This week, the Review is publishing a series of short reflections on love songs, broadly defined. 

In her 1993 memoir Exteriors, drawn from seven years of journal entries, Annie Ernaux describes overhearing a familiar pop song at the supermarket. She is struck by the pleasure she experiences—and by a “feeling of panic that the song will end.” This prompts her to consider the relative emotional effects of books and music. While certain novels have left a “violent impression” on her being, the impact hardly compares to the “intense, almost painful” feeling produced by the song. “A book offers more deliverance, more escape, more fulfillment of desire,” she writes. “In songs one remains locked in desire.” The structure of pop music is inherently erotic; the repetitions of rhythm and melody continually summon and satisfy aching anticipation. Love songs bring this otherwise sublimated longing to the surface: some through grand, theatrical gestures, others by drawing out the dialectic of desire embedded in everyday life—say, the feeling of being alone at a party, sad and self-conscious, desperately missing someone.

This is the premise of “Slow Show,” a somber but rousing midtempo track from The National’s 2007 album Boxer. The narrator spends the verses separated from his lover, surrounded by people but unable to reach them, confined to the claustrophobic quarters of his own mind. Guitars flutter frenetically over foreboding squalls of feedback, while Matt Berninger’s mumbling baritone evokes the narrator’s recursive, dead-end thoughts: “Standing at the punch table, swallowing punch”; “I leaned on the wall, the wall leaned away”; “I better get my shit together, better gather my shit in.” In the choruses, an atmospheric sweetness swells as he briefly spans the distance, if only in his imagination: “I want to hurry home to you,” Berninger croons, “put on a slow, dumb show for you and crack you up / so you can put a blue ribbon on my brain.” His halting syntax smooths out into the simple, fluid choreography of a fantasized intimacy, which disrupts his anxious solitude.

But even the utopic space of the chorus is marred by doubt in its final lines: “God, I’m very, very frightened / I’ll overdo it.” The same fear that strands the narrator alone in the midst of a party gnaws at the edges of his reverie, manifesting now as a terror of spoiling the moment. (In the roiling “Conversation 16,” released a few years after, Berninger intensifies this same dread: “I was afraid I’d eat your brains / ‘cause I’m evil.”) Within each gesture of mutual understanding between lovers there lurks the possibility that the bond might break; the separation that shapes desire shadows every tender encounter.

My first real lover was dumb, virile, hilarious—I didn’t trust a word he said. Certainly nothing he recommended. This is why, for years, I stayed away from his favorite book, Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian. Until now. I’ve given in, and the epic Western is, predictably, blowing my mind, and, perhaps less predictably, my groin. 

I am never sure when carnage might strike—when I might find men whose naked bodies have been “roasted until their heads had charred and the brains bubbled in the skulls and steam sang from their noseholes,” when I’ll come across a “charred coagulate” of bodies or a decapitated man whose severed neck “bubbles gently like a stew.” While reading, my muscles stay flexed. Blood pulses through dilated vessels. Awaiting climax, I am in a state of constant tension. Groin on vibrate. I never uncross my legs. This is reading as grotesque edging.

It doesn’t help that the novel’s landscape is excitingly predatory: “The sun rose … like the head of a great red phallus until it cleared the unseen rim and sat squat and pulsing and malevolent behind them.” McCarthy’s pulsing, penile sun has been making its way into my dreams. So have men—naked, dangerously erect, charging off cliffs, their bodies bursting into constituent parts on the way down, blood running after them in silken crimson ribbons of … But fuck, I can’t do it like him. I wake frustrated.

Adding to the tension is McCarthy’s syntactical cadence. No matter the content, the persistent beat of his language (biblical, oratory, metaphorical, parodic, straightforward) generate a steady thrum—a rhythm that seems to emanate from the throbbing, carnal core of the earth itself. Or perhaps it’s a lover’s incantation—or weapon. You might say that, while reading, McCarthy’s language functions like straps fastened over my body. Hard as I might writhe, those straps are never tightened, they are never loosened—and even though I’ll finish, I will not be released.  

This week, the Review is publishing a series of short reflections on love songs, broadly defined. 

There was a woman who was always explaining to me the structures of the world, of desire, of experience. Her analysis was brilliant. I have never met somebody so sure of the way things work. Between us, they didn’t. In the end, I learned, form was a problem. Well placed constraints can excite; they can also kill. Either way they tend to leave marks. A studied silence, breezy banter—these are not so convincing if she can take you in at a glance and see where you are still mottled from the pressure of her touch. But it is easy to adopt the position of the wounded lover. If you know what love is, like Nina Simone sings it, then you know that you, too, can leave, must have left, someone with lips that can only taste tears.

Nina Simone was not the first to sing “You Don’t Know What Love Is” and her version is not the most famous. That honor probably belongs to Dinah Washington, with her bright and clear voice, or maybe Chet Baker, about whom I have little to say. Billie Holiday’s take, with her enchanting, off-kilter warble is also probably better known. But Simone’s is something else entirely. Hers was released much later on a collection of rare recordings. It is live, noisy, and the background hum nearly merges with the brushes sliding along the snare drum. That and the crowd’s murmurs lend the track a warmth that all the other versions lack. It speaks, in spite of itself, to love’s inexplicable optimism.

At the very beginning, Simone sings, “You don’t know what love is till you’ve learned the meaning of the blues.” That third word, know, hangs for nearly three seconds. She never loses control of her voice, but she makes the word tremble as does a heart, a hand, a jaw fixing itself in preparation for sentences that cannot be retracted. She performs the standard as a lament sung at the precise moment that mourning’s fog has begun to lift. It is not a warning meant to dissuade young lovers. The blues aren’t miserable; they’re knowing. Simone’s spare rendition comes with the wisdom of experience, of understanding that if love is faith, favor, desire, support, and—when it can be afforded—indulgence and forgiveness, then all of these add up. When it turns, you lose so much: a body to hold yours, eyes that blink too fast in pleasure, a voice that drops too low to even hear it, the rippling sensation that settles somewhere just below the chest. All of the things that accumulate in the miracle of that face besides yours in the morning. It is the loss of such a gift that makes clear what it’s worth.

The Torah tells its followers to “be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth,” so that’s what Lisa Sobel, a devout Jewish woman from Louisville, Kentucky, set out to do.

It wasn’t easy. First, she endured three years of infertility. Then, she and her husband embarked on a $50,000 in vitro fertilization (IVF) journey, during which they had to discard four embryos before implantation because of genetic abnormalities. Finally, in April 2019, Sobel delivered a healthy baby girl. Immediately after, she began hemorrhaging and almost died.

Now 38, Sobel wants to have another child. It’s not the IVF process or her birth trauma that’s holding her back. Instead, she says the anti-abortion laws Kentucky enacted in the wake of the US Supreme Court’s Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health decision prevent her from getting pregnant in a manner that complies with her religious views. It’s why she and two other Jewish women—both of whom also depend on IVF to conceive—are suing the state of Kentucky on the grounds that its laws are vague, difficult to understand, and that they violate their religious freedoms under Kentucky’s Religious Freedom Restoration Act, which stipulates that the “government shall not substantially burden a person’s freedom of religion.”

Kentucky’s abortion laws are so unclear, Sobel’s lawyers say, that it would be reasonable to infer it is a crime to discard unneeded or genetically imperfect embryos, a common outcome in IVF. The laws allow no exceptions for situations in which a fetus has a fatal medical condition yet still has a heartbeat, which would go against the plaintiffs’ religious belief that an abortion to prevent the physical suffering of a child or the mental anguish of a mother is justified. The laws are also somewhat contradictory when it comes to what steps a physician can take if a pregnant person’s life is in danger. One statute says abortion would be permitted only if a mother faces a serious risk of “substantial and irreversible impairment of a major bodily function” or death; another requires physicians to “make reasonable medical efforts under the circumstances to preserve both the life of the mother and the life of the unborn.”

Doctors who fail to abide by these convoluted statutes risk monetary fines, the loss of their medical licenses, and prison time; pregnant people whose doctors are confused by the statutes risk death. Multiple pregnant women have almost died as a result of having incomplete miscarriages in several other states with similarly confusing abortion laws that prompted medical professionals to delay their care. Sobel, who bled during her first pregnancy and required emergency blood transfusions after delivering her daughter, fears she could face a similar fate. Even though her faith clearly prescribes that a mother’s life takes precedence over her fetus, Kentucky’s laws are more ambiguous.

Marcus, Pete and Andy have stumbled their way to the weekend once more! And what a treat we have waiting for us: the return of Neil Warnock, baby!

The lads also discuss a humdinger at Camp Nou, give our official backing for Elon Musk’s takeover of Manchester United, and try to settle on Sam Allardyce or Harry Redknapp for the Leeds United job. Yeah, we’re not convinced either.

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How Magic Mike has transformed the image of male stripping

Tesla just realized that testing “self-driving” vehicle technology on public roads isn’t such a good idea, after all.

Today, the automaker recalled nearly 363,000 cars equipped with its “Full Self-Driving” technology after a report by the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration found that the Autosteer feature “led to an unreasonable risk to motor vehicle safety based on insufficient adherence to traffic safety laws,” the Associated Press reports.

According to NHTSA, it sounds like FSD is bad at many of the crucial elements of driving, such as stopping, turning, and changing speeds:

The FSD Beta system may allow the vehicle to act unsafe around intersections, such as traveling straight through an intersection while in a turn-only lane, entering a stop sign-controlled intersection without coming to a complete stop, or proceeding into an intersection during a steady yellow traffic signal without due caution. In addition, the system may respond insufficiently to changes in posted speed limits or not adequately account for the driver’s adjustment of the vehicle’s speed to exceed posted speed limits.

As I’ve written previously, FSD has been linked to multiple deaths. While Elon Musk has claimed that the software operates “better than a person,” Tesla’s website clarifies that the vehicles are not fully autonomous.

Wednesday’s confirmation hearing for Daniel Werfel, President Biden’s nominee for IRS commissioner, though not nearly so contentious as it might have been, hinted at partisan battles to come over America’s most beloved federal agency. 

Senate Finance Committee Chair Ron Wyden commenced the hearing by calling out America’s “two-tiered” tax system—one set of rules for most of us, another for big companies, superwealthy folks, and their complex and seldom-audited business partnerships.

Werfel pledged to tackle the agency’s audit imbalance, wherein a kneecapped IRS came to over-rely on “correspondence audits” of low and moderate earners and less on very high-earners whose tax filings tend to be exceedingly complex—often deliberately so. In 2018, for example, the IRS audited virtually zero partnerships—which include law and accounting firms, real-estate partnerships, hedge funds, private equity firms, and the like.

As I wrote in my 2021 book, Jackpot, the gutting of the agency’s enforcement budget by Republican lawmakers during the 2010s “resulted in an exodus of experienced auditors, people with the expertise required to decode the financial voodoo of the wealthiest taxpayers and their deliberately opaque partnerships. (It can ‘take months to identify the person who rep­resents the partnership,’ IRS auditors told the Government Account­ability Office in 2014.)”

The need for more IRS scrutiny of super-rich tax avoiders was among the primary reasons that the Democrats included close to $80 billion in new funding for the agency (over 10 years) in the Inflation Reduction Act. House Republicans have already voted to repeal most of that funding, more than half of which is slated for tougher tax enforcement, with the rest going to things like oversight, improved customer service, and an overhaul of the IRS’s seriously outdated tech capabilities.

President Biden on Thursday, in his most detailed remarks addressing the recent spate of aerial objects that were shot down over North American skies, said that there is no evidence tying the three unidentified objects to foreign surveillance programs. Officials, however, are still working on confirming the exact details of the objects and their provenance.

“The Intelligence agency’s current assessment is that these three objects were balloons tied to private companies, recreational groups, or research institutions,” Biden said in a brief televised address. The president also defended shooting down a suspected Chinese spy balloon earlier this month, a dramatic action that has since inflamed tensions between the two countries.

“We seek competition, not conflict with China. We’re not looking for a new Cold War,” Biden said. “But I make no apologies and we will compete.”

Since taking down the objects, lawmakers on both sides of the aisle have demanded answers. But in recent days, there has been growing consensus that they were likely benign in origin, almost certainly not evidence of aliens, and perhaps even belonging to hobby groups simply enthusiastic for “pico balloons.”

“We acted out of an abundance of caution and with an opportunity that allowed us to take down these objects safely,” Biden said on Thursday.

This week, the Review is publishing a series of short reflections on love songs, broadly defined. 

I think the best love songs are simple. They’re simple because love isn’t, simple because we need to dream a little. Complexity, ambiguity, doubt—they can have their place in novels or in the movies. A love song lets you live in the fantasy of the absolute; maybe that’s also why they last only a couple of minutes. And that’s why we carry them with us, play and replay them until they wear out like old clothes. They stand for too much.

I have many songs that mark the time of particular relationships, both their highs and the lows of their dissolution. I’ve played songs on repeat enough to drive people crazy, and I’ve locked myself in my room to listen to late-period Billie Holiday with the lights off. But I have only one renewable love song, which I’ve brought with me through all my relationships: the Talking Heads’ “This Must Be the Place (Naive Melody).” That’s probably because, although it pains me slightly to say this, it began for me as a family romance. When my parents were young and childless and living in Seattle, they saw a sign for the movie Stop Making Sense, Jonathan Demme’s Talking Heads concert film, at a theater near the Pike Place Market. I don’t think my parents were particularly interested in the hip music of the eighties—they just liked the name of the movie. They bought tickets on a whim and went inside.

So the cassette-tape soundtrack of Stop Making Sense was a sonic canvas of my childhood. But it wasn’t until I saw the movie for myself, in high school—watching it with a girl, making feeble couch-based sexual advances—that I was reawakened to the song. It’s unusual for the Heads, who are better known for blending angular, art-school/CBGB cool with African polyrhythm borrowings. The song is very straightforward. Sentimental, even. But a great love song should be sentimental. Why wouldn’t you try to feel everything you possibly can? The groove begins straightaway—simple drums, the bounce of the bassline, some light synth stabs. A perfect little loop. After a couple of repeats, a bubbling riff kicks in, with a soft, pipelike quality to its pitch-shifting. It reminds me of a calliope, although I’ve never listened to one in real life—it’s children’s music from some other, unlived existence: “Love me till my heart stops / love me till I’m dead.”