Mitski, I Hardly Knew Ye: Take Dump 4/2/26

When I was a young nerd, there was nothing better than discovering a great album, and learning it was the artist’s eighth, if not eighteenth, release. Someone else to keep an eye out for in the used bins? Awesome! So much gold in the hills! But today, burdened by the cynicism of age and the internet-era ease of awareness, it’s truly rare I come to a surprise winner oblivious to their earlier work. Instead of being jazzed to explore a new songbook, I now feel a responsibility to find out why they hadn’t worked for me until this one, and who changed more, them or me. Instead of a blissful student of the world, I’m a teacher giving myself homework. That's what it felt like when I listened to the new Mitski, and didn’t just shrug.

Granted, this is a personal neurosis barely dignified by potential income or the benefit of others. Nothing keeps me from blithely saying “Wow! Mitski doesn’t suck now!” If I don't bother to explicate my stance, more people might be inspired to engage, saying she never sucked, or that she still sucks. “Yeah, with that perspective, I can see why this album is more intriguing than the previous” isn’t a reply the soul is compelled to share. But I’ve never been good at casual indifference to detail in print. At a bar, I can be endearingly sloppy and unapologetically jocular, or at least believe that’s what’s I am. In a post, it just feels lazy.

So I couldn't leave my appreciation for Nothing’s About To Happening To Me, released in February, at “I guess she’s good?” Instead, I listened to popular, earlier Mitski biz, and thought about what I heard previously and when. Her first song I knew was “Your Best American Girl,” via Sirius XMU, a decade ago. Unmoved by her wail of romantic outsiderness, but in no place to begrudge it, I wasn’t fully surprised by the hype-cycle around 2018’s Be The Cowboy. Neither Tune-Yards nor St. Vincent were pulling off commercial crossover too well, so there was space for another educated woman in rock whose romantic and political dilemmas could be championed as culturally relevant. Lest I sound too glib, I’m not suggesting anything disingenuous or idiotic about loving the album, or any of these artists. When people sincerely like something, quality PR and critical zeitgeist follows. A fanbase is the given that gets you in the door. When I say “it figures,” I’m not saying “because people are fools." I’m just saying it figured.

Since then, I've mostly considered Mitski another indie singer-songwriter who was either too familiar in their ish or too mannered in their delivery to overcome the hurdles of “been there, done that” or “why would I want to hear that?” Again, I’m not claiming it’s a shuck or a con, like so many men are wont to do. I’ve just accepted my tastes aren’t universally popular, and the universally popular isn’t always to my taste. Plus, if I can describe bands I love as “Canned Heat on coke,” then surely I can be reductive about artists I don’t love. We’ve only got so many hours on this earth, after all.

Of course, being a woman of increasing popularity, Mitski also got negative attention for matters a man probably wouldn’t. Her dad was a diplomat or something, so it was relatively easy for her to hop between classy and brash. One time a young female fan meowed at her on stage and my Twitter feed was full of people catching the vapors and saying the kids were not alright. As someone who came up reading about Alice Cooper getting a pie to the face and Iggy Pop being rudely interrupted with a peanut butter jar (and maybe I yelled “Southern-Fried Strokes!” at a free Kings Of Leon show twenty years ago), I can’t say I was impressed by a world where a friendly “meow” was now worse than an angry “Judas.” But, yes, artists are free to ask for less anarchic etiquette, and it does seem like she learned how to book more intimate venues with, like, seats. Places where people would naturally applaud but not inelegantly shout “mother!” Ah, the price of fame…

That would have been that, except a) I decided to listen to more new music this year, b) I was charmed by her decision to make cats a thematic element on Nothing, and c) I was really charmed by her promo reels for sites like Pitchfork and The Criterion Closet. A precociously opinionated lady who got into art movies and classical music young, but has a wry sense of humor about it? Someone pointedly noting that she respects fans of the Keira Knightley Pride & Prejudice, but she’s Colin Firth for life? Get out of my dreams, get into my DMs… So I decided to give the new album a spin.

The opening “In A Lake,” with its banal observations about how small towns be different than big cities, was nothing special. But as her music-school vocal delivery played off the guitar crunch on “Where’s My Phone?”, and the spacious, countrified arrangements of “If I Leave” and “Instead Of Here” gave her sentiments room to breathe, I was reminded positively of Jenny Lewis more than I had been before. By the countdown and clarinet of “Rules,” and the comic grandiosity of “That White Cat,” I was appreciating the wit and self-awareness enough to not resent a title like “Charon’s Obol” or a wan closer. Cut the crusts off, and Nothing’s About To Happen To Me - the title even suggesting getting over one’s self - was a flavorful meal.

I’m almost glad to report that my newfound appreciation of her interview persona didn’t unlock her entire oeuvre. Both billion-spin hits - the smoky, viral ballad “My Love Mine All Mine” and the synthpop yearning of “Washing Machine Heart” - would probably need to be heard before, after or during a fraught nightlife experience for me to consider them “iconic,” rather than smart examples of their forms. I haven’t gotten into the deep cuts, but only “Nobody”’s artful undermining of disco amuses me as much as “That White Cat,” and much of the rest could still be filed under “Whylo Kiley?” But whether Mitski’s gotten funnier or I just belatedly got the humor, I’m laughing with her now.

If the above discovery wasn’t unsettling enough, I then decided The Dandy Warhols may have just released their best album ever. And it’s a covers compilation. 2000’s Thirteen Tales From Urban Bohemia is still a career highlight, winningly shifting between their psychedelic, faux-country and bubblegum rock modes with supreme confidence. But Pin Ups is maybe even more of a coup, shamelessly bouncing from the most classic of rock (“Sister Golden Hair,” “Ripple”) to the new wavest of jams (“Straight To Hell,” “Primary”) while sounding eerily like bands from the ‘90s and ‘00s that were cooler than the Dandy Warhols. Gang Of Four’s “What We All Want” is turned into the best LCD Soundsystem song since before James Murphy reunited with himself. Their take on The Cult’s “Rain” could be from a 6ths album. Not only do they pull off a gorgeous, dream-pop version of “Blackbird” (sung by keyboardist Zia McCabe!), it’s followed by a twee-pop piss take on Marilyn Manson! And then an electroclash Damned cover! Then an oddly humble New York Dolls cover! And then a second Cult cover, one you could slip into a Chemical Brothers DJ set!

As intimated (however sympathetically) in the documentary Dig!, The Dandy Warhols were a band many hipsters resented for being more canny than edgy, melding druggy sonic signifiers from different decades into a cutesy meta-take on kids playing at decadence (forget death, no one’s even quit the band in a quarter century!). Their killer hook sense meant kids (and TV music supervisors) didn’t mind the cheek, which is why Y2K Pitchfork types shit on them as poseurs, only for later Pitchfork types to say the Warhols peaked circa Y2K. Pin Ups (which, perfectly, has no Bowie on it) finds them riffing on everything from The Basement Tapes and after, exploiting the hook sense of others with unforced irreverence. Oddly enough, as on Mitski’s latest, the opening number is the most trite (a gender flip on “Cherry Bomb”) and the finale the most bland (Love & Rockets deep cut!). But, as with Mitski, cut the crusts off and *chef’s kiss*.

I don’t cream my jeans when someone wipes sweat off their forehead with a handgun in front of a beachfront view during magic hour, but I get why my social media is full of babbling wistfulness about macho filmmaking cliches of the 20th century. So I’m compelled to note that William Friedkin’s The Hunted is a genuinely interesting example of last gasp “classic” action filmmaking from the DVD era. Benicio Del Toro plays a military killing machine who’s lost it, and only his killing guru, Tommy Lee Jones, can bring him in. The story-telling is paper-thin, and at 90 minutes, its possible a lot was cut. But whoever did this cut kept all the juicy, violent set pieces, leaving a remarkably lean movie that focuses on Friedkin’s kinetic strengths. 

Jones can do “mentor” in his sleep, but he gives a shockingly physical performance in this film, only four years before he played very, very tired mourners of the American dream in No Country For Old Men and In The Valley Of Elah. I wouldn’t have guessed he was capable of the running and knife play he clearly does himself here, suggesting there was more acting going on when doddering than I realized. Del Toro, likely getting zero help from Friedkin, can’t figure out if he’s a supervillain or a tragic hero or what. But his offbeat magnetism peeks out of the cracks in surprising ways. I really want to know if the bird he flips Jones while driving was improvised. FOUR BAGS OF POPCORN.

My popcorn thing is explained here. If you want to suggest the funniest Mitski album before this one, tell me I'm a jack-ass who doesn't appreciate William Friedkin or St Vincent, or say you know a foxy librarian in Orange County dying to meet a middle-aged guy with opinions about Mitski, there's always anthonyisright at gmail dot com.