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The 1975 | Self Titled

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It’s traditional, mildly uncomfortable, conspicuous, and subtly narcissistic. It’s the self-titled preface of every album. “The 1975” has introduced each record since the band’s debut album, which is also, unsurprisingly, titled The 1975. That’s right. A band called The 1975 released an album called The 1975 which featured a song called “The 1975.” On their first three bodies of work, the inaugural track materialized as renditions of identical lyrics.

 

"Go down / Soft  sound / … Taking up your mouth, so you breathe through your nose"

 

These became aptly and amusingly nicknamed by fans as “the blowjob songs,” because their primary lyrics are unapologetically about oral sex. But my prepubescent self didn’t grasp that. Instead, the self-titled track signified a brief check-in. A welcoming hello from a distant friend who, over time, may have altered in appearance, but remained familiar at their core. It is a moment for the band to let listeners glimpse their perspective of the world — kind of like a status update: here’s where we’re at.

 

With the release of their fourth album, Notes on a Conditional Form, “The 1975” took on the new form of a compelling spoken monologue on the climate crisis, recited by environmental-activist Greta Thunberg. In May of 2020, in the midst of the uncertainty of the global pandemic, self-titled mirrored a time of universal self-reflection and a successive cry to action. “That first track always has to be us checking in. That got us into the conversation of what is the most modern statement, or who  has the most modern statement, and Greta was the decision,” Matty shared with Apple Music.

 

The opening track on Being Funny in a Foreign Language follows its antecedent in reshaping the original self-titled composition. And kindred to Greta’s plea on behalf of the planet, it magnificently acknowledges the plight of modern adolescence. It is a grand introduction to the album, the musical equivalent of opening of an opulent stage curtain. A hint of broadway permeates the inaugural staccato piano that robustly mimics the song’s chorus.

 

“And it’s about time / And this is what it looks like”

 

Beneath a palatial melodic exoskeleton, the lyrics are cerebral and deeply honest. Healy’s voice is dignified, lacking in his markedly exaggerated British accent. He wants to be heard. He needs to. And after years of attempting a message through the cynicism of sex, drugs, and Donald Trump quotes, this deliberate transparency sets up for a different kind of album. One that is less calculated, less pressured to take a stance, and more honest than ever.

 

The band seized this opportunity to clear the air and reflect on their role as spokespeople for the young generation. In a recent interview with Zane Lowe, Healy shared in regards to fame: “I’m gonna say things I’ll want to apologize for and make mistakes in public, just be real, or I’ll go mental.” Healy has never been one to hold back a harsh statement. That’s part of his nihilistic intrigue. Duly, he has never been timid regarding public self-scrutiny. And here it is at its finest. In this status update, he holds himself accountable and makes way for The 1975 At Their Very Best. 

 

“You’re makin’ an aesthetic out of not doing well / And minin’ all the bits of you you think you can sell / Whilst the fans are on”

 

For most of his career, Healy was recognized as an emo icon. The atheist, pessimistic, anti-establishment, and ironically, suit-wearing rock-star, who brimmed with austere opinions and a bleak outlook on society. His music was a representation of a depressed social-media addict, whose hobbies included breaking hearts, masterbating, and occasionally, doing heroin. He was uncomfortable and chaotic, but masked by a veil of alluring synth and black eyeliner, god he looked cool. You couldn’t decide if you wanted to be him or be near him, but it was never really him, of course. It was a persona. A mirage of the real Matty Healy, who in this new era, wipes the smudged makeup from under his eyes and carefully hangs up his suit, revealing a more vulnerable version of himself. He is calmer, less fixated on society and more focused on humanity. So he does what is perhaps the most human thing one can do. I’m sorry, he says. 

 

The final verse is a litany of apologies, each one the same. 

 

“I’m sorry if you’re livin’ and you’re seventeen”

 

He repeats that eight times. It is an apology to his younger self and to the young people of today. For the weight of adolescence. For the distressing uncertainty of the future. For the strain of social media. For the pressure to love yourself. To know yourself. To find a purpose. In his words, adolescence is a stage perceived through “the postmodern lens” — a time when the world is turbulent and identity is a precarious notion. This is an empathetic hand on the shoulder. I understand.

 

The song closes with a metamorphosis; the music nimbly evolves into a warmer instrumental composition, powered by the salient strum of the electric guitar and the suave wail of the saxophone. As a close friend of mine so perfectly noted, it elicits the image of a blooming flower. A time lapse of an orange-hued chrysanthemum, that at the start is closed off to the world, but gradually blossoms into something marvelous. As the track ends, something new begins. Something fresh. Something resilient. With an acknowledgment of the past, we jointly stand back and welcome the present.

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