grade in which a girl who was not her friend, Shameika, said that Fiona had potential. She sings the hook with unrelenting passion, and when her piano part fades out, she puts her hands to her hips and says it again. The message got through to her, and even though it’s over twenty years later, Fiona Apple knows she has potential. She faces her piano the entire performance, her band jamming behind her. She’s in her own dreamworld of art, closed eyes with intuitive hands nailing every note. The songs are so threaded within her, it feels as if she is performing alone at home similar to how she recorded the album.

Shameika fades out in a funky, bassy trudge and we cut to a black screen. “FETCH THE BOLT CUTTERS” flashes on the screen, and Fiona is now sitting at a small drum set. She plays the opening beat of the title track, a stern look on her face. One can see when she is passionate about a particular line, slamming the drum harder, wincing in artistic truth. The talk-sing cadence of this song combined with the intimate close-ups of Fiona at the drum set feel like a conversation one could have with her. Remarking on a friendship with candid lyrics of what tumult happened, she launches into the titular chorus: “Fetch the bolt cutters, I’ve been in here too long / Fetch the  bolt cutters /whatever happens, whatever happens.” It’s a freeing motif; knowing when to let go, and finally doing it. She jovially talks about how judgments and comparisons affected her in the past, now embedded and understood. The comparisons were shallow and those judging her truly never knew her. She even references Kate Bush’s “Running Up That Hill,” as the freedom from the searing douleur of judgment: “I grew up in the shoes they told me I could fill / shoes that were not made for running up that hill / but I need to run up that hill / I will, I will, i will…” She shouts the last line, knowing her goals now and the distorted mess of the past.The shuffling rhythm of the drums melds gently with her voice, the xylophone shining in the background. She continues to shout “Whatever happens / I will” with wild power. She is a woman who knows where to go, her decisions informed by the splendid chaos that is living.

The last track we are presented with is the opening track of the album “I Want You to Love Me.” Fiona plays the opening melody on the piano, a glistening, wistful line. The piano receives the camera’s close attention, each key and peg firing off into musical bliss. Fiona leans into the mic, prophesying her life, wishing for love. The second verse is the most potent lyrically; it’s almost naturalistic. She describes time as elastic, and that when she goes “all my particles disband and disperse and I’ll be back in the pulse.” She flows through life in a verse, at the end yearning for love. She knows that during the short span we all have, it’s critical to create the indelible connections that make the incessant questioning of existence worthwhile. We see her band sway in the background, taking in the heavy poetry of the song, dominated by her sweet, meandering piano. She holds out the “You” for several bars, breath-draining to most singers, capturing the longing for somebody in the line “I want you / to love me.” She adds vibrato not present on the album making for an even more visceral experience. The next verse is a drum-filled passage where Fiona amplifies her voice, belting her love and strength to this person. She peels back into the last chorus that waltzes into a falsetto and then into absurdity. She reaches the top, making hysterical high pitched sounds as the drums crescendo, one hand furiously tapping out a chord. Then it ends with a single “ah.” The performance is a whirlwind of yearning, power, sureness, and musical ingenuity. Fetch the Bolt Cutters is an album of honest precision by one of the most outspoken women in music. The lyrics are complex yet resonate immediately. This performance may not have been live but the emotion conveyed to the viewers is ethereal.