The Things Outside of Me

Animal Collective, Merriweather Post Pavilion, and loosening the grips we have on our opinions.

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You don’t remember every university lecture you hear.

But from my English Lit degree, one that still sticks to my mind came near the end of a 200-level Literary Criticism course.

The professor started the day with the blackboard. This was 2012, so she had all the contemporary tools at her disposal, but gadgets weren’t exactly of interest to her. When she didn’t have chock in her hand, she used an old-school projector, printed slides, and wet-erasable markers.

But on this particular day, even lightbulbs and coloured pens weren’t necessary. She sent the projection screen up with the drawstring and in large, all-caps letters, wrote one word on the board:

She turned to the class. “What does this mean?” she asked us.

She wasn’t suggesting we look it up in the dictionary.

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My parents would be proud of where my mind went first¹, but the goal of the exercise was to introduce Deconstructionism, the philosophy and critical approach primarily developed by two French people named Jacques: Lacan and Derrida.

Lacan, or “the French Freud,” developed a structural theory of the psyche that separated our selves into three: the real, the imaginary order, and the symbolic order². Lacan says that as soon as we have language, it is impossible for us to express “the real,” which he defines as pure need. The separation that language creates between us and our pure need forces “the real” into our subconscious.

But even before language becomes a factor, our “imaginary order” starts to make trouble of its own. It begins when we first recognize the separation between ourselves and others—first and foremost, between our mothers. This imagined lack causes us to “demand” another impossibility: “to make the other a part of [ourselves].”

Seems like nostalgia is more deeply rooted than we thought.

This impossible demand also leads us to overlook the difference between ourselves and our mirror image, thereby creating an “ideal-I” that is in actuality, a fantasy. Only through the symbolic order of our psyche—our use of language, narrative, and law—can we soothe the frustrations our imaginary order creates within us and obtain some kind of harmony with other people.

In basic terms, the thing that separates us from our “real,” truest selves—language—is also the only thing we can use to reach any meaningful, shared understanding of the outside world.

It’s a circle, and we’re stuck in it.

The other Jacques—Derrida—went a step further with his theory of différance. Derrida claimed that language can never lead to singular, shared understanding because each word we use can only find meaning by appealing (or defering) to other words, to which it differs (see what he did there?).

Because of this “différance,” words cannot fully embody their subjects, the things and ideas they stand in for. And coupled with Lacan’s understanding of our minds and language, a realization occurs that no singular, authoritative meaning for a word or text (and therefore, phenomenon) exists. Our individual, inner worlds and the languages we use within them make an infinite number of “readings” possible.

What does this have to do with Animal Collective?

Before Merriweather Post Pavilion dropped, Animal Collective’s sporadic, psychedelic, avant-garde sound had subjugated the band to “critic’s-darling” status. Even as their indebtedness to the Beach Boys bubbled to the surface on the 2007 LP Strawberry Jam, Panda Bear (Noah Lennox), Avey Tare (Dave Portner), Geologist (Brian Weitz), and Deakin (Josh Dibb³) had done little to distance themselves from the “underground music” label. They were, decidedly, freaks.

That all changed when Merriweather arrived on January 6, 2009 to near-universal acclaim. Pitchfork awarded it a rare 9.6/10; Uncut’s Stephen Troussé claimed it to be “one of the landmark American albums of the century so far”⁴. It sent the band to the top of festival lineups and led one of its members to collaborate with the likes of Daft Punk and Solange (that’s Beyonce’s sister, btw). Post-Post Pavilion, Animal Collective had made the Big Time.

Beyond the magazines and blogs, I remember friends and music fans online being genuinely excited by this release. It felt like underground, experimental “indie” music was in the midst of crossing a threshold in a similar way to the grunge scene of the ‘90s or mainstream arrival of groups like The Strokes and The White Stripes in the early aughts.

Other groups from Animal Collective’s Brooklyn-hipster music scene were also having their moments. Jay Z and Beyonce were spotted and interviewed at a Grizzly Bear show. Dave Longstreth of Dirty Projectors was also getting noticed by popstars, thanks to the still-infectious “Stillness It Moves.” A year later, Arcade Fire would walk away from the Grammys with the Album of the Year award for The Suburbs.

It seemed, at the time, like these artists had managed to shift the gears of the music industry in their favour.

Fast-forward to 2019, and while only one of the aforementioned groups officially disbanded (bye-bye Grizzly Bear😢), none of them held the same cultural capital they had ten years earlier. Arcade Fire, who had the most obvious mass appeal, had failed to eclipse the success of their cul-de-sac epic. Dirty Projectors had returned to relative obscurity, with Longstreth collecting only one mainstream(ish) collab credit for his supportive role on Solange’s 2016 album, A Seat at the Table. And the band at the centre of this essay, Animal Collective, seemed to intentionally sever themselves from the success of Merriweather with increasingly experimental releases that stood in jarring contrast to the melodic, downbeat-driven music that made them famous.

In media and criticism, no one was really talking about Merriweather Post Pavilion anymore—except for Pitchfork, which only broke its silence to mention that no one was talking about Merriweather Post Pavilion anymore. In the linked essay marking the album’s 10th Anniversary, Larry Fitzmaurice ended his piece with this (perhaps unintentionally) back-handed compliment:

“Animal Collective chose not to finish the conversation their most successful album started, and no one else even dared to try.”

In the eyes of critics, all the predictions of the album’s world-dominating inspiration and generation-defining aesthetic had turned out to be false prophecies. The LP “radical enough to redefine indie music” simply hadn’t. Rather than a movement starter, Merriweather had been nothing more than a blip on the radar of music history.

More on the people telling us what to listen to below.

You might be connecting the dots now, but I’m not here to state the completely obvious: of course reviews and reception of art are innately subjective and change over time. I’m writing this because specific details about Merriweather—as an example of that subjectivity in action—can help peel back the layers and explain why. It also shows that the subjectivity of our experiences with art is to art’s credit and that it supplys art with much of its mysterious and immeasurable value.

First off, we have to admit that it was impossible for Animal Collective’s eighth studio album to live up to the expectations music critics placed on it. No album or group is capable of redefining anything on its own, whether that be a genre, an era, or even themselves. Applying Lacan’s ideas here, the only way Animal Collective and their album can find anything resembling a definition is in their relation to the other objects in the world around them.

Think about it:

Though we ascribe the the cliches—the “career-defining” record or moment, the album or artist that “defined an era”—it’s impossible to actually choose a singular artist or piece of art as the one, true thing that objectively stands as a marker for anything beyond itself.

Not to say that cultural impact is completely immeasurable. The music of The Beatles changed the world far more than my high school rock band that never entered a studio⁵. (That’s about as objective a statement about art can get.) But try to pick the Beatles member or song or album that did the trick, or compare their influence to that of Bob Dylan or Elvis Presley or Arthur “Big Boy” Crudup, who supposedly recorded the first ever rock n’ roll song, “That’s All Right, Mama,” in 1946. Even choosing the “first ever rock n’ roll song” is up for debate: the Mental Floss article I used to determine the first rock song listed five possible candidates.

Looking past the hyperbole expressed in the year or two that preceded the album, even the later claim that Merriweather started a conversation “no one dared to try” to participate in or “finish” seems outrageous after closer inspection. What “conversation” is any artist or piece of music “starting”? Framing it that way negates the many conversations Animal Collective joined with Merriweather—the internal relationship to the rest of the band’s catalog, the role the band played in the artistic community it was a part of, the larger culture from which the album found its audience, or with the musical influences Animal Collective consciously wore on their shared sleeves from track to track.

It also fails to recognize the subtle ways Merriweather influenced the musical landscape that proceeded it. You can hear its direct influence on groups like Young Fathers, but mood-setting indie bands like Tame Impala and M83 can probably thank the band and album for some of their later popularity as well. One could argue that it helped usher in alternative music’s obsession with synthesizers that dominated the following decade as well as the erasure of barriers between genres that we still see happening today. Animal Collective’s bestselling record definitely left its mark on music and culture. You just have to look a little closer to see it than you might for, say, Nevermind or Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

Merriweather Post Pavilion’s strength as an example of the subjectivity of art, influence, and era doesn’t end with its historical reception or the number of groups that tried to rip off the album’s sound, either.

Its music and lyrics tackle the subject directly.

On multiple occasions, the album’s 11 songs get existential in a Lacanian or Derridan kind of way, from the simplistic needs expressed in the hit single “My Girl” to the anxiety that comes from recognizing your own limitations described in “Lion in a Coma.” But the band takes on art and self expression explicitly in “Taste,” a song that starts with a real onion of a question:

“Am I really all the things that are outside of me?

The band moves on, mentioning specific moments when taste—in food, in music, in fashion—affected relationships with friends, mothers, and lovers. It ends with a list of kind requests:

I’ll keep an open mind if you let me in Don't let your temper rise, don't get a bitter face Try not to judge me on my kind of taste And don't go changing clothes when they don't like yours

Hearing a band in Animal Collective’s position, on their most approachable, (dare-I-say) pop-like album, adds extra weight to the song’s message. Do you find their sound too strange for your liking? Do you think they’re selling out by making their music more danceable and melodic? “You are entitled to your opinion,” the band seems to reply. “Don’t let us stop you from being, finding, or defining yourself, but please be kind to others.”

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Deconstructionism is a little too absolute and deterministic for my taste. Personally, I prefer the slightly different reader-oriented approach⁶. But if there's a socially positive thing we can glean from Lacan and Derrida’s thinking, let it be this:

We are all trying our best to do the impossible, using inadequate tools.

Could that realization maybe motivate us to be more humble and less intense about our opinions? I think the internet—and the world—would be the better for it. Do we really need to be right all the time? Or are our needs much simpler than that?

From that standpoint, the supposed lack of singular meaning determined by deconstructionist thinking can actually be a good thing. Once we let go of our opinion needing to be right and differing opinions being wrong, infinite readings can be seen as infinite meanings. We can then see the experiences and tastes of others as opportunities to learn rather than sources of anxiety and conflict. Diversity of thought becomes a net-positive instead of a problem.

And just when you thought the references to A.C.’s lyrics were over,

the message of the last track ties perfectly into where we ended up here.

In the song, Noah Lennox encourages his basketball-playing younger brother⁷, Matt, to open up and let go of some of the conflict he has with their father. Midway through, he gives this advice:

You've got his way and what he said
To help you shape the way you play
You've got to get rid of the more
Conservative habits of your mind

Without making Lennox into too much of a sage, I think we could all learn something from these simple words between siblings. Recognize what you’ve learned—and from whom you learned it. “Get rid of the more conservative habits of your mind.”

Support your brother.

1. John 1:1—“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

2. https://cla.purdue.edu/academic/english/theory/psychoanalysis/lacanstructure.html

3. Not featured on Merriweather Post Pavilion.

4. https://www.uncut.co.uk/reviews/album/animal-collective-merriweather-post-pavilion

5. Shoutout to all the former members of Tea Time in the Trenches! (T.T.I.T.T. for short.)

6. Another topic for another essay.

7. Costello, Lou (December 6, 1993). New Coach Is Relying On A Senior Guard Matt Lennox Is The Cougars' Team Leader. He "Picks Up Other Guys When They're Down," Says Ray Jenkins. Inquirer. Retrieved on March 6, 2016.