Review Summary: Possibly the most flawed perfect album.
โ๐๐ฆ๐๐, ๐ฅ๐ฐ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฅ ๐ข ๐๐ฐ๐ต ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐จ๐ฐ๐ต ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ด๐ถ๐ณ๐ท๐ช๐ท๐ฆ?โ
I grew up in Utah, a state pretty much only known for how cool its nature is. Other notables include the international airport and the absurdly high LDS ratio, but the main draw is nature: the endless, lush hiking trails, the stark, breathtaking mountain ranges, and the thrill of skiing pristine powder in the winter. Nearly every Utahn has a fundamental appreciation of nature; otherwise, why would you be here? The Western culture of the US collides with the tree-hugging disposition of the hardcore outdoorsman, making for a kind of awareness that I feel isnโt found in many other places. Now, both of these perceptions are, together, what has unlocked The Lonesome Crowded West for me.
โ๐๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆโ๐ด ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฎ๐ข๐ฏ ๐ธ๐ช๐ต๐ฉ ๐ต๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ต๐ฉ ๐๐ช๐ฌ๐ฆ ๐๐ฐ๐ฅโ๐ด ๐ด๐ฉ๐ฐ๐ฆ๐ด๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฆโ
In interviews, Isaac Brock has talked about how when writing this album, he tried to illustrate how his hometown had been targeted by corporations again and again until all that was left was a communal cash grab. Issaquah, Washington wasnโt corporatized in the kind of way that a tourist town would be; instead, it was eaten alive by the industrial strip mall trash that is Best Buy, Walmart, and Dollar Tree. There are few things more distasteful than seeing a small, Western town get screwed over by big business.
โ๐๐ข๐ด๐ต๐บ ๐ฃ๐ถ๐ต ๐ธ๐ฐ๐ณ๐ต๐ฉ๐๐ฆ๐ด๐ด / ๐๐ฐ๐จ๐ด ๐ฆ๐ข๐ต ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ช๐ณ ๐ฐ๐ธ๐ฏ ๐ด๐ฉ๐ช๐ตโ
The small-town culture is contaminated by the cheap plastic materialism that an enterprise has to offer, like an artificial sweetener in your drink.
โ๐๐ฐ ๐ต๐ฐ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐จ๐ณ๐ฐ๐ค๐ฆ๐ณ๐บ ๐ด๐ต๐ฐ๐ณ๐ฆ, ๐ฃ๐ถ๐บ ๐ด๐ฐ๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐ฏ๐ฆ๐ธ ๐ง๐ณ๐ช๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ฅ๐ดโ
Thereโs something off, something in the chemical composition, something that is overpoweringly sweet and overwhelmingly artificial.
โ๐๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ๐บ ๐ต๐ช๐ฎ๐ฆ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฌ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถโ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ต๐ข๐๐ฌ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ, ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถโ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ซ๐ถ๐ด๐ต ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ท๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ณ ๐ฎ๐ฐ๐ถ๐ต๐ฉโ
This prophetic commentary on increasing materialism is what adds weight to the oxymoronic album title: the West is lonesome because, although it accounts for about half of the land, it only accounts for 20% of the population; yet, itโs crowded by so many things, so much junk. Rusty pickups, haphazard corrugated metal sheds, dingy boarded-up malls, and miles and miles of barbed-wire fences are all commonplace here, all without a single soul. The way this kind of desertion is portrayed by Modest Mouse is picture-perfect, especially regarding emotional weight. There is a vague and unfathomable philosophical importance to seeing a home that surely once hosted a family, with the windows shattered, with spray paint covering the walls in obscenities, with the floorboards coated in dirt and grime. The bleak details let the mind wander, like the grungy yellow-flowered wallpaper of the downstairs bedroom, the water stains on the sagging ceiling, the lone, moth-bitten coat in the open closet by the front door, the third stair buckled by the weight of long and unprotected winters, the names carved on the cabinets in a heart, and the strong feeling that you are an intruder to some sacred place, oblivious of some holy significance, bound in a kind of consecrated silence.
โ๐โ๐ฎ ๐ต๐ณ๐บ๐ช๐ฏ๐จ ๐ต๐ฐ / ๐๐ณ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฌ ๐ข๐ธ๐ข๐บ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฑ๐ข๐ณ๐ต ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ ๐ฅ๐ข๐บ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ข๐ต ๐ ๐ค๐ข๐ฏ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต ๐ด๐๐ฆ๐ฆ๐ฑ ๐ข๐ธ๐ข๐บโ
When presented with this desolate scene of faded grays and browns and yellows, is it hard to see why so many yearn to detach?
"๐๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐โ๐๐ ๐ต๐ข๐๐ฌ ๐ณ๐ฆ๐ข๐ ๐๐ฐ๐ถ๐ฅ, ๐จ๐ฐ๐ฅ๐ฅ๐ข๐ฎ๐ฏ ๐ณ๐ช๐จ๐ฉ๐ต ๐โ๐๐ ๐ฃ๐ฆ ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ๐ฅ"
Whether disassociation comes through substance abuse or trying to get away physically, everyone comes back down. Itโs hard to put into words how insurmountable it seems to break the never-ending routine, as obligations keep a rigid hold on you, as time simply continues passing. Eventually, youโll snap, and youโll scream at the gray, muted sky until your vocal cords are raw, and nothing will ever change.
"๐๐ฐ๐ฅ ๐ต๐ข๐ฌ๐ฆ๐ด ๐ค๐ข๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐ฉ๐ช๐ฎ๐ด๐ฆ๐๐ง, ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฅ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ฐ๐ง ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ"
