“songs” by Adrianne Lenker
By: Sydney Hainy
I often find that I am the most vulnerable person in the room. When I feel an emotion, I do not hesitate to state it plainly, to lay it out for all to see. I always wish that everyone would meet me with the same honesty. Adrianne Lenker does just that, packaging her emotions into a holistic experience for the listener.
Lead singer of “Big Thief” and Minnesota native Lenker recently released her third solo album, sparked by the loneliness of a breakup coinciding with the start of lockdown. Plainly titled “songs,” she wastes no time on grievances or uncertainty. The instrumentals match the lyrics: they are stripped down, with only acoustic guitar and light drums. After retreating to an isolated cabin in the woods of Massachusetts, Lenker found herself writing almost unwillingly, not yet in the reflective part of heartbreak, but still in the thick of the hurt. What results is a reflection of that, the most honest and pure version of her current state. Writing for Lenker can be more accurately described as a conjuring up of words, more intuitive than conscious. Her voice rings clear like a bird’s song, strong and unwavering. It knows that it doesn't owe anything to anyone. It is sure of itself.
Lenker immerses the listener into her life, riddled with questions of love, home, and emptiness. “Half return” mentions coming back to her childhood home, yet what is meant to feel familiar feels foreign. It doesn't feel like home now; it never did. Although most of the songs describe love, or perhaps the absence of it, it seems Lenker does not know what she wants. The A side of the album is filled with delusion and yearning, begging to be with her lover one more time. In “anything,” she pleads for them to shut out the world and take a moment to be together, repeating “I don't want to talk about anything/I don't want to talk about anyone.” That feeling of being whole, of becoming a part of someone else, is what Lenker so tenderly remembers. Close to the beginning of the album is “two reverse,” where her love leaks through. She wants nothing but to take care of her partner once more.
As you move through the tracks, Lenker becomes more and more self-aware. On the B side, she captures the moment when you know you are suffocating them, but you cannot bring yourself to stop. You need that person to know how you feel, no matter the consequences. Lenker questions the gaping hole left after they inevitably leave. “Oh emptiness/tell me about your nature,” she asks, considering if emptiness as an entity could be worthwhile. “Should I savor this pain?” she seems to be imploring. Other moments are tenderly detailed, each tinged with the fleeting nature she knows to be her reality. To hold her hand, to kiss her again, to be home with her, are all things she longs for, though knowing them to be impossible and not fully wanting them herself. “Not a lot, just forever” breaks away from her longing, as Lenker steps back and realizes the bad parts of the relationship that she had hidden from herself. It’s knowing that something should come to an end, but savoring the one good moment before it all falls apart. She acknowledges her own imperfections as a way to show her partner that she is aware of her wrongdoings. It is stated explicitly in “dragon eyes” that she “doesn't want to blame” and “doesn't want to tame” the person she was in a relationship with. She is tender with these words, if not remorseful, as if tucking them away for later use.
With her album “songs,” Lenker allows us to experience loneliness collectively. Her album mimics the nakedness that results from having the comfort you hold so close be unexpectedly ripped away. The listener can feel her pain, and at the same time find themselves left with the same emotions. Our loved ones may drift away, just out of reach, and there is nothing we can do to stop them. We have no choice but to let go. When we do, Lenker’s album will be here to remind us that something worthwhile can come from the pain. She reminds us to be vulnerable. She reminds us to feel.