Gibson Girl — Ethel Cain
#365Songs: February 16th
Before y’all get worked up and start associating me with the Q-Anon-loving MAGA freaks who tag Taylor Swift as a deep state weapon of mass destruction, let be clear: I like and respect her quite a bit. She’s consistently dropped quality albums without sacrificing integrity, hasn’t used stunts to maintain attention, and is a confident and positive role model to millions across generations. I’ve even added a song or two to my Best Of lists over the years, and was particularly fond of the 10 Minute Version of Red’s All Is Well.
I say all that to say, I get it. That’s not to say I wasn’t agitated that a league known for hiding life-threatening head injuries is suddenly reinvigorated, or that it’s acceptable how the Super Bowl’s Disney-ending with Swift and Kelce embracing while confetti fell on their heads ultimately distracted us from yet another Israeli attack on a Gazan refugee camp. That’s not Taylor’s fault. It’s our fault for allowing our kitten-sized attention spans to take whatever cultural catnip is tossed our way.
Admittedly, I haven’t been particularly kind on the subject of pop artists over the years — or anything excessively dumbed down and over-produced for mainstream appeal. And again, there’s a whole lot more substance to Taylor than many of her overexposed counterparts.
And that leads me to the actual point.
The concept of a “gateway drug” tends to have a negative connotation, for good reason, but humor me as I reframe a different use case. My entry into alcohol involved warm cans of Miller Genuine Draft, a yet-to-be-defined drink called Zima (to which we added a sticky nasty cherry-adjacent substance called grenadine), and bottles of Boone’s Farm. Fortunately, the gateway led me to higher quality versions of the experience.
What I’m trying to say, perhaps poorly, is that Taylor Swift is the perfect gateway drug, a finely packaged, high quality catch-all artist who can draw massive attention to more complex iterations of herself. If Taylor had grown up homeschooled by Baptist parents in the Florida panhandle, developed a propensity for Southern Gothic expressions, incorporated Gregorian chant and dark Biblical concepts into her lyrics, got diagnosed with Autism, and came out as a trans bisexual woman at the age of 20, she could’ve written Ethel Cain’s exceptional debut album Preacher’s Daughter. The song American Teenager is pure Taylor Swift, but with the edge that feels missing from her bubblegum love-struck aw shucks why me lyrics.
I can’t identify a single album that’s dropped in the past several years that struck me quite the way Preacher’s Daughter did. And it hits as hard upon every listen. It’s a shame we live in this era when end-to-end album listening is a lost art. If it were 1986, I’d have replaced the cassette tape a few times by now. Preacher’s Daughter is an epic concept album coming in at around 75 minutes, and it feels like a confessional, an angry whisper in the back pews of a church on a dark stormy night, an exorcism of her deacon father’s judgmental shadow.
It’s just fucking extraordinary from beginning to end.
But let’s for a moment focus on what I believe is her finest song, the one that best defines her artistic complexities. Where Taylor examines the small deceptions, flirty looks, and bad breakups, Ethel explores the subtextual power dynamics at play in sexual relationships, examines expressions of patriarchy, the male gaze’s relationship to female body image, sex work, gender dysmorphia, and exploitation.
Listen. I’m not for a moment suggesting that mainstream audiences will, can, or should attach to an artist as dark as Ethel. There are plenty of indie artists who pick up where Taylor leaves off. I’m just saying that Taylor opens a door through her sound to all sorts of other talented artists, light and dark, who are making an effort to expand upon a style of music she made popular.
The Super Bowl was a reminder that Americans still fall for a cheesy love story that ends with the cheerleader diving into the arms of the football star. But just down the street from that Vegas stadium–in casinos, clubs, bars, and on street corners — is a city filled with characters who resemble Ethel Cain’s Gibson Girl. That’s not Taylor’s version. It’s just an American truth.
You came alone to me
From however far away
Asking me to know how I know
You’re all the same
Black leather and dark glasses
Pourin’ another while I shake my ass
He’s cold-blooded so it takes more time to bleed
Obsession with the money, addicted to the drugs
Says he’s in love with my body, that’s why he’s fucking it up
And then he says to me
“Baby, if it feels good, then it can’t be bad”
Where I can be immoral in a stranger’s lap
And if you want it good, downright iconic
Something they all want that only you can have
You wanna fuck me right now
You wanna see me on my knees
You wanna rip these clothes off
And hurt me
And if you hate me
Please don’t tell me
Just let the lights bleed
All over me
