Why do we Crave Breakup Albums?
Recently I stumbled upon an article comparing Taylor Swift’s Folklore to the confessional poetry tradition of Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath. Of course, the idea of a musician — like the confessional poets — putting their most intimate “details of their personal lives” on full display in an “act of self-exposure” is nothing new. And Beck’s Sea Change is one record in this rich history.
One can’t help but imagine the courage it must take for a writer to put those words to paper. Sea Change came after a brutal breakup and was not released until three years later. To relive lines like “It’s only tears that I’m crying. It’s only you that I’m losing” years after that heartbreak is incomprehensible. To have moved on emotionally and yet night in and night out face lines like “Losing strength in every hand, They can’t hold you anymore” is heartbreaking. But, given how we celebrate Sea Change and mark it as a point that Beck “showed what he was capable of” we have legitimized him by his heartbreak. Beck’s heartbreak somehow equates with artistic capability. But, perhaps there is some truth to this claim.
There certainly is a cathartic truth to the breakup album. Like the confessional poets, the singer needs to put their truth to paper. Gianna Valdez noted in an article about confessional poetry that through it, “you are able to connect with your emotions while also discovering the hidden pieces of yourself.” She adds that one learns “how to talk about struggles in a safe place” and ultimately “accept” themselves. This cathartic experience is used by social workers, crisis workers, and psychologists for this exact reason. Anne Sexton, dealing with bipolar disorder, was pushed by her doctor to try writing. Years later, when she was considered one of the greats of the style, she said, “poetry has saved my life.” The cathartic release is good for the artist.
Beck’s Sea Change is not alone. And, when it comes to the breakup album, it is hard to think of a more heartbreaking record than Blur’s 13. Written in the tenuous aftermath of his breakup with Justine Frischmann, 13 is still crushing to listen to all these years later. Songs do not get more confessional than Albarn bemoaning:
“It’s over. You don’t need to tell me. I hope you’re with someone who makes you feel safe in your sleeping tonight. I won’t kill myself, trying to stay in your life.” In a retrospective look at 13 for Stereogum, Ryan Leas said that it “proved to be one of the band’s more difficult listens, but also perhaps their most rewarding.” Not only was it rewarding for the fan, it was also rewarding for the artist. In an interview in 1999 with the Irish Times Albarn said: his “way dealing with any kind of history is to concentrate on the future and accept that I’m learning all the time.” The artist, just like all of us, must face the hardships to grow. However, the artist can somehow channel that horror into something beautiful.
I think this learning is part of the enjoyment (if we can call it that) for the audience.
Michael Heid recently wrote in “Why do you like Sad Songs and Movies” for the Elemental blog that it might be philosophical. H-e notes Penn State’s Mary Beth Oliver, who said that listeners are “trying to have a greater insight into the bigger questions — the purpose of life, or human virtue.” The audience lives and learns through the insight we receive from any medium, including the confessional breakup album. She adds that “this level of contemplativeness” is “beautiful.” The understanding of the human condition is beautiful. Art is beautiful.
But it is still a little freakish when you think about it. We are invited in to view heartbreak in full-ultrasonic-stereo. It may bring up memories or make us reflect on heartbreak, but I would argue nowhere near as much as the artist. Valdez writes that the audience of confessional poetry “expect the hurt,” adding we “expect the tears you cried to be turned into ink. No one reads it for beauty, but that is what they will find, despite all the pain”. Pain is truth. And, as Keats famously said, “truth is beauty.” The uncompromising beauty that is in their truth is what we want. It is why a hastily-made album by Marvin Gaye — Here, My Dear — is remembered so many years later. The album is so unflinchingly vulnerable that the subject (although target might be a more appropriate word) of the album, Gaye’s ex-wife Anna Gordy considered suing Gaye for invasion of privacy. The breakup record does just that. It breaks down any sense of privacy and puts the snot-drivelling messiness of love on full display.
In 2011, Kathleen Edwards released the raw and beautiful Voyageur. The metaphor of a journey is evident in the title, but I can’t help but wonder if the title connects to the idea of the voyeur invited in to watch. In this case, we are invited in to watch love collapse. Like 13, Sea Change, or Bon Iver’s For Emma, Forever Ago, Edwards allows the listener into the innermost details. When Edwards sings, “You don’t kiss me. Not the way that I wish you would. Maybe I don’t look at you, In a way that makes you think you should,” the listener can’t help but feel like some awkward infringing dinner guest trying to find any excuse to leave. But, there is a tenderness that keeps us coming back. It keeps us watching the demise over and over again, like some strange rom-com breakup produced for Black Mirror. Fleetwood Mac, Beck, Bon Iver, Kanye, Edwards, Albarn, Sinatra, Dylan, the list is glorious and long, and we keep listening, rewarding artists for their heartbreak.
It has to come down to the pain. The same reason that people watch horror films. In his essay “Why we Crave Horror Movies,” Stephen King said that viewers “are daring the nightmare.” King says that horror is “unchained, our most base instincts let free… in the dark”. Unchained. Free. Dark. Is heartbreak not the same? Put aside Clichés of ice cream and binging Friends. Real, uncompromising heartbreak is something we rarely let others in on. We may let people see the frayed edges, but not the darkest realities. But, those dark realities are where the artist shines. They give voice to the pain and act as a scapegoat for our emotions. We are nothing but emotional vampires, feasting off of their misery and loving every miserable minute.
