There is no non-trite way to say last year sucked. Last year sucked. Shit still sucks; the calendar changing does not make a difference on this front. (More on my eye-roll attitude toward New Year’s in a different newsletter; I don’t want to reveal the parts of myself that could also belong to a joyless crank too soon.)
I, like many people, have developed a number of coping mechanisms to get myself through days that would otherwise be broken up only by my or my dog’s needs to eat, exercise, or piss. One of these mechanisms is dancing in my kitchen. I am talking all-out dancing of the kind one would do if she were in the middle of a circle at a party or on a stage, the kind that results in bruised knees and sore arms, the kind whose intensity walks the line between terrifying and seductive.
At this point, this has been going on for the better part of a year, so the rotation of danceable songs has grown. Certain songs have had intense but short-lived tenures, notably several songs from Taylor Swift’s 2020 album folklore. I had never been a fan of Taylor’s, but this album made me finally recognize her for what she is: the Motherfucking Queen of Bridges. In “my tears ricochet,” the percussion thrums in your gut while the words — “you can aim for my heart, go for blood / but you would still miss me in your bones” — soar right above your head. “mirrorball” is more saccharine, but when that bridge hits, Taylor’s “still on that trapeze,” she’s “still trying everything to keep you looking at me,” and so are you.
I don’t listen to those two much anymore. I’m sure the rotation will, just like everything else, keep changing. But one song has been a mainstay: “On the Floor,” from Perfume Genius’s 2020 album Set My Heart on Fire Immediately.
“On the Floor” is pop when you want it to be, glam rock the rest of the time. The synth guitars are lush and sparkling, the bass line thick and chewy. The percussion is a persistent, almost taunting snare. Mike Hadreas’s voice is like satin, all shiny and beautiful and gliding, except for the moments when it’s not, and then it’s more like satin ripping. He’s on the floor, certainly on the dance floor, but also just on the regular floor, supplicant, his voice high enough to make you believe that God might hear it, howling out questions that are as much inquiry as they are lament:
How long til this washes away?
How long til my body is safe?
How long til I walk in the light?
How long til this heart isn’t mine?
These questions are all longing and no answers. All desire, all unknown, all desperation. In fact, asking them is a way to underscore the magnitude of the unknown. We hear that chorus three times. In between, Hadreas breathlessly tells us he’s trying, he’s pacing, he’s running his mouth, he’s closing his eyes, he’s praying, he’s waiting, he’s crossing out his love’s name on the page. The final chorus buzzes with anticipation, like he’s trying to just get through it, leaving out the third line, and then, finally, like a plea and a confession in one, the song’s last line, delivered twice:
I just want him in my arms.
The confession releases us from the weight of the unknown. How long? Who cares. I just want him in my arms.
Sometimes dancing is the expression of something that already lives inside you. Sometimes it’s the summoning of a feeling that belongs to someone else. For me, dancing to “On the Floor” is both. I’m channeling Mike Hadreas’s intensely focused, high-drama yearning, and it courses in me, picking up its likeness inside me as it makes its way through.
Other times, dancing is alchemy, turning one feeling into something else entirely. A few weeks ago, dancing to a different kind of song — “Stay Loose” by Belle and Sebastian — I accidentally slammed my right hand on the kitchen counter, breaking my ring finger. While I held my deformed finger as it shot cold, tight pain up my hand, all I could think was “this shit better stop hurting before the final verse; I need to dance to Stuart Murdoch singing ‘I don't know, it could be me / I’m always asking for more, more, more, more.’”
It did not stop hurting. I danced anyway.
Until next.
This is one of several pieces on Perfume Genius. You can read the other ones here, here, here, and here.