“The first time I tasted someone else’s spit,
I had a coughing fit,” is the first lyric I ever
heard Lucy Dacus sing. I don’t remember
precisely why I bought the Historian record;
it was before I was aware of the super group
Boy Genius, with Phoebe Bridgers and Julien
Baker. I must have just streamed it, and then
thought, she’s cool, and I bought the record.
I love the way that opening track, “Night Shift,”
moves from this lovely quiet acoustic thing
and morphs through a couple of movements
into the slow, thrashy chorus: “You’ve got a
9 to 5, so I’ll take the night shift. And I’ll never
see you again if I can help it.” Her lyrics
are terrific, raw, funny sometimes, well crafted,
her voice is unique, but super friendly,
a smooth and relaxed alto, she writes
super strong melodies, she makes
interesting production choices, she
surrounds herself with stellar musicians
who know exactly what to do with her stuff,
and her songs are beautiful but sometimes
they rock really hard. I liked Historian so much
I picked up Home Video right away. Here,
more of the same kind of goodness,
beautiful songs with bursts here and there
of distorted guitars. Lyrically, this is
more autobiographical, more personal:
her first awkward loves, her struggles
in a Christian upbringing,
childhood friends in ugly situations
with abusive family or boyfriends.
My only trouble with Lucy Dacus is
that, unless you are paying close
attention to her super smart lyrics, maybe
even singling along and trying not
to cry, her music can just kind of wash
over you, almost too sweetly, so that
it kind of fades away, as it does when
I listen while doing a number of other
menial tasks, answering emails,
checking on the socials, pouring
another cup of coffee or heating up
what’s cold in the mug inside
the microwave, coming back from
time to time to write a sentence in
this new poem-like-thing. It’s not
as much a criticism of Lucy as it is
of my own lack of focus after three
cups of Joe. It’s lovely music, all the same.
Notes on the vinyl editions: Historian, Matador Records, 2018, clear vinyl. Home Video, Matador Records, 2021, clear vinyl.
FYI: I’m listening to almost everything in my vinyl collection, A to Z, and writing a long skinny poem-like-thing in response for each artist. As a poet and a student of poetry, I understand that these things look like poems, but they don’t really sound much like poetry, hence, I call them “poem-like-things.” I’ll admit that they’re just long, skinny essays that veer every now and then into the poetic.
michael jarmer 