Review Summary: ...write another song.
can cis white men stop reviewing our album. it’s not for you.
Considering singer and guitarist Georgia Maq posted this shortly before the album came out, I might as well mention this up front; While I’m white, the other two things are, long story short, more up in the air. I can’t say what exactly I am, for personal reasons, but it’s worth mentioning up front for a record that focuses so much on identity. It’s not single-minded, but it’s there, clear as soon as the already iconic “The Opener” begins. “Opener” was released late last year and is still brilliant, a musical tracking shot starting with a close up of a failing relationship before zooming out to the whole music industry, revealing what’s unquestionably a manifesto for the album:
It's another all-male tour preaching equality
It's another straight cis man who knows more about this than me
A lot of this album similarly discusses the way the world treats women, and the ways that women instinctively respond. The way she breaks her rhythm to include ‘cis’ acknowledges that even the most proudly gay of men can be condescending and misogynistic too. (One can only imagine the kind of things an openly transgender artist gets in her direct messages, let alone what a cis woman already receives.) The album does not attempt to tone down experiences for a cis, straight, male audience, hence that tweet. It’s rare that the songs even have a discernible chorus, but the songs never ramble. Drummer Sarah Thompson and bassist Kelly Hemmerich (acknowledged in the opening song) keep things hooky and melodic.
The band’s been called the "sound of #MeToo", but the album was already written before that movement reached the mainstream. What’s changed now is the confidence that these songs will find an audience, though that doesn't make the music any less visceral or intense. The chorus of “Anna” calls out the expectations of 'confessional' songwriters within a story about a friendship in flux, Georgia Maq spitting ”Just get it all out/write another song.” As the lone song that exceeds five minutes, Maq and co. make clear the difficulty of writing these kinds of experiences. If there’s any more connection to #MeToo, #TimesUp, and various other meaningful-hashtags-turned-pins on this album, it’s the observation some had that women should not have to drain themselves to be taken seriously.
There are moments like that in spades, though. One of the most intense, intimate scenes on the album comes toward the end of “The Face of God” - in the aftermath of a sexual assault, Maq sees God, and even God doesn't want anything to do with it;
And I saw it, the face of god
And He turned himself away from me
And said I did something wrong
That somehow what happened to me was my fault
It's this part, coupled with the sarcastic outro (“not you, yeah, your music is too good”) where the album really begins to stand out on its own. It’s hard to think of other albums that deal with sexual assault and internalized shame both that explicitly and that humanly.
The members of Camp Cope are “reluctant revolutionaries” according to another headline, and the second half of the album hints at what they could be singing about if all the things that happen to women didn’t get in the way. Moments in the first half can be genuinely playful, like a random possible reference to "Handlebars" by Flobots on the title track. This is the same band that wrote a song called “Lost (Season One)” and titled their album
How To Socialize and Make Friends. The subject matter is serious, but that doesn’t mean they - and not-male songwriters in general - always have to be.
Interestingly, “The Face of God” gets a response later in one of the album’s arguably lighter songs, “The Omen.” Here, love is realer than any religion she could participate in; “And I've never needed God/I think I kinda knew that all along.” A love song like “The Omen” or “Animal & Real” (with the self-aware line “I know I’m lucky/this makes me feel better”) takes on new weight. The album also ends with a song about Georgia Maq’s father, who passed away in 2016. To keep believing that love exists despite how cynical she is - and has every right to be - is one thing, and to spend previous tracks discussing the horrendous to petty acts of man then say “I’m so proud that half of me grew from you/All the broken parts too” has even greater weight. It’s a powerful way to end the album, but powerful precisely because its power comes from a different place than the rest of the album. This also ensures that the album is actively repeat-listenable, even the more intense moments.
How To Socialize is both hard to hear and ultimately triumphant, even joyous at parts. Whether you are affected by the album’s subject matter or benefit from the systems that allow the subject matter to perpetuate, this album is an essential, necessary listen.
