Tag: Lorde

Like Kali Uchis with Sincerely, Blood Orange’s (a.k.a. Dev Hynes) latest album, Essex Honey, is entirely colored by the death of his mother. An event in any child’s life—no matter what their age—that has a deep impact. And an extremely painful one, to boot. So painful that, oftentimes, other people don’t want to look at it. Hence, the ballsy move of Blood Orange to release Essex Honey on the same day as the much frothier Man’s Best Friend from Sabrina Carpenter. However, for those willing to share in the pain (and its exorcism) on Essex Honey, such “listener bravery” is worth it, for the exploration into his own past is something that will resonate (even for those, apart from Charli XCX, who didn’t grow up in Essex).

Although considered his first Blood Orange album in seven years (following 2018’s Negro Swan), there was the Angel’s Pulse mixtape in between. Released in 2019, Blood Orange also made the album amid grappling with grief, having lost several close friends, including Mac Miller. When his mother died in 2023 (prompting the cancellation of his then slated live performance at Vivid LIVE), Hynes was struggling to find the “point” of making his next record. With her “end,” his reason came: to cope, to make sense of things. The “purpose” of making art seemed to no longer be relevant; it was now an emotional necessity. Though, months after his mother’s death, Hynes engaged in a conversation with Zadie Smith for Interview in which they both “grapple with the eternal ‘why’” of making art.

As Smith puts it at one point, “For the good of the thing that you are doing, it has to have a sense of necessity. But at the same time, the necessity is complete fiction. You’ve made it up. Nobody is ever demanding you write a song, a poem, a novel—there is no need for these things in the world. It’s not bread, it’s not water. So the necessity is self-created, basically.” Hynes replies, “The eternal ‘why’ that I tend to wrestle with.” And then the answer came with his mother’s death.

Opening with the elegiacal “Look at You,” the tone of mourning is set as Hynes croons, “In your grace, I looked for some meaning/But I found none, and I still search for a truth/Hard to look at you/Hard to look at you.” Whether he’s talking about his mother or even himself, it’s apparent that Hynes is struggling to reconcile that there isn’t necessarily always “a light at the end of the tunnel.” Though, incidentally, halfway through the song, the tone shifts, almost as though the rain has cleared, and the light (read: sun) has come out. This amid the faint sound of a man talking about rain in England in the background while Hynes concludes, “Falling away/How can I start my day/Knowing the truth/About love and a loss of youth?/Can’t choose your day/You are told you must go away/How can I live/Knowing that’s all we give?”

The sadness of that sentiment transitions seamlessly into “Thinking Clean,” which like many Blood Orange tracks on more recent albums, looks back at his youth. This announced from the outset when he sings, “I was thirteen/Thinking clean/What for?/Hardly on/Couldn’t see in front of me/Novel/Hide my face/What if everything was taken from beneath?” Indicating an early predilection for “dark thoughts” (i.e., existential dread), the repetition of the line, “I don’t want to be here anymore” also has a touch of The Smiths in it, with Morrissey’s contempt for British school as an entire institution (think: “The Headmaster Ritual”) flickering through. Which makes sense considering that Hynes has unapologetically stated that The Smiths are one of his biggest influences.

This is also apparent on “Somewhere in Between,” a track that delves into how, after the death of his mother, he’s now starting to reflect less on his youth, and more on what is now the “later” part of his life. How that part is coming at him faster and more intensely now, ergo the double meaning of the title, which refers to being somewhere in between youth and death and, as Hynes remarked in his Genius interview about the song, “finding a center in the chaos that’s happening.” Granted, Hynes creates plenty of chaos himself by opening the track with the weighty chorus, “And in the middle of your life, could you have taken some more time?/And if it’s nothing like they said, it’s somewhere in between/So I surrender to being just a body with tired limbs/When the world is in your hand you can’t be inside of it.” And, again, can one just pause to appreciate what a bold and potent statement that is to kick off a song? As for the “when the world is in your hand you can’t be inside of it” line, Hynes is coming from a Western worldview, noting that, just because someone has all the “comforts,” it doesn’t mean they’re really living. Indeed, the underlying critique of the Western perspective on things—including and especially death—is present throughout Essex Honey.

As for the lyrical conclusion of “Somewhere in Between,” all awash in its post-punk-inspired sound (not to mention plenty of musical self-references to Blood Orange’s own sophomore record, Cupid Deluxe), he brings back a key line from “Look At You”—“Hard to look at you”— as a refrain that poetically contrasts with his other desire: “I just want to see again.” This, too, is an acknowledgement of the ways in which Western culture denies so much of reality, particularly when it comes to death. Whether addressing one’s own eventual demise or that of their loved ones. This sentiment being a perfect lead-in to the first line in “The Field”: “Feel it every day.” The Western school of thought being something more akin to, “Feel nothing, ever.”

Throughout “The Field,” it would be difficult to adhere to such a mantra, with its features from The Durutti Column (in that it samples 1998’s “Sing to Me”), Tariq Al-Sabir, Caroline Polachek (who also helped Hynes crack the code on “Somewhere in Between,” hence her co-writing credit) and Daniel Caesar. The sample of The Durutti Column fittingly comes from the album titled Time Was Gigantic…When We Were Kids. This, once more, tying in nicely with Hynes’ overarching theme on Essex Honey: the passage of time, getting further and further away from one’s youth (therefore, closer to their twilight). In the video for “The Field” (directed by Hynes himself), there is a bittersweet aura to the simple concept of friends packing up a car and going on a little journey (“Healthy as we pray for a journey home”) that involves not only plenty of field action (traipsing around in the ones on the side of the road), but also picking up a speaker at one point and then using it for an impromptu party in another field. At the end of the video, however, Hynes’ unmistakable vibe of still feeling hopelessly alone in a crowd (the result, perhaps, of the intense grief he’s feeling) adds to the melancholic overtones of the single. The repetition of the line, “Hard to let you go” (a companion, of sorts, to “Hard to look at you”) also adds to the sense that “The Field” is a grieving track.

As is “Mind Loaded,” among the first songs from the album to be unveiled. Once again featuring Caroline Polachek, as well as Lorde and Mustafa. As a matter of fact, it was released right at a moment when Lorde was still packing some clout from the promotion of Virgin. Though, despite her presence (in addition to her chatting up her love of Hynes’ work on social media), it didn’t seem as though “Mind Loaded” got the attention it deserved. Maybe it needed more than a “visualizer” (one that clearly aligns with the narrative world of “The Field”) to assist with that. Instead, a full-on video that included the star power of Lorde, and the “cult following” status of Polachek and Mustafa. Perhaps then, people would have paid more attention to such affecting lyrics as, “Still broken, can’t think straight/Mind loaded, heart still aches” and “Everything means nothing to me/And it all falls before you reach me, oh/You wonder/And it’s hard to feel yourself, love.” As for the overt Elliott Smith reference (he has a song called “Everything Means Nothing to Me”), his influence on the sound and tone of this track can’t be emphasized enough. Which makes sense, for there is no better musical beacon for getting in touch with one’s sadness than Smith.

Despite his too-premature death, he continues to provide a “Vivid Light” for many musicians. This phrase, “vivid light,” seeming to act as Hynes’ explanation of what “the muse” is represented by in the following track of the same name. With its moody yet ambient backing music, Blood Orange sets the scene of an artist struggling to find inspiration: “Nothing makes it better/Still you try and book a room/Hoping something comes to you/And still you’re dry/It’s like you’ve never touched/A six-string guitar/And the more you write/You never get far.”

In addition to speaking on a creative “dry well,” it also goes back to the abovementioned conversation Hynes had with Zadie Smith, about questioning the “why” of what you do as an artist. A form of self-doubt that can paralyze you when it comes to “feeling creative.” Particularly when something as intense as a loved one’s death is also weighing on you, this being another palpable motif in “Vivid Light.” One made further evident when, as though acknowledging the sudden absence of his mother forever in the final lines of the song, Hynes sings, “I don’t wanna be here alone/I don’t wanna be here alone,” followed by the dichotomous resolution, “Oh, I wanna run away/I think I might just stay.” To be sure, dichotomy is something that’s present on almost every track from Essex Honey.

What follows is the equally as gloomy and contemplative “Countryside” featuring Eva Tolkin, Liam Benzvi and Ian Isiah. The third (and allegedly final) single from the album, Hynes once again wields the image of “light” in a somber (rather than hopeful) sort of way. The death of his mother is also all over lyrics that implore, “Take me away from the broken lights [or, as The Smiths would say, “There is a light that never goes out”]/Could it be that you’re alive?/Take me away to the countryside/In the fields trying to hide. Apart from the eerie implications of that question, Hynes adds to the spectral nature of the song (which can apply to both the figurative loss of a lover and the literal loss of a loved one) with the verse, “Another morning here without you/Thinking where did our time go?/As my chest begins to tighten/I seek comfort in the leaves.” The symbol of leaves applying to fall—as in, the fall season of Hynes’ own life. Which is something he’s been thinking about more and more since his mother passed away. And, because of being in this kind of reflective mood as his life hurtles ever forward into the future, it takes him further and further away from his past—this likely being why he tries so hard to remember it on the next song.

As though to really prove just how much The Smiths have influenced him, “The Last of England” has the mark of said band all over it, starting with an intro that features ambient vocals and the sound of a child screaming (yes, something about it bears the characteristics of the opening to “Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me”). If the title of the song alone wasn’t enough to indicate the band’s influence (think: Morrissey declaring, “England is mine/It owes me a living”), Hynes stated that “this idea of ‘England’ is a big theme of this album.” Particularly as it pertains to what “home” even means to him anymore. Without the “heart” of his family—his mother—there any longer, it is now especially poignant for Hynes to ask himself this question. And if there’s “nothing more to do but leave”—forever, as it were.

By the second verse, the tone of the music shifts, channeling almost more of a Massive Attack feel as Hynes sings, “Elizabeth [a clear nod to the former Queen of England], it travels through/Ilford [another very specific town name check] is the place that I hold dear/All the things we had to do/My sister understands just how it feels.” Whether that refers to their shared childhood experience alone or their shared “England experience” (as well) is left to the listener’s discretion. As it is to determine whether “but then they took you away” refers to England as it once was or Hynes’ mother—or both.

The melancholia holds tight on the grandly-titled “Life” featuring Tirzah and Charlotte Dos Santos. As for what “life” means to most people, it’s, well, “making it.” And usually, that entails making money. Thus, Hynes repeats, “I want to see you make it, make it, make it on your own.” Tirzah then complements that urging with her sweetly-delivered verse, “Getting through stages/I’m really, I’m really gonna pace this/I’m really gonna pace this/I’m really gonna pace this/I’m gaining waves of daisies.” This latter phrase somehow conjuring in one’s mind the saying, “Pushing up daisies”—the well-known slang (especially in Britain) for being dead and buried. Just another “subtle” way that mortality permeates this Blood Orange album more than any other before it. This also present in the double meaning of a line like, “Want to see me before I go?/See me before I go?” A query that can pertain as much to leaving a place as an astral plane.

The next song, “Westerberg” (named in honor of The Replacements’ lead singer, Paul Westerberg) featuring Eva Tolkin and Liam Benzvi, is a noticeable standout for its more up-tempo pace compared to the others. But, of course, it’s still filled with sorrow, nostalgia. This tone announced in the first verse, “Regressing back to times you know/Playing songs you forgot you owned/Change a memory, make it 4/3/Visualize what you want to be/In your ear sings Paul Westerberg.” And something else Westerberg sang in Hynes’ ear during his youth was the chorus to “Alex Chilton” (itself named in honor of another iconic lead singer, thereby creating layers of meta-ness in the art of homage). Which goes, “And children by the million wait for Alex Chilton to come around, ‘round/They sing, ‘I’m in love, what’s that song?’/I’m in love with that song/I’m in love, what’s that song?/Yeah, I’m in love with that song.”

In Blood Orange’s repurposing of those lyrics, he sings, “I’m in love/What’s that song?/I’m in love/With that song/But it’s easier to breathe when the tar floats down your stream/And you squint to see the truth/That there’s no longer your youth.” Thus, the incorporation of The Replacements into this revelation about lost youth adds yet another layer of sadness to “Westerberg,” for there is nothing that gets one more in touch with their youth than the music that they listened to during it. And yet, no matter how vivid the memories of that time seem, it’s only gotten further and further away—fuzzier and less certain in one’s mind.

With “The Train (King’s Cross)” featuring Caroline Polachek (a staple on this record), Blood Orange persists in sustaining the up-tempo rhythm as a means to mitigate the cold, hard reality of the sentiments, “Stare through the page/For the first time in my life/I can’t see too far/Can’t turn back and the worst is yet to come/For the first time in my life.” This, once again, referring to how, in the aftermath of his mother’s death, Hynes understands that he himself is getting closer to that age—that “point of no return,” as it were. So it is that he also adds, “I am standing on the brink of the abyss.” Except that, to obfuscate the doom of that statement, he says in in German: “Ich stehe kurz vor dem abgrund.” The motif of having no real sense of what “home” means anymore is also at play in the opening verse, “Soon, I was walking to the train/To see my phone/Nothing there can guide me home.”

Thus, no wonder he’s “Scared of It.” The “it” being life itself. Continuing the “upbeat” musical tone that helps muddle the grimness of his feelings, “Scared of It” also features additional vocals from Brendan Yates and Ben Watt. But it’s Hynes who admits, “Couldn’t face the end of it/Pretend I’m not scared of it/Everything you knew has gone away.” In this sense, Hynes alludes to being scared of “the end” of something, namely an era. With this next one in his life leading closer and closer to death. A subject that has been an ongoing source of fascination for Hynes, even as “far back” as 2016, manifest in an interview with Kindness during which he remarked, “I think maybe because I’m older, too; not a maturity thing because I’m not more mature, but just closer to dying so I feel more willing to just say yes to things. I don’t know.”

But what he does know is how to create a “vibeable” sound for songs that dissect painful topics. Much like the second to last offering on Essex Honey, “I Listened (Every Night).” Among the few tracks on the record to have no features, the sparseness of the instrumentation compared to the other songs is also what makes the song feel more urgent, with Hynes declaring, “And I listened every night/Falling out the way/Something made you stay/Time will change you.” Or, as Bowie once put it, “Time may change me/But I can’t trace time.” That abstract concept so ready and willing to slip through your fingers just when you think you’ve “tamed” it. The impossible dream. And, talking of dreams, Hynes concludes “I Listened (Every Night)” with the affecting outro, “I couldn’t see/Anything in between that’s soft/I wasn’t there at all/A dream is often solo.”

With all these realizations confirmed, Hynes decides “I Can Go,” the concluding track featuring Mabe Fratti and Mustafa. Another song with sparser instrumentation than the others, with piano notes occasionally interjecting. It’s Fratti’s line, said in Spanish (once more, perhaps, to soften the severity of the message)—“Pánico cuando ves el camino,” or “Panic when you see the road”—that holds the most power. And the most meaning. With very few lyrics apart from “I can go,” Hynes is again using the force of repetition to create an even greater impact on the listener. On the one hand, the statement can be looked at as though it’s coming from his own mother, crossing into the great beyond. On the other, it can be interpreted as Hynes himself understanding that he doesn’t “have to” keep making music. Or, as Zadie Smith phrased it to him regarding those who just stop making art at a certain point in their lives, “I admire the person who’s able to say, ‘I did my work. And that’ll do.’”

However, it’s unlikely that Hynes is the type of artist who can “just” stop. It’s in his bones to make music as much as England—whatever it “means” as a construct—or The Smiths and The Replacements are. And that’s surely been a small comfort amidst his grief.