It’s been 21 years since Songs: Ohia’s ultimate work, “The Magnolia Electric Co.” released, and 11 since Jason Molina tragically passed away after a long-time struggle with substance abuse. Often, with the tragic death of an artist, their work becomes a fetishized entity— a commodity made richer by the context of their death. I mean, just think of the cultural spectacle that Nirvana became. Sickening. As such, it would cheapen the album (and Molina’s life) to psycho-analyze the music for hints of his terminal battle with his own mind. I’d like this to be a celebration of one of the greatest albums I’ve ever listened to. That being said, the album is thick with obvious allusion to death, degradation, and loss, but it must be stated that Molina’s explorations of these topics is wholly sober (and deeply sobering, really). With that being said, here’s my review of the first almost-half of the album… I wouldn’t dare desecrate your experience of this masterpiece by spoiling the whole thing! In fact, go listen to this album. Right now. I’m willing to burn all of the good-will (hah!) I’ve built up on this singular request: listen to this album as soon as you can. Preferably before or directly after you read this… Done? Good. On that note:
“The whole place is dark / Every light on this side of the town.”
This is the dejected inauguration we are ushered into this world with, in an opening track sleekly (and bitterly) titled “Farewell Transmission”. The song, both in it’s content and meta-contextual position within the album’s 8 track run, immediately grounds us in the mythology of the work; images of black stars falling to Earth, endless deserts, and apocalyptic americana ease the listener into a lulling, anachronistic depression; a depression which is sonically accompanied by crooning, bluesy balladry, and frontman Jason Molina’s voice—a presence as clear as rain water, and as weary as a pine in the winter. We’re starting with goodbye, and everything is dark. It’s quiet…
“While you’ve been busy crying / About my past mistakes / I’ve been busy trying to make a change”. Ghostly voices sing a mournful chorus. Molina’s tenor guitar sounds distant, like a summer thunderstorm… “And now I made the change.”
An explosion. A crack of blue lightning. Track 2, “I’ve Been Riding With The Ghost” crashes into the scene with a blaze of raw energy. Layers of distorted telecasters interweave with haunting riffs from a lap steel guitar, all while Molina’s voice effortlessly switches between heady vocalizations to lucid, headstrong belting. This song’s stylistic identity veers from the folksy melodies of Farewell Transmission, instead drawing sonic resemblances from the heart-on-your-sleeve country rock of the 1970s. The subject matter, too, leans in a new direction; an almost outlaw-country attitude. Molina claws and grasps at attempts to transform (or escape) himself while an ex-something holds him to the person he once was, with love that has wholly flamed out into contempt. Twinges of resentment underline Molina’s confusion as he trudges toward change, all while specters of adulterous lust and substance abuse stretch behind him like a shadow. After all; he isn’t careening down the highway away from his demons, his ghosts are right there with him—riding shotgun.
I, Will Blosser, with all my thesaurus digging and poetic-inclinations, cannot do justice to track 3 in writing. Isn’t it ironic that the song that elicits the most visceral feelings within me is titled, humbly, “Just Be Simple”? I don’t mean to deify it, but genuinely, the depth of my personal connection to this song and the lightning Molina bottles up within it deprives me of words to describe it very well. It’s an experience best left to the ears and heart, and I hope you’ll approach the album with both open. To keep up our little format, I’ll just leave you with the opening stanza:
“You’ll never hear me talk about one day getting out / Why put a new address on the same old loneliness?”