If dropping album sales are an indicator, more and more people prefer to listen to randomized playlists and top hit countdowns tailored by Spotify and other digital music providers. It would seem that fewer people are consuming entire albums at a time, from the first track to the last. If that is the case, I think it is a shame. Those who have read a number of my previous music reviews know that I find a lot of value in listening to an album from beginning to end, especially when it is clear that the artist has crafted a coherent track list. When that is the case, the whole of the album is much, much greater than the sum of its songs.
With that said, and before diving into today’s review, I think it is worthwhile to clarify an interesting feature of albums. Any artist will tell you that once they have created something and shared it with the world, their art is no longer their own. Once the public has the chance to consume, consider, and comment on the album, painting, or novel, it is as if the art takes on its own life.
This could certainly be said for individual songs, but I would suggest that the issue is compounded when considering an album in its entirety. A musician may comment on the motivations and emotions behind a single song, but the song may look very different when considered in its place amongst the rest of the album. Because of this, I want to make it clear that today’s review is based on my opinion of Matt Maeson’s entire debut album, Bank on the Funeral, and perhaps not the artist’s original meanings for individual songs.
I have been listening to Maeson’s music for a little while now, revisiting older EPs that he has released. When I saw that he released a new album on April 5, 2019, I enthusiastically dove in, and what I found was a very compelling and personal look into the ambivalent and painful life of a man torn between drug abuse, doubt, and faith. I see the despair of addiction and the desperation of hope, purpose, and the will to live. Maeson has invited his audience into a wild emotional ride, and I believe there is value in meeting him there.
Bank on the Funeral is fully laden with references to drug abuse (and the language you might suppose would go with it *PARENTAL ADVISORY: EXPLICIT CONTENT*), so I do not think it is worthwhile to spend much time dissecting those details, except when they directly apply to the themes of relationships and faith. Throughout the album, Maeson’s speaker emphasizes the importance that he places on those higher aspirations while also struggling to lift himself out of the mire of drug abuse and self-medication.
In ‘The Mask,’ we seem to be introduced to the source of the drug abuse. Something traumatic has happened in the speaker’s young family life that has led to a sense of betrayal and an intense pain. He describes “a piece of happy home that they stripped from the bone” and goes on to say, “I did not react. I settled my grievance by crafting a mask, and I never looked back.” Instead of lingering in the pain, the speaker establishes a false persona and a superficial façade that he can hide behind. He strikes out into the world on “a lonely road with one grip on several psalms and one grip on the gun.” A remembered faith accompanies him out into the danger and loneliness of life removed from the happiness of childhood security. We might assume that the speaker is quickly introduced to drugs and alcohol, which he adopts as a coping mechanism and a way to numb the pain.
But he is not entirely removed from his prior life, and naturally, this is a recurring point of friction. In ‘Cringe,’ the speaker struggles to continue a romantic relationship that has been affected by his loss of faith and his dependence on drugs. The chorus repeats:
She said I’m looking like a bad man, smooth criminal.
She said my spirit doesn’t move like it did before.
She said that I don’t look like me no more, no more.
I said I’m just tired. She said your just high.
The speaker repeats again and again, “I saw you in the water.” A reference later in the album juxtaposes a conversation with Jesus and Mother Mary against “murky water” (by my reckoning, the only other reference to water on the album). I have to assume that in ‘Cringe’ he is referring to seeing his ex-girlfriend in the water of a baptismal. No other possibility seems as likely. It is possible that she may have met or followed him into the world of drug addiction, but at some point has detoxed, as the speaker goes on to say, “Sweating all your sins out. Putting all your thoughts back together. Oh, we just don’t blend now. All of my attempts seem to weather.” He is still stuck in that which she was able to shake.
So, when he intones over and over, “I saw you in the water. Don’t I make you cringe,” we begin to wonder why his beloved is cringing. I see two options. Either she is simply repulsed by his reckless behavior, or perhaps more likely, she has experienced the saving grace and mercy of faith in Jesus and cringes at the choice he has made to remain tied to his addiction.
Now, of course “choice” is not quite the right word to use when it comes to addiction. Although his beloved was able to pull herself out of her own drug use, she cannot just assume that he will be able to do the same, especially with the same timing. Again, she may just be cringing because she knows the pain he is living in, the difficulty of getting out of such addictive habits, and the unnecessary continuance of his suffering. It’s hard to say exactly where the speaker’s beloved falls on these issues.
It is not difficult to say, however, where the speaker himself comes down. He may feel some sort of betrayal when he asks if his situation and behavior make her cringe, but he fully understands why she would feel that way. We see the self-disparaging reasoning in three songs, ‘Go Easy,’ ‘Hallucinogenics,’ and ‘Tribulation.’ In ‘Go Easy,’ the speaker is still holding onto the hope that his beloved will weather out the storm of his addiction. He asks, “In the morning when we wake, when I’m sober, would you stay?” but he knows that there is no foreseeable time when he will be consistently sober. He is honest with his beloved and releases her from further responsibility for his own lifestyle by saying, “I know love can’t change me, can’t save me, can’t blame me.”
In fact, in the wavering of the addict’s life that he is living, wanting to get clean but knowing his desire for the easy release of drugs is too strong, the speaker is even more honest with himself. He utters the heartbreaking truth, “My own reflection’s making me sick. I’ve been this way since my faith quit.” It is not just the drug addiction; it is his loss of faith which is so distressing to both him and his girlfriend. In ‘Hallucinogenics,’ the addict compares himself to the prodigal son, but he does not have the will or endurance to return home, transforming over time from the “wayward son” to the “wayward man.”
Knowing this about himself, recognizing the gulf that has opened up between him and his girlfriend, he can (with some spite perhaps) suggest, “Go find yourself a man who’s strong and tall and Christian.” He cannot hold on to his girlfriend, and he is so disgusted with himself that he would not expect her to hold onto him. His honest self-reflection brings him to say, in ‘Tribulation,’ “I don’t think I can ever learn to love you right. Oh, and all the ways that you won’t bend are the only ways I live my life.”
It is not easy to say what “tribulation” (noun 1. a cause of great trouble or suffering) is referring to. Is he her tribulation or vice versa? Or is it just the situation? Either way, in spite of how much she might love him, in spite of how much he might need help, in spite of how much he is desperate for her to stay, he pushes her away with, “I think I’m better on my own, but I get so lost in you. I think I’m better on my own, but I’m so obsessed with you.” The push and pull and pain are palpable, and anyone with half a heart can feel the despair of this man, dependent on a substance which tears him away from those he loves, those he should be depending on instead.
The push and pull does not stop with his beloved safely removed from his negative influence. The addict, regardless of other benchmarks for comparison, is still utterly disgusted by himself. At the same time, however, his persistent self-reliance and pride disallow him from seeking the love and support that he needs. Despair, in a sense, is a different manifestation pride, especially for someone who has known faith. The speaker feels that his sins might be too great to be forgiven, in spite of the power of the one from whom he seeks forgiveness. He is unwilling to totally humble himself and accept the grace and mercy that he was familiar with in his younger years.
Shame is an obvious theme throughout the album, but at points we see that there are still clear displays of pride. In ‘Tread on Me,’ the speaker celebrates the effort that he makes on his road to recovery, and he will not allow himself to be an object of scorn or pity. He has “come a long way from the trips and the shaky hands,” and proudly proclaims, “If you’re looking down at me, I could really give a good goddamn.” He’s doing what he can, by his own power, to overcome the addiction. He is taking advice and succeeding in small ways, for however long he can last. He tells a sponsor, friend, or family member, “I’m trying to live in the moment like you told me. I’m trying to control it without giving it up. I’m a soldier, and I’m on my feet for now.” We would like to give him a congratulatory slap on the back, even knowing that he will likely relapse.
This man has not completely given himself over to the fate of a drug-addled life, however. He seeks something more, perhaps a legacy of his own, some positive influence that he can pass on to future generations. Because he still holds onto such a hope, he can hear an old-timer speak some truth, “You’re walking in the shadows, walking in the shadows of your fear, and you’re heading for the gallows. Sin around your throat, and no one’s near.” In this line from ‘Legacy,’ he is being challenged to rise above the simplicity of reckless pleasure. No matter how much time and resource he has wasted, the old man reminds our hero, “It’s not too late to pick up the pieces.”
‘Beggar’s Song’ shows us what is easily the most humility voiced on the album. It is an important return to faith for this young man who was once (seemingly) invested in a relationship with Jesus as his savior. In the song, the speaker totally recognizes his destitute situation, but reasserts, “I’ma be damned if I let it keep me down.” There is a little flicker of hope in this statement, even if it does largely come from self-reliance. But in this song, if nowhere else on the album, we see the limits of that self-reliance and a shift toward dependence on God.
Jesus, come talk to me.
I am but a blind mess, I am wild and free.
I know that I need us more than I need me.
One more whiskey, I am wild and free.
The addict remains stuck in his addiction, always seeking one more hit before he will commit himself to sobriety, but he beautifully admits that he needs God’s presence in his life more than he needs to remain true to himself. His true self has caused nothing but trouble, so why keep doing it his way on his own power. He sees “that I failed less the less I do me.” Like an adherent of a twelve-step program, he recognizes his powerlessness to overcome his addiction and his reliance on God to transform him and empower him to succeed. This dependent version of the speaker very well might end up being the best version, shedding his addiction, sin, and the negative influence that he has had on his own life and the lives of all those who care for him deeply, who cringe at his self-destruction.
We Christians, however, will pause before lauding our album’s narrator for this significant turn. The theology and faith expressed throughout the album is not free from blemish, just as its speaker is entirely imperfect. The last song and title track of the album begins, “I bank on the funeral cause I’ve learned all my lessons that way.” By confronting his own mortality, the speaker feels that he might learn something, as death has been the only thing stark enough to break through the fog of his drunken haze and teach him something worthwhile. Beyond that, it seems fairly clear that he actually craves death as a sort of remedy. Perhaps as long as he has some life to look forward to (regardless of how poor it may be), he cannot actually confront the overwhelming negativity of his lifestyle, even though he still remembers the goodness and light of a life without drugs and alcohol. He repeats the opening line, “I bank on the funeral cause the truth is ‘Alive is ok.’ The salt was in other words more flavorful in those days.” His salt has lost its saltiness. His light has been snuffed out (Matt. 5:13-16). Death itself may be his only release at this point.
Hell is a concept that shows up a couple of times on Bank on the Funeral, in the first and last songs. In the title track, the speaker says, “This millstone is heavy as hell.” His addiction is a millstone dragging him down into tormenting depths because of the negative effects he has had on God’s beloved sons and daughters, the speaker’s faithful family and friends (Luke 17:2). But he goes on to say, “Better dead than in hell.” This is an odd statement. Even those with slight familiarity with traditional religion know that hell is only truly accessible through death, not as another possibility. What is the speaker saying? What is this hell?
For that answer, let’s return to the top of the track list to the first song on the album. There we hear the foreboding words, “I’m scared as hell, [hell] is just a place on earth, and I pray to God I leave before Satan pours another drink.” Instead of fearing the eternal torment of whatever hell might be on the other side of death, the speaker believes that his current situation is hell.
Now, I would not at all diminish the ravaging despair of addiction, but it ought to concern any earnest believer to hear someone prefer death over the hellish conditions that life sometimes presents us. Disciples of Christ believe that however horrible the pain in this life can be, nothing should entice us to suppose that death would be a respite if we have not already firmly grounded our faith and hope in God’s redemptive purposes.
But however concerning these lyrics may be, they are not a bit disingenuous. What we see is a very honest reflection on the life of an addict whose conscience is being torn apart by drug and alcohol dependence. He does not even recognize himself anymore (“I don’t know who I used to be, but it certainly isn’t me anymore.”) He craves God’s presence and influence. He once sought it actively, but gave up, for it did not seem to be worth the effort.
I no longer see that coast that I always used to see,
and I think you drifted far from me.
Why am I talking to a ghost that I’ve never even seen?
Even though it could not have been the coast/God that had drifted, the perceived distance is real enough anyway. God seems so absent. Why doesn’t he answer? How did he let me get here?
Yet, the speaker will not give up on God entirely. Even after complaining that God is not listening, he is afraid that God might be listening. He sings, “Maybe you’re just full of s—. You never last… I’m sorry I just said that.” It is an odd spot to find yourself in, trying not to disrespect a being that you are not even sure exists. But here we find the speaker, and this type of wavering follows us through the entire album.
The first song, its title and the chorus, introduces us to the tension that carries us until the album’s final chord fades away. “I’m just living like the man on fire. I just don’t care that much.” Reckless living and refusal to recognize the real consequences of addiction (at least in the moments he suppresses his will-power and relapses) is what keeps the speaker returning to the same hurts again and again and again.
As anyone who has wrestled with an addiction of any kind knows, in the moment that we have to choose once again whether or not to resist the temptation, we justify our poor decision by saying it is not so bad after all. We can live irresponsibly while we’re young. We have plenty of time to reform later, when the urge is not so strong. We claim that we just don’t care that much anyway.
But the balance of the album belies this statement. In the tension, in the ambivalence that characterizes Bank on the Funeral, it is clear that Matt Maeson does care that much. Those of us capable of a little empathy also care that much. And we ought to be very grateful for Maeson’s genuine representation of such gut-wrenching pain. It might cause us to reflect enough to admit that we also fall short of our hopes and expectations for our own lives. And after all, admitting that you have a problem is the first step taken in fixing the problem.