by Mariah Noonie (@mariahnoonie)
Over the past decade or so, Sean Sprecher’s project Bad History Month and its many previous incarnations have been a vehicle for examining deep embarrassment, banality, and depression. Initially, one might mistake his open-diary approach to songwriting as an act of self-flagellation, but Sprecher’s lyrics, accompanied by intricate, winding guitars and explosive, loose drums, find a way to create a sense of playful triumph. Old Blues is no exception to this signature ability of forcing something beautiful out of the ugly facts of one’s life. These disclosures of (assumedly) his shortcomings vacillate between the trivial and the profound but ultimately always blossom into genuine vulnerability.
In a recent Talkhouse conversation with Rick Maguire, Sprecher said, “Everything I do now is an attempt at mental hygiene. Read a book because it feels good, exercise—this is how you keep yourself feeling alright about things. Doing music is now one of those instead of the opposite, which is fucking awesome.” Clearly his goal is to continue to develop and sustain the prosperous aspects of his music and life in general. Sprecher avoids vagueness and obtuse analogies in favor of truth, or at least an honest recollection of events. Even the beach-themed metaphors of “Waste Not,” which at times border on heavy-handedness, serve as a tool for growth, and are appropriately mocked and let go of by the end of the song. This level of authenticity is the key to powerful catharsis, and it’s also what ensures that Old Blues is not simply an experiment in enduring self-punishment and -pity. It’s therapy.
This penchant for a kind of self-conducted psychotherapy via songwriting is perhaps best executed in “Want Not,” where tiny vignettes of childhood memories weave through snaking synthesizers and far-off percussion. These stories coalesce into a mantra, “Anything I can’t have I don’t need,” but the result here is far beyond a mere platitudinal chant. Not only do these stories illustrate interesting and impactful points in time, they also reveal an effective process of acceptance and progress.
The ambitious and wandering “Waste Not” and “Want Not” serve, respectively, as an intro- and outro-duction to a collection of briefer but still fully-developed songs, all of which continue the trend of presenting and then grappling with some kind of grievance or uncomfortable scenario. Sprecher uses these tracks to focus in on more succinct ideas, ranging from dating to body image issues. “The Road to Good Intentions” and “A Survey of Cosmic Repulsion” showcase Bad History’s talents of careful layering and thoughtful production to create unique and haunting dynamics akin to early-2000s Modest Mouse. Tracks like “Grudges” and “Low Hanging Fruit” remain simple and stripped down, utilizing only guitar and barebones percussion.
In a bleak and often lonely world where we stare down the potential horrors of climate change, economic collapse, and rampant inequality, neither the generation of art nor the improvement of oneself and one’s community should be ignored in favor of apathy or pessimism. This is what Bad History Month strives for: betterment and connection. Even if, as Sprecher speculates in “A Survey of Cosmic Repulsion,” there is no unmediated form of human interaction: “Everyone looks ugly when they're close enough to kiss / And luckily for me I'm into ugliness.” We have to learn to love what is often considered “ugly” and to keep moving in spite of adversity and hopelessness. All of our lives are full of bad history, and until we confront that history honestly we will fall short of compassion and well-being.