Father John Misty’s latest album, Mahashmashana, opens up with “Mental Health,” a track that immediately establishes a richly textured sonic landscape. The song is a tapestry woven with gentle winds, blossoming saxophone melodies, and soft backing vocals, creating an immersive, almost otherworldly atmosphere crafted entirely by the artist, Josh Tillman, the man behind Father John Misty. Tillman’s voice enters, delivering lucid and meandering lyrics such as “One of these labels bound to fit / Oh, identity / your milk white shadow,” drawing listeners deeper into this religiously tinged, euphoric realm. The harmonies evoke a sense of auditory heaven, promising a transcendent listening experience.
However, this heavenly ascent takes an abrupt and jarring turn upon reaching the song’s hook. Tillman’s impassioned crooning of “Men-tal Heeeaaalth, Men-tal Heeeaaalth / No one knows you like yourself,” punctuated by sharp snare accents and a melodic upward scale, feels jarringly out of place. This sudden shift disrupts the established mood and leaves the listener with a sense of disappointment.
In a mere 15 seconds, the carefully built-up intensity and atmospheric production of the preceding two minutes are sacrificed for a line that is not only corny but also sonically unappealing. This abrupt descent from the sublime to the commonplace leaves a feeling of artistic betrayal. The emotional investment in the song’s initial build-up culminates in a climax with the lyrical sophistication of a teenager’s angsty online journal.
This tendency isn’t entirely new for Father John Misty. His lyrical style often oscillates between profound insight and what can feel like alcohol-fueled philosophical ramblings reminiscent of late-night conversations with a verbose acquaintance. Throughout his discography, Tillman grapples with themes of self, mortality, and love, achieving varying degrees of success and occasionally succumbing to triteness. Albums like Pure Comedy and God’s Favorite Customer, while containing moments of lyrical awkwardness, remain compelling listens, demonstrating a complex dynamic within his work.
Despite these lyrical stumbles, Father John Misty’s music remains consistently in rotation for many listeners. This enduring appeal stems from the albums’ ability to accommodate even their silliest lyrical moments within a cohesive sonic framework. The seemingly pretentious line, “Their idea of being free is a prison of beliefs / That they never ever have to leave” from “Pure Comedy,” for example, is seamlessly integrated into a grand crescendo. Tillman’s delivery, especially the sharp articulation of “never ever,” transforms the potentially clunky lyric into a powerful moment. In such instances, the persona of Father John Misty transcends Tillman himself, creating a captivating artistic experience. Unfortunately, this magic is often elusive on Mahashmashana, where jarring moments frequently undermine otherwise promising songs.
Following the awkward hook of “Mental Health,” the listener is left attempting to reconnect with the song, hoping the undeniably phenomenal instrumental arrangement can salvage the experience and guide them back into a state of songwriting-induced euphoria. But then, the lyrical hammer drops again: “Men-tal Heeeaaalth, Men-tal Heeeaaalth / Maybe we’re all far too well.” These disruptive lyrical choices within songs that otherwise demonstrate brilliance are a source of deep frustration. Mahashmashana teeters on the edge of greatness, repeatedly showcasing Tillman’s ability to craft immaculate musical passages only to undermine them with perplexing artistic decisions. It’s akin to a baseball pitcher throwing a perfect game only to inexplicably serve up an easy hit at a crucial moment.
Sometimes, the issue isn’t just the lyrics themselves but their delivery. The irresistibly groovy melody of “She Cleans Up,” with its hip-swaying rhythm, is constantly interrupted by Tillman’s monotonous, lecture-like vocal delivery, obscuring whatever message he intends to convey. Similarly, the potentially captivating lyrics of “Being You” are diminished by his lazy, almost bored, staccato vocal style. Tillman frequently employs spoken-word segments, seemingly attempting to embody a messianic figure, as if the Father John Misty moniker wasn’t already suggestive enough.
However, when the creative stars align for Tillman, he demonstrates an undeniable ability to overcome these self-imposed obstacles. Tracks like the album’s title song, “Mahashmashana,” and the disco-infused delight “I Guess Time Just Makes Fools of Us All,” stand as testaments to his potential. “Mahashmashana,” in particular, is a truly magnificent piece. This nine-minute opus captures the orchestral grandeur and overwhelming sense of awe that Tillman has seemed to pursue throughout his career. Filled with lush strings, lyrics that are vague enough to be universally resonant, and a climax that is profoundly moving, the song achieves a sense of musical nirvana.
Yet, Tillman’s songwriting approach appears to be a double-edged sword. For every “Mahashmashana,” there is a “Screamland.” With production qualities reminiscent of a generic Chainsmokers B-side and uninspired lyrics seemingly drawn from a cursory journaling session, “Screamland” emerges as a particularly frustrating track on an album already characterized by its inconsistencies.
This inconsistency begs the question: why? Why does Tillman assemble these disparate sonic elements, forcing incongruous pieces together? Why create an album defined by such stark contrasts? The sonic gumbo of Mahashmashana is not easily digestible; the album, overflowing with diverse musical and lyrical flavors, feels conceptually overstuffed.
Part of the answer likely lies in Tillman’s struggle to embody and maintain the Father John Misty persona. Since his emergence with albums like Fear Fun and I Love You Honeybear, Tillman has meticulously constructed a larger-than-life persona that, in its very grandeur, may now be limiting his creative evolution. The intimate and mundane, it seems, are no longer sufficient for Father John Misty. Even his debut song under this moniker, “Funtimes in Babylon,” hinted at this inclination towards the grandiose. Much like Taylor Swift’s perceived self-imprisonment within themes of break-up songs and Reputation-esque reinventions, Tillman may find himself at a creative crossroads, questioning where to go after a decade of exploring grand spiritual and existential themes as Father John Misty.
His current solution appears to be a strategy of throwing everything at the wall and hoping something sticks. Tillman’s palpable desperation to keep the Father John Misty project alive is evident in the album’s varied and often jarring stylistic choices. From off-key vocal cues to jarring auto-tune and lyrical forays into what resembles middle school-level poetry, Tillman seems to be firing in every possible direction in an attempt to satisfy the demands of his alter ego. Wherever Tillman’s creative impulses lead him, Father John Misty is sure to follow, and, perhaps, to complicate things. The album’s very title, Mahashmashana, exemplifies this conceptual overreach. Tillman seems to have moved beyond his pseudo-Christian mythology and delved into pseudo-Hindu mythos, naming his new album with a Sanskrit term meaning “great cremation ground”—an overly conceptual title for an album already saturated with concepts.
In a recent NPR interview, when directly questioned about the influence of the Father John Misty persona on his work, Tillman offered a telling response:
“I think maybe, in some Bergmanesque psychodrama, this Father John Misty guy really has it out for Josh Tillman.”
Listening to Mahashmashana, it’s hard not to agree. The album feels like a battleground where Tillman’s genuine musical talent is constantly wrestling with the sometimes cumbersome and self-sabotaging persona of Father John Misty.
