Review Summary: My music…It don't heal me no more.
The above tagline is a deeply affecting verse from
A Quiet and Harmless Living’s emotional epicenter, ‘Halfway to Whole’, and it hit me like an absolute ton of bricks. Music has always been at the center of my life, whether it was helping me navigate loneliness as a depressed teenager or underscoring joyous memories like getting married or having children. For every season of my life, there’s been a song, album, or artist that I can associate with it. Yet, as I’ve continued to age, I’ve found that the music that once
crushed me now has a duller impact, and what once
elated me now just brings sort of a half-smile. Something dies when you grow older, and Matt Maeson managed to brilliantly capture that sensation in a matter of just a few words.
Honestly, that’s par for the course on Maeson’s third full-length LP - it’s a brooding, heavyweight indie-rock album that explodes with the passion of a Manchester Orchestra classic (ironically, they’re featured on one of the songs here) and draws deep from a well of emotion brought about by sweeping change (Maeson recently became a father, relocated to Nashville, and got married).
A Quiet and Harmless Living tangibly aches, down to its very core, and poses questions through its lyrics that ring out as profound observations. Returning to ‘Halfway to Whole’ (if it’s not already obvious, this is the record’s biggest highlight), Maeson at one point sings about how religion can just as easily lead to someone squandering their entire life as it can to them finding themselves: “And my lover, well, I left her alone / I got lost in my purpose, then my purpose went cold / I'm a failure, I'm a fucking black hole / I bought into a liar and my future got sold.” To a symphony of elegant pianos, country guitar licks, and swelling strings, Maeson harmonizes with himself about the time he’s lost, the time he’ll never regain, and a fast-approaching end. “I don't wanna be here, I don't wanna die / But it's getting old, oh, I'm getting old / I summon my demons cause there's no one here I know / And I'm halfway to dying, and not even halfway to whole.” It’s absolutely brilliant, and completely devastating.
The vast majority of
A Quiet and Harmless Living will leave you similarly stunned, because Matt Maeson simply has a way with words and possesses the rare ability to deliver them in the most emotionally impactful way possible - seemingly every time. On ‘Cursive’, Matt poses a series of questions about the state of the world and life itself (“Is it all a big machine? Are we in a crowded hell? Is heaven all a brilliant scheme?”) only to have Andy Hull’s voice echo in reply, “All those questions have answers that no one can find / Always gatekeeping gospels until the right time / So I sit in your silence, my senses all stoned / Is your truth really truth once the damage is done?” The song unravels as something of a call-and-response between the two, exchanging viewpoints about God (coincidentally, both Maeson and Hull are the sons of pastors): “Part the seas and call a truce / It's hurting me, I'm hurting you / Looking down, you talk in cursive / You know me, I never learned it.”
A Quiet and Harmless Living ultimately sees Maeson’s earnestness revealed through a number of topics, however, from his ardent expression of love (“If I knew that I was dying / I'd spend all my life on you”) to trying to escape the pressures of modern life, even if only for a moment (“I just wanna sink into nothing / So I don't have to be something”). He wears his heart on his sleeve, bearing it all in the most vulnerable yet inspiring of ways. The music matches the lyrical intensity stride for stride, too - there are tender acoustic strums, lush strings, wailing guitars, and magnificent crescendos. It’s all happening with precise timing, dynamically and in perfect unison, allowing Maeson’s words to carry all the more weight.
Perhaps the reason music doesn’t affect me as strongly as it used to is because with each passing year, there’s less ideas that are actually
new to my ears. In place of the rush that I once felt from hearing something avant-garde exists a quiet appreciation for music with passion and purpose. It’s albums like that which figuratively sharpen the blade, allowing me to feel hurt and happy in equal measure. And every time I feel that, it’s in a new way because emotions can’t be recycled; they’re visceral reactions in real time. Matt Maeson’s
A Quiet and Harmless Living is about as strong of a provocation as I’ve felt in a long time. Perhaps music hasn’t lost its healing power, after all.
