I usually don’t like to begin posts by with defensive statements acknowledging relative inactivity. They tend to read or are intended to be understood as apologies, and as a woman I avoid offering concession for things that aren’t my fault. The cause of my recent lack of blog fodder is industriousness. I’ve been busy. This needs little justification. In addition to the girls’ studies conference I recently attended, I start another blog series for Bitch Magazine tomorrow. This one is called the Bechdel Test Canon and will focus on feminist responses to a selection of movies that pass the Bechdel Test. Thus, I have been marathoning a lot of features. I’m also working on a couple of other professional projects that I’d rather not elaborate upon at this juncture, but require considerable attention. 

The unfortunate reality of being occupied while running a popular culture blog is that media texts generate regardless of your ability to keep up. For a little over a month, I’ve been lagging behind notable releases from Sufjan Stevens, Deerhunter, and Antony and the Johnsons. When releases are relevant, I try to link a preview like NPR’s First Listen, which usually demos a new release a week before it hits stores. However, I regrettably neglected to do so this time. This isn’t so much a concern for Stevens’ The Age of Adz, which for me recalls the petulant tone, Auto-Tune dalliances, and incoherent grandeur of Kanye West’s 808s and Heartbreak except that its indulgences are boring and experimentations are predictable. However, it’s certainly a concern for the Johnsons’ consistently elegiac Swanlights. Frequent commenter Kathy recently brought up Hegarty, who I have mentioned previously. Thus, a long overdue post.

I will admit considerable initial hesitancy toward Antony and the Johnsons writ large, and chanteuse Antony Hegarty in particular. The band garnered much praise with 2005’s breakthrough, I Am a Bird Now. Later that same year, Hegarty provided vocals and piano to “Beautiful Boyz,” an ode to Jean Genet on CocoRosie’s maligned sophomore release, Noah’s Ark. The singer collaborated with Björk on Volta and covered Leonard Cohen songs in the documentary I’m Your Man. Several friends championed Hegarty with breathless comparisons to Nina Simone and invocations of cabaret.

Theoretically, this should have been enough to convince me. But it wasn’t until Hegarty channeled childhood heroine Alison Moyet on Hercules and Love Affair’s 2008 debut that I was moved. My hunch as to why forces me to confront some of my latent transphobia and homophobia. Unlearn, Alyx.

To be clear, I don’t have the hang-ups about transgender people that some feminists do. To me, top surgeries and sexual reassignment procedures don’t register as misogynistic or comparable to the plastic surgery some women receive. There’s a big difference between cisgender women getting breast implants and nose jobs in the name (under the guise?) of choice and transgender men and women wanting their bodies to reflect how they conceptualize their sex. Frankly, such comparisons are reductionist and insulting. 

But I was initially resistant toward Hegarty’s output because it was so ponderous and heavy with tortured import, which I do think is linked to the singer’s orientation. Wither the happy? Why is everyone dying in all of these songs? Why are emotions so intense? Why does this sometimes negatively impact phrasing, as exhibited in the leaden Hegarty-Björk duet “Dull Flame of Desire”? Hegarty’s music sounded like a black hole where the corpses of Jean Genet, Candy Darling, and Kazuo Ohno rot eternally as mourners crowd and bawl over the loss. Even though it matters that they lived and important that we reflect on how and why they died, it was too overwhelming for me.

Now, I tend to like my music varied and complex in emotionality and not dwell on or engineer a limited range of emotions. This isn’t to say there isn’t variance in Hegarty’s funereal music. But I think my discomfort with it most likely stemmed from being more comfortable with queer chanteuses having conga lines tail behind. This makes me wonder if I had difficulty processing the pop song as lamentation, especially from a singer who identifies as trans and gay. After I embraced Hegarty’s dancier side and noted the wrenching lyrical content it belied, I felt it my duty to revisit the Johnsons’ previous efforts. I enjoy Swanlights, even if my loyalties are still with The Crying Light. I was astonished by their powerful, austere beauty. I’ve also been able to process more recent acts like the riveting Perfume Genius.

But could I only appreciate queer excess when it wasn’t steeped in profound sadness? Does this need for keeping private feelings at bay suggest my unconscious desire to put out musicians back in the closet? May it stem from privilege, residing in a cisgender white lady’s discomfort over being uncertain if male pronouns apply when addressing the musician? May it make me uncomfortable to face that  seriousness is vital when the majority of queer people are not privy to all civic rights, risk mortal danger in quotidian situations straight people don’t have to negotiate, are targets of hate crimes, and in some cases are denied medical coverage and left to die because some hospitals won’t treat them? 

Addressing those injustices are worth tearful, shaky, defiant encomium. It demands complete attention and re-education. As a result, the music can be too overwhelming to make it into steady personal rotation, but I welcome it when it presses its importance upon me.