Father John Misty misses the trees for the forest of ‘Mahashmashana’

The fourth song of Father John Misty’s latest album, Mahashmashana, titled “Mental Health,” has a wonderfully lush soundscape. Soft winds, blooming saxophones and hushed accompanying vocals coalesce into a fantastical forest of sound that transports the listener into a wholly different dimension, built entirely by Josh Tillman (the man behind Father John Misty). Tillman himself then appears on the track, singing lucid and wavering lyrics like “One of these labels bound to fit / Oh, identity / your milk white shadow,” further immersing us into this religiously euphoric world — what could these harmonies be if not auditory heaven? That is, heaven until we reach the hook and Tillman croons out an impassioned “Men-tal Heeeaaalth, Men-tal Heeeaaalth / No one knows you like yourself,” each syllable accented with a complementary snare, vocally walking up the melodic scale to drive home his message. 

It’s awful. In 15 seconds, two minutes of growing intensity and atmospheric production are destroyed to make way for a corny line that doesn’t even sound good.

Suddenly, we feel used. Our emotional and mental investments were spent on a climax with the nuance of a 12-year-old’s Tumblr blog. This isn’t something inherently new for Tillman — often, his lyrics sound like the alcohol-scented ramblings of the Maoist dude cornering you in the back of that venue that you (sorta) like. He muses on the nature of the self, of death and of love (with varying degrees of success and triteness) throughout his discography. The lyrics of albums like Pure Comedy and God’s Favorite Customer are equally wince-inducing, yet I still find myself returning to those albums with startling regularity. 

I don’t dislike Father John Misty — in fact, much of his music routinely finds its way into my rotation. This is because those albums make room for their silly lyrics. As corny as they might be, Tillman makes sure the lyrics both blend into the foundational soundscape and fit the song’s mood. While “Their idea of being free is a prison of beliefs / That they never ever have to leave” off the song “Pure Comedy” could easily be seen as repulsively pretentious, Tillman fits the line halfway up a grand crescendo, and hits “never ever” with such a sharp marcato articulation that it’s impossible to judge him — in that moment, Tillman is no more, there is only Father John Misty. This magic is sadly not apparent on his most recent album. All over Mahashmashana, moments betray songs. 

In the minutes that follow that repugnant moment on “Mental Health,” we find ourselves desperately attempting to buy back into the song, allowing the truly phenomenal instrumental to soothe us into songwriting psychosis again. And then: “Men-tal Heeeaaalth, Men-tal Heeeaaalth / Maybe we’re all far too well.” Wow. These disruptive moments in otherwise excellent songs are deeply frustrating — Mahashmashana is almost fantastic. Throughout the album, Tillman finds himself throwing an immaculate inning before sending a meatball down the lane on an 0-2 pitch.

Sometimes it’s not even the lyrics on the album themselves that disrupt the flow of songs — it’s how they’re delivered. The obnoxiously electrically groovy and hip-twirling melody of “She Cleans Up” is betrayed by the constant monotone lecture of whatever the fuck Tillman is talking about. The shockingly mesmerizing lyrics of “Being You” are smashed to bits by his lazy attempt at a bored, staccato syncopated verse intonation. Often, Tillman resorts to these strange spoken word segments, attempting to emulate a sort of messiah, as if the stage name wasn’t enough to give it away.

When the planets are aligned and Tillman is on his game, though, he can overcome himself. Songs like the title track, “Mahashmashana,” and the swinging disco haven of “I Guess Time Just Makes Fools of Us All” are proof that, yes, he can put it all together. “Mahashmashana,” especially, is utterly magnificent. Capturing the orchestral might and overwhelming awe that he’s seemingly been chasing his entire career, the track is a nine-minute opus filled with sweet strings, lyrics just vague enough to love and a climax perfect enough to invoke the fear of God. To borrow language from Father John Misty, the resolution of the song’s longing progression finally brings us to a sort of musical nirvana. 

Tillman is reciprocal in his songwriting, though. For every “Mahashmashana,” we are given a “Screamland.” With production ripped from a Chainsmokers B-side and uninspired lyrics from a half-day’s worth of meandering journaling, “Screamland” is a uniquely frustrating song on an already uniquely frustrating album.

Now I’m upset again. I must ask — why? Why is he doing this? Why would he jam these pieces of sound together — square pegs into round holes? Why would he create an album full of negative contrast? The chunky gumbo of Mahashmashana does not go down easy; the album, filled with dozens of flavors of noise and lyricism, is overstuffed with ideas.

Part of the answer undoubtedly lies in Tillman’s desperation to live up to his self-administered moniker of Father John Misty. Since his inception on albums like Fear Fun and I Love You Honeybear, Tillman has carefully constructed a wide-reaching persona that, by its intense nature, has restricted his own creative ambitions. The minuscule mundane and intimate are, to Tillman, not enough. For God’s sake — the man’s first ever song with this stage name is called “Funtimes in Babylon.” In the same way Taylor Swift has unwittingly damned herself to a prison of break-up songs and Reputation-like reduxes, Tillman has found himself wondering where to go after a decade of grandiose spirituality. 

His solution? Throw everything he can at the wailing wall and hope something sticks. Tillman’s desperation to keep Father John Misty breathing is palpable. Off-beat vocal cues? Jarring autotune? Waxing poetic on middle school drivel? Tillman fires off shots in every grand metaphorical direction he can manage to please his alter ego. Wherever Tillman moves, Father John Misty is sure to follow. Whatever Tillman makes, Father John Misty is sure to muck it up. The clearest example of Tillman’s infinite idea creep is the very name of the album: Mahashmashana. Tillman has outpaced his own pseudo-Christian mythology and turned to pseudo-Hindu mythos instead, his newest album donning a Sanskrit title (translating to “great cremation ground”) — in other words, an overly conceptual title for an album overly stuffed with concepts.

When asked directly about the influence of the Father John Misty moniker in his work during a recent NPR interview, Tillman said this: 

“I think maybe, in some Bergmanesque psychodrama, this Father John Misty guy really has it out for Josh Tillman.”

And, in the context of Mahashmashana, I can’t help but agree.

Managing Arts Editor Rami Mahdi can be reached at rhmahdi@umich.edu.

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