If you haven’t listened to Being Funny in a Foreign Language yet, now might be a good time to do so. This isn’t necessary per se, but you would be missing out on some really special music.

 

I love music, obviously, but I didn’t always. It took circumstances and time to discover my appreciation. 

 

When I was sixteen, I went to Riptide Music Festival, an annual gathering of alternative artists on Fort Lauderdale Beach (that I absolutely would not have known about had my close friend’s dad not worked at a local radio station). I went with a group of friends, expecting a fun weekend and not much more. No, it was fucking awesome. I discovered bands like Young the Giant, Rainbow Kitten Surprise, and the Driver Era. I even got to party with childhood-icon-turned-indie-heartbreaker Ross Lynch, but that’s a story for another time. That weekend entirely shifted my perspective of music. Before, I was a passive listener, accepting whatever my parents liked or whatever played on the radio. Not anymore. I became conscious of a huge world of unexplored musical territory. Millions of unheard artists and albums and songs. I took Apple Music by storm (don’t worry, I have since made the switch to Spotify). I spent hours exploring new music, letting one artist lead me to another and so on. I found The Growlers, Declan Mckenna, Dayglow, Still Woozy, Cage the Elephant, COIN, Tame Impala, MGMT, Her’s, Catfish and the Bottlemen, The Strokes. I was the epitome of  “alt.” At least regarding music taste.

 

Then I found The 1975.

 

In November of 2018, they released their third studio album, A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships. I didn’t know any of their songs, but the name sounded familiar. Or maybe it’s just one of those names that makes you feel like you’ve already heard it. My artsier friends wouldn’t stop talking about one of the new songs: “Love It If We Made It.” And if you’ve heard it, you can understand why. The song’s release marks a watershed in the recent history of alternative music. It’s a social anthem, a pessimistic cover of Billy Joel’s paradoxically timeless, “We Didn’t Start the Fire.” The lyrics are catalogue of horrifying news headlines that expose the fucked-up-ness of today’s world. I couldn’t get enough of it. I sang as loudly as my lungs were capable and started the song over the moment it ended. As an insecure senior in high school, itching to escape suburban South Florida and enter the “real world” of college, this song made me feel powerful. The lyrics made me feel like I was part of something larger than myself, something that transcended music. Something important. And this feeling intensified the deeper I dove into The 1975’s discography. 

 

I discovered “Somebody Else” two years after everyone else did. It instantly became the best song I’ve ever heard. I couldn’t believe it existed for so long without me knowing. It almost felt offensive. How the fuck did I miss that one? And why didn’t anyone tell me! It wasn’t the lyrics that captured me, though they do hit harder now that I am older. It was the music itself: the way that the pastel-hued notes seemed to melt in my ears and flood my entire body with pleasure. It was an entirely new sensation: the physical impact of music. Listening to “Somebody Else” felt good. It made me tingly, giddy. And not in any kind of sexual manner. It just ignited my senses in an exciting, unfamiliar way.

 

Especially when I smoked some weed. Music and marijuana make a seriously gorgeous duet. And I know, that’s not a revolutionary statement, but it took my appreciation for music to another level. I don’t know the science behind it, but it enhances the whole experience. It adds another dimension. When your neural pathways shift (or something like that), it opens up a portal into a song. You’re no longer listening to it, you’re inside of it. You can hear every individual instrument, separately and together. It’s a powerful thing. 

 

Now flash forward about a year. My freshman year was stolen by the pandemic. I was bored, probably depressed, and vigorously eager to get back to “real” life. Classes were online and then they were over. I missed my friends. So music became my escape. On long unnecessary drives, at absurdly late hours of the night, I existed in the worlds of my favorite songs. 

 

At midnight on May, 22, 2020, my best friend and I settled in to listen to Notes on a Conditional Form. We shared a poorly rolled joint and layed on the floor. Between us, a speaker and a savvy Amazon purchase that projected a galaxy on the ceiling. We listened all the way through and then listened again, staring up at the virtual sky. 

 

And then suddenly, two-and-a-half years went by. I went back to school, studied abroad, went back to school again, and couldn’t fathom how it all happened so quickly. One day I was trapped in my home, uncertain if I would return to Ann Arbor for my sophomore year, the next, I was a senior. Actually, I was sitting in a hotel room in Las Vegas, recovering from a day of clubbing and preparing for a night of the same. The 1975 had released their fifth album, Being Funny in a Foreign Language, two days before, but I hadn’t listened to it yet. Partly because I didn’t have time, and partly because I didn’t really want to. I hadn’t been feeling them recently. I was absorbed in a new niche: Inner Wave, Black Marble, Blood Orange. But my friend, a fan of the same caliber, put on “About You.” 

 

Though a Vegas hotel room packed with half-drunk girls wouldn’t have been my choice listening environment, it didn’t matter. What the fuck? I mean seriously, what the fuck? Where did that come from? I couldn’t believe it was a real song, a continuation of “Robbers” of all songs. And I couldn’t believe there was a whole new album. Everything about it was unreal. For a blurry and weird two-year period, I had neglected my friends Matty, George, Ross, and Adam. My friends who had gotten me through so much, who had unveiled my relentless love for music. But we reunited that night, in Sin City. And it felt so good.

 

I think Being Funny is my favorite album. It’s difficult to know for sure, but I think it is. And this is an unpopular opinion, a hot take if you will. Some fans might even call it criminal. But it’s honest. The album did something to my brain, altered it in some way that, after four months of repetitive listens and ten-thousand words, I still cannot properly articulate. But that’s not what I’m here to do, to tell you why I like it. That would be boring, and desperate. 

 

It might surprise you, but I’ve never been one who writes for fun. I don’t journal or write short stories in my spare time. But something about Being Funny begged me to write, forced me to. And one day, words just cascaded onto a page. I guess you could call it my first ever journal entry. 

 

So, here we are. The following page on this website houses eleven narratives, one for each song on the album. Structurally, I went into this project with a plan. But I had no idea what I was going to write about. I just knew that this album made me want to create, and I trusted it to guide me in the right direction. I’m not really sure how I made it to the finish line. The writing process never felt forced, it was natural. I think this is what it’s like to truly be inspired by something. It’s one thing to admire a work of art. But to love a work of art so much that it compels you to bring it to life through the lens of your own mind, and then to actually accomplish that in a way that feels organic — that’s something else. Something really special. I didn’t choose to write about this album. It chose me. 

 

I hope you enjoy it in this new form. Chewed, swallowed, digested, and regurgitated by Julia Gordon.