Our Spilt Milk: The Weeknd, Miley, of Montreal, and Pandemic Listening

The Weeknd in a hall of mirrors during the Super Bowl halftime show

Our favorite things this week include the recent Super Bowl halftime now, new Miley Cyrus, old Hole, Beatlesque of Montreal, and classic Moby.

Nobody’s really well-suited for a Super Bowl halftime show. Artists don’t spend their careers preparing for the moment when they can surreally shoehorn themselves in the middle of a football game and perform on a few acres of Astroturf under lights more conducive to psychological warfare. Some have been humbled by the gig, some survived in style, but The Weeknd actually did himself some favors. It helped that he performed in a socially distant season because distance is his thing. He’s emotionally distant from loved ones in his songs, detached from his own feelings at times, and every time I’ve seen him in person or on television before Sunday, he was by himself. 

His performance didn’t counter his solitude as much as it attenuated it. He sang in front of a wall of musicians separated from him by music stands, with camera shots that periodically emphasized the space between them. He was on a different page from all of The Weeknd dress-alikes with head wounds that he crashed into in the hall of mirrors, and when he danced on to the field with more head wound Weeknds, he briefly seemed in sync with them. Before long though, he was back out of step and the camera struggled to keep track of him amid the swirl of gauzed humanity. 

Seeing him in the company of others made encountering The Weeknd less awkward and made his songs of numbed romance sound less self-indulgent. The unlikely performance spaces helped his songs stand out because their showiness made it impossible to look away. I still think his voice lacks character, but “Blinding Lights” sounded like a song that would naturally have been streamed more than a billion times on Spotify.

The Weeknd’s halftime show felt different from others because it wasn’t a victory lap. Most halftime show performers are established names, whether from the classic rock quadrant—Bruce Springsteen, The Rolling Stones, Tom Petty—or a more contemporary vintage—Beyoncé, Katy Perry, Lady Gaga. Their places in the culture had solidified if not calcified, but despite a solid CV as a hitmaker, The Weeknd isn’t a household name. The performance won’t automatically elevate him to that status. There are too many football fans ready to make fun of someone who needs to buy a vowel (dad joke!) and borrows a hook from Siouxsie and the Banshees, but he’s now more than just the guy who sounds a little like Michael Jackson. (Alex Rawls)

Hole’s 1991 debut album Pretty on the Inside still packs the same frenzied punch it did upon its release nearly 30 years ago. The album introduced the world to the chaotic glamour of Courtney Love, where harshly distorted guitar melodies clamor in the background of sloppily screamed lyrics. A seminal example of brutish, pulse-pounding ‘90s noise punk, the album’s name seems fitting as its most palatable musical moments are laced within the record’s abrasive exterior. Despite the fact that Love herself has since deemed the album “unlistenable,” I think listening to her stories about drugs, sex, and self-loathing is the least we could do for one of the most maligned women in rock history.

Love spitefully sings in “Teenage Whore,” “I’ve seen your repulsion and it looks real good on you / Denying what / What you put me through,” and I can’t help but reflect on the massive amount of public criticism and disdain Courtney Love has endured since her less than delicate entry into the spotlight. Love’s upbringing, defined by abandonment, anger, and abuse, meant she was left to her own devices at a young age, turning to sex work as a teenager to support herself before she began a career in music. Love wore her trauma like wine-colored lipstick and used it as a catalyst to create Hole’s distinctly rowdy and feminine sound. Admittedly, Love’s brash personality on and off the stage makes her as a controversial figure, but I think it all goes to show that sometimes it hurts to shine so bright. Love’s unapologetic character is what makes Pretty on the Inside come alive through vulgar tales of a girl gone bad with equally lacerating music to match.

After 30 years, I would like to think that the music industry has learned from its blatantly misogynistic campaign against Courtney Love, but the predominantly male outrage that followed Phoebe Bridgers’ guitar-smashing on Saturday Night Live says that’s not likely. Hole’s influential role in grunge rock remains outshined by Love’s smeared legacy. Pretty on the Inside remains Hole’s one and only musical accomplishment that would not be clouded by hateful press and whispers that their music was being written by a more credible male musician. Yet, with the same shameless ferocity Love showed in every instance, the album prevails as a middle finger to whatever would come Hole’s way.  (Rachel Michel)

Miley Cyrus’s Plastic Hearts effectively broke the internet, but Miley does that. Originally seen as a pre-teen pop/country singer, Cyrus’ dramatic shift to club-friendly pop in Bangerz (2013) rocked the world. That change was more about shedding her Disney Channel persona than it was about making music she truly loved, but seven years later on Plastic Hearts, Cyrus has finally found herself as an artist. Her personal life overshadowed her voice and music in the past, but now the story is the classic music she aligns herself with and the quality of the company—Billy Idol, Joan Jett, and Stevie Nicks—that she keeps. 

Cyrus’ cover of Blondie’s “Heart of Glass” spearheaded a renewed interest to rock of another generation on social media including the sudden spike in Fleetwood Mac’s popularity with Gen-Z after a viral video of a man skateboarding, drinking cranberry juice and listening to “Dreams.” Cyrus mixed her track “Midnight Sky” with Nicks’ “Edge of Seventeen” to create “Edge of Midnight,” further introducing her younger fans to the band. No one saw it coming, but Miley Cyrus may just be the bridge that connects Gen-Z and the classic rock crowd. (Jillian Fontana)

of Montreal's debut Cherry Peel is music to cook lunch to. Before bandleader Kevin Barnes gradually fell in love with synths and glam in the 2000s, of Montreal made cozy Beatles-rock with Derek Almstead and Bryan Poole. That quaint, acoustic end of the of Montreal arc churned out numerous lovely albums, with 1997's Cherry Peel, their most stripped-down effort, recently becoming my favorite to cozy up with.

Late ‘90s indie is warm in general, but Cherry Peel is warmer. When it's cloudy outside and you feel "the gray sadness of winter" as Barnes sings of on "Montreal,” Cherry Peel’s got your back. The 14 tracks pair Barnes' distinctly high vocals with chord progressions covered in Paul McCartney's fingerprints, especially on the “Michelle”-adjacent swung cuts, making Cherry Peel feel a bit like an androgynous Rubber Soul.

With its sunny twee aesthetics, Cherry Peel communicates a baseline escapism and joy. But rather than being sweet, the album’s bittersweet, and its green pastures are a backdrop for the tales of loneliness and romantic unfulfillment. Although plenty of the lyrics feel fictitious, they clearly come from a place of genuine heartbreak from Barnes, as well as a longing for platonic love and a fascination with the complex characters Barnes has met. Sometimes the lyrics are carefully crafted poems like "Everything Disappears When You Come Around;” other times they're closer to unfiltered vents, like on "Tim I Wish You Were Born A Girl".

At a mere 35 minutes, Cherry Peel begs for a repeat when it's over, in part because the songs are so dense yet so well-paced that they breeze by, but also because Barnes' infectious hooks and layered-with-meaning lyrics make for high replay value. During an exhausting winter in the midst of a pandemic, of Montreal's charming and intimate debut is a bundle of tunes I don't get tired of. (Andreas Jahn)

I’ve listened to “Porcelain” by Moby for years, but it has never evoked so much emotion in me until now. When I first heard the song, its icy synth washes, soft beats and Moby’s dispassionate vocal transported me to dreamier time and another world. During the pandemic, it still transports me, but now to a calmer time and place—a place I was in when I first heard the song. 

Obviously, I recommend “Porcelain,” but everybody’s got a song that will motivate them, console them, and let them escape these tough times for a few minutes. Find that song. (Tatiana Brochin)