@fatherjohnmisty
“Mahashmashana” is an anglicized Sanskrit word translating to “great cremation ground.” It’s a fitting title for Father John Misty’s latest work, a meditation on political discourse, reactionary culture and escapism. Father John Misty is the stage name of singer-songwriter Josh Tillman, a former member of the Fleet Foxes. Tillman isn’t religious despite his stage name (I mentioned him to a friend once who earnestly asked, “Is he really a priest?” leading to my reply of “He’s kind of the opposite.”).
The album opens with the soaring nine-minute title track. The song is sonically vast, complete with stomping drums, piano riffs and a massive string section. Even in this grandiose splendor, bleakness prevails within the lyrics. Tillman illustrates the smoldering cremation ground, describing “a scheme to enrich assholes,” a “corpse dance” and lamenting how “A perfect lie can live forever.” “Mahashmashana, all is silent,” he suggests in the chorus, as strings crescendo behind him. The song closes with a bold declaration: “And what was found is lost / Yes it is.”
“She Cleans Up” follows the title track, driven by a slick bass line and smacking cowbell. In the opening lines, Mary Magdalene foresees the events of Good Friday, grabs a gun and declares, “no one’s fucking with my baby” (see, he’s definitely not a priest). Tillman then asks: Would a man defend a woman in the same way? The track addresses the cultural backlash to the MeToo movement, particularly the rise of the “manosphere.” “How do you atone for your son?” he asks in the fourth verse. He points out the cyclical nature of misogyny in popular culture: “The aggrieved becomes aggressor and we do it all again.” It reminds me of the coordinated hate campaign of Amber Heard and, more recently, Blake Lively. In the final verse, Tillman criticizes the reactionary politics of the Hollywood elite with one of the album’s best lines: “Sure your politics are perfect with the gun against your head.”
On “Josh Tillman and the Accidental Dose,” Tillman experiences a bad acid trip, during which a talking clown portrait plunges him into an existential crisis about American culture. The laid-back instrumental juxtaposes the lyrical content. “A publicist and a celibate / Started talking politics,” he dreams on the second verse, invoking culture and the internet’s role in its promotion. He concludes that, “They’re tacit fascists without knowing it.” Tillman succinctly points out that, by platforming extremist ideologies, one subtly legitimizes them. On “Mental Health,” he compares social media to a panopticon. He criticizes the commodification of mental illness and identity, fitting in jabs at the pharmaceutical industry when he can. “Mental health, mental health / Maybe we’re all far too well,” the chorus croons.
The centerpiece of “Mahashmashana” is “Screamland,” the massive seven-minute power ballad where Tillman the nihilist runs loose. “The optimist / Swears hope dies last,” he sings in the opening lines, before caveating that with the subversive “It’s always the darkest right before the end.” The chorus utilizes clipping, an audio phenomenon in which higher frequencies of sound waves get cut off due to the sound input being too loud for the recording software. Nonetheless, he screams, “Stay young / Get numb” over the cacophony, indulging our escapist instincts. The song ends jarringly in its final chorus, reminding me of the dream world we escape to when reality devolves into chaos.
The penultimate track is the sprawling eight-minute “I Guess Time Just Makes Fools of Us All.” The song proceeds at an upbeat trot, watching a personified time judge the self-righteous, reveal hypocrisy and humiliate faux intellectuals. Between the song’s saxophone solos, guitar licks and bongos, Tillman discusses artistic integrity. He weaves an elaborate metaphor in which a rattlesnake promises, “I can sell you a million records.” But it’s a Faustian bargain: “I mean your image could use an overhaul,” echoing the music industry’s propensity to shoehorn eccentric artists into the rounded edges of a pop star mold. Tillman later sings, “I followed my dreams / And my dreams said to crawl,” an allusion to the humiliation of overwhelming desire; this lyric also serves as the title of his new “Greatish Hits” album. Eventually, the track follows Tillman to Las Vegas, where he’s a washed-up, has-been singer who couldn’t escape time’s tricks.
The album concludes with “Summer’s Gone,” a downtempo piano ballad and eulogy for good times come and gone. “When against your will, comes wisdom / And 40 more years left ahead,” sings Tillman, noting his weakening morale in the face of absurdity. He leaves us with one last taste of nihilism, writing, “The girls look good in riches / Finer still in rags,” as the material becomes immaterial and useless in the grand scheme. He closes the record with a contradictory statement: “And time can’t touch me.”
“Mahashmashana” is an investigation of the political moment — and is not entirely optimistic in its judgment. But the lessons of the album lie in its perspective. Sure, life may be meaningless, but instead of adopting a nihilist’s resignation, perhaps we should create our own meaning. Amid the chaos of the smoldering cremation ground, Tillman embraces absurdity — what else is there to do?