The “great cremation ground” of Father John Misty’s Mahashmashana provides Josh Tillman with a way to examine the wonderfully weird life he has lived over the past ten years. The ultimate observer, he casts a jaundiced eye at the world around him, looking over the edge at the downward slope that lies ahead of him at age 43. Unsurprisingly, he ain’t exactly happy with the view. Life can be a bit much, and realising we all end up underground or as ashes floating through a world we no longer can take part in doesn’t do much to ease the pain.
Opening with could be a climatic burst of strings and thunderous drums, ‘Mahasmashana’ opines, “Resplendent in donor class panache/ Is a scheme to enrich assholes/ What the godhead had in mind/ When he hid here such revelations/ As only singers could describe.” Over nine minutes Tillman lets loose with invective about the state of the world as only he can, venting about how, “A perfect lie can live forever/ The truth don’t fare as well.” It’s a fair evaluation of the how we live in today’s Trump-world.
Rocking about the rabble on ‘She Cleans Up’, Tillman continues the blaze of fire. The women are taking charge, because, at the end of the day, someone must clean up the mess that has been created by the male of the species. Strings firing the charge of ‘Josh Tillman and the Accidental Dose’ blaze and burn as he thrashes and trashes around with notions that, “I saw something I shouldn’t see/ The awful truth, bare reality/ That I’d forfeit my existence/ If someone just let me play with them.”
There’s a brightness to these notions that almost blinds you with the intensity they expose. ‘Mental Health’ seems to harken back to earlier songs in the Misty canon, yet along the way the song builds, the intensity bringing on notions questioning the very nature of the song’s title. “Mental health, mental health/ There’s no higher virtue held in this crazy world/ It’s more than a little bit absurd.” After all, who really is healthy? As Kurt Vonnegut wrote, “See the cat? See the cradle? The world’s absurd.” We just live here. Even Tillman can’t make sense of it.
Showing the absurdity of the myths man has created Tillman in the guise of Father John Misty reveals the world as a magician who’s tricks have been uncovered. Beyond the sleight of hand there is nothing. We are taken in by the notions that seem most appealing to us. We believe what we want to believe whether there is proof or not. While his musical beds swirl and whirl around us, Mahashmashana lets us know that eventually the great cremation ground gets us all. What a long, strange trip it is indeed.
