On her sixth album, pop's queen of the dramatic reinvention did something more shocking than meat dresses and humanoid motorbikes: Lady Gaga looked back. Unlike the smooth tech-house flavour of its predecessor Chromatica, and diametrically opposed to the dinner jazz of her work with Tony Bennett, on Mayhem she returned to the operatic electroclash that powered her first two albums. There are synths that sound like a Dyson on its last legs.
Devouring the new Nick Cave documentary on Sky, I am reminded how critics go wild for arty musicians who constantly change direction and dabble in everything. This is its own kind of myth. I know plenty of artists who keep moving one week they're sewing fish scales on to jackets, the next they're painting mirrors or putting seahorses in samovars. The problem is, no one cares.
The title of Brandi Carlile's latest record, , makes an encouraging first impression. What could possibly be bad about reclaiming selfhood? Isn't that a pop psychology milestone people make guest appearances on daytime talk shows to humble brag about? But Returning to Myself considers the implicit woe of its own declaration: in order to return to oneself, one must first be lost. It's a common existential crisis that worsens when pop culture primes audiences for inspiration instead of reality checks.
Meier informs Saxberger that he read his slim collection of poetry, written and forgotten 30 years prior, and shared it with his "Enthusiasm Society" of ambitious writers. Meier encourages Saxberger to join the group, who are in the midst of organizing a reading that will debut their talents to Vienna. Flattered and reinvigorated by their admiration, Saxberger hangs around the young crowd and lets himself believe that he finally might be on the brink of recognition.