How I’m Floating on Through Post-Election Dread with Modest Mouse’s Good News for People Who Love Bad News

But the album I’ve been coming back to more than any other is Good News for People Who Love Bad News, and, as my mom did two decades ago, I’m crowning “Float On” my post-election theme song. It might seem like an odd choice; it’s not overtly political and, as I’ve mentioned, it sounds…happy? Exuberant, even? Not to mention, how the hell are you supposed to just “float on,” carefree as the leaves cascading in the breeze, when your hopelessness weighs you down to your own bed? 

When you’ve laughed, cried, and shuddered through the emotionally and sonically volatile whirlwind of Good News, “Float On” doesn’t sound quite so lighthearted; it’s more of a frenzied gasp for air, desperate to take in as much oxygen as it can while above water. It is, after all, a direct continuation of “The World at Large,” the album’s dawning murmur that collapses beneath climate change, social detachment and the prospect of starting over—relevant topics, no? In this world, not even those humblest creatures are spared: “The moths beat themselves to death against the light,” Brock observes in his creaking drawl against the sparse, desolate soundscape. I sympathize with those poor moths—when you feel helpless to control the world, or even just yourself, there’s something wickedly glorious about choosing to shut down. Good News understands that transient, twisted rapture inside and out. Take the head-banger “Bury Me With It,” a song that totally jostled me the first time I listened through the album. Over time, I’ve come to discern something cathartic in its frightening fervor; Brock’s guttural, unending scream towards its end—a literal prolongation of “paiiiiin!”—sounds cleansing, almost ecstatic in its own way. 

Admittedly, I’m no stranger to this brand of self-indulgence. When things in my personal life, not to mention the world at large, have taken turns for the worse, I’ve made poor decisions, just for the sake of making them myself. Namely, when I haven’t been able to count on the world, others and, most of all, myself, I have counted calories. Too closely. And, in those attempts to seize control, to avoid the slippery pitfalls of indulgence, I’ve only surrendered my own agency and indulged in my own pain. On the sinewy, accordion-addled “Bukowski,” Brock sneers at this sort of self-destruction, with renowned poet and asshole Charles Bukowski as his case study: “Yeah, I know he’s a pretty good read, but who would wanna be such a control freak?” As the song unfurls, it becomes clear that Brock is actually glaring at a reflection of himself; when I listen, I taste the acid in his voice, and I see pieces of myself in that less-than-flattering portrait, too.

“Bukowski” makes my skin crawl; I shiver to recall all the times I’ve listened to it in faint, half-alive states, drunk on my own vanity and ridiculous self-pity. Still, it doesn’t fold on itself quite as wretchedly as “Ocean Breathes Salty,” an utmost embodiment of existential dread and its partner in crime, premature grief. What’s so chilling about it is how resigned it is, how it just lies down and dies. “Well, that is that, and this is this,” Brock repeats, his voice spiraling away from him, twisting each syllable into something grotesque. When you’ve accepted that things just are what they are, that’s when you know shit has gotten bad. 

“Ocean” can be a wince-inducing listen for me; its blustering, lightheaded riffs thrust me back to all the times I’ve felt so hopeless from one day to the next and, making matters worse, hated myself for being so fragile, so unresilient. If “Bukowski” reeks of self-disgust, “Ocean” flounders against fear of being held prisoner to it, forever, with no one able to free you from yourself. I often feel frustrated that, in numerous areas of my life, I run headfirst into the same old problems—most prominently, my perfectionism, which I’ve realized is itself largely a pursuit of control, one that’s motivating until it’s not, to say the least. My on-and-off eating disorder has offered me a sense of accomplishment when it’s felt like everything else has gone to shit—however vapid, that feeling becomes addictive. But, as with any addiction, it’s debilitating and deceitful; once you attain the high you’ve suffered for so faithfully, it feels sorely inadequate, and you’re essentially back to square one. “The more we move ahead, the more we’re stuck in rewind,” as Brock puts it. The lyric, delivered under his breath, has always been among the album’s most stinging to me, but it’s doubly pulverizing in the context of recent political events. I grew up believing that, as time passes, the world becomes a more loving, accepting and safe place to live in, day by day. Of course, progress isn’t so linear, but lately, it feels like progress isn’t just stalled—it’s as if we’re actively rewinding. I’ve seen people shrug off the recent explosion of “your body, my choice” rhetoric, but its implications are alarming, and real—I have less bodily autonomy than my mom did 40-plus years ago. Seeing men my age revel in these insanely backwards sentiments is very, very worrisome, and I’m terrified that this dystopian rewind will only expedite over the next few years.

It feels impossible to just “float on” right now; in fact, that’s probably the last thing you want to be told to do. Given how weighty circumstances are, the sentiment is so airy and assured that it’s borderline belittling. And yet, much more relatable feelings brew beneath the shuffling, overexcited explosion of those bouncy chords. Between memories of crashing into a cop car, running his mouth off and getting fired, Brock’s self-assurance that “we’ll all float on” sounds like it comes from between clenched teeth that really want to scream, “THIS PLANE IS DEFINITELY CRASHING” (to quote The Lonesome Crowded West’s “Shit Luck,” an apt and concise summary of where we’re at). Each manic, uninhibited vocal contortion is a mad dash to feel kind of good about something, anything. Brock is shrugging his shoulders rather than pumping his fist, despite what the everybody-sing-along grand finale might initially suggest. Life is brutal, but we’re here, so we might as well try to make the most of it.

As I’ve listened to “Float On” these last few weeks, I’ve come to understand why my mom, who’s as averse to mindless optimism as I am, relied on it after Bush’s reelection. As cynical as the song is, it’s hard not to be energized and encouraged by its bubbly riff and steady, onward march. Other tracks on Good News are not without, well, goodness, but there is yin to even the most rapturous moments’ yang: theatrical horn flourishes drunkenly fizzle out; ships sail, then go on sinking; the good times are killer. The album isn’t all that hopeful, but it speaks to—and, strangely, inspires me—more than a depiction of some one-dimension, unachievable utopia would. These songs are thorny, and their underbellies are ugly, but they still manage to soar and uplift. If they can, then maybe we can, too.

With round two of Trump’s presidency creeping up, it’s healthy and important to let ourselves grieve, feel our fear, be a little bitter. But damn it, I’m hanging onto the belief that good news is on the way, even if only by a fraying thread. It does arrive every day, you just sometimes have to squint to see it. Just last week, I was browsing a shelf of free-to-take books in the English Department’s building, and amidst the scholarly texts and novels I doubt anyone will pick up for years, I found—I swear, I couldn’t have made this up—Bukowski’s Septuagenarian Stew. Right after writing about Modest Mouse’s song in his name, and remembering how badly I’ve been wanting to carve out some time to spend with his work. It was one of those unbelievably lucky, utterly perfect twists of fate—one that might not change the world or solve all my problems, but a small serendipity deserving of celebration, nevertheless. With a giant Americano flooding through my veins, I picked it up, smiled like an idiot and skipped straight down the silent, empty hallway. 

I forecast spending a lot of time inhabiting its pages this coming winter. What I’ve read of Bukowski’s work is rather like Good News for People Who Love Bad News—not uplifting in the traditional sense, but real. Its grime and ugliness and ruinous self-indulgence make its glimmers of hope and beauty and connection all the more powerful. To quote late-album stunner “The View,” “If life’s not beautiful without the pain, well, I’d rather just never-ever even see beauty again.” With the world as gnarly as it is, it’s absolutely beautiful when people continue to stand up for what’s right, to live and love in spite of how dreary the view often is. I’m going to honor these beauties more than ever, and I’ll celebrate the good things that come my way with boundless gratitude—if it’s all I can do, I’ll keep skipping and smiling when fate bestows upon me Bukowskis, so to speak. That, I think, is exactly how we’ll all float on. Alright. All ready?

Anna Pichler is a freelance writer and undergraduate English Literature major attending The Ohio State University.  Her work has appeared in publications including Paste, The Line of Best Fit, and Atwood Magazine.