Advent Calendar: December 14th

What Your Favorite Perennial Song from 2022's In the Midnight Hour Says About You

presented by Joe, in alphabetical order

"Absolver"

You show up to work with a black eye; people ask you if you are in a Fight Club but you know the first rule.

"Food for Hornets"

You stand outside at night with no clothes on while owls scratch your skin and you look up at the moon and you can't fucking imagine how anyone made it that far.

"Hey Euridice"

You are the type of person to be recommended a song by some fucking computer algorithm that was made by people in suits who hate music and hate you, and you listen to that song and you think it's pretty good and then that's it, that's the end, that's the only song by Perennial that you know for the rest of your life, unless the algorithm throws another one your way at one point on some corporate-sponsored playlist, but don't hold your fucking breath, boy.

"Hour of the Wolf"

You were a trouble child. You were too smart and they couldn't hold you back. You believed that revenge was a dish best served over ice. Your eyes were dead as you stood in line.

"I Am the Whooping Crane"

You are the type of person to grab the whip and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and crack and

"In the Midnight Hour"

You have no idea what you like. You make shit up. You say it's about yelling, and maybe it is. Maybe you need to yell, or hear people yell through the earbuds of your cheap headphones. Or maybe you just don't know how to write about music. You suspect that all music criticism is bullshit. You spend a lot of your time pretending that you are a music critic. You do it because it makes you feel good. Like the yelling. Doesn't matter if it's real. You never needed anything real anyway.

"Lauren Bacall in Blue"

You are the type of person to say something like "I'm not ashamed of what I am, of how I pass through this life. What I am has given me the strength to do it. At my lowest ebb I have never contemplated suicide. I value what is here too much. I have a contribution to make. I am not just take up space in this life. I can add something to the lives I touch. I don't like everything I know about myself, and I'll never be satisfied, but nobody's perfect. I'm not sure where the next years will take me—what they will hold—but I'm open to suggestions." without taking a breath and now you're gasping and turning a savory azure and mouthing for help but no one can hear you.

"Melody for a New Cornet"

You need a job. Badly. Like, you don't know how you're going to pay for your next meal. There are people in your life willing to help, but still... you need a job. You open up the classified ads. You take a thick red pen and circle an interesting look one. You read the fine print. You understand that you'd be working for the local pulp magazine. You get to the interview. You are told you will be writing a column each month that tells its readers who they are based on their interests. The pay is shit, but you're desperate. Your favorite Perennial song is "Melody for a New Comet."

"Perennial in a Haunted House"

You insist on combining IPAs and coffee, and you hate it, you just hate the fucking combination of those two liquids, it makes you physically ill, but you'll never give it up, you can't now, it's in the canon, everyone knows, you have to save face, you have to keep sipping this vile concoction or else everyone will point and laugh and point and laugh, because they know, and you know, know the truth, the ugly truth of the matter, and that is that no one could possibly combine an IPA and a coffee and actually enjoy it.

"The Skeleton Dance"

And it goes like this: You are you. There is no one who can change that, except you. You like what you like, oh, that is beyond doubt. What you don't like? You hate. And everyone knows it. But to like: yes. Indeed. You like this. This. And that, but this too. You like this, and it means something. It means something that there is an absence of liking re: something else. Liking and not liking, it's relative, but it matters. Your favorite says something about you. I am here to confirm it. I am not you, of course. But I know you. I know you because I know what you consider your favorite. How could I not? How could you?

"Soliloquy for Neil Perry"

You yell "help!" at the bottom of the well you fell down, except it doesn't sound like "help!", it sounds like "HELphelphelphelp!" and of course no one hears you. You are lost. Physically? For certain. Emotionally? Only you can say. You are alone. This is a metaphor, but it could be true, if you want it to be. The well isn't real, though. You think it is, but you're in the well, so how could you not? No—stop it. Your favorite song from Perennial's 2022 album In the Midnight Hour is "Soliloquy for Neil Perry." Who the fuck am I to say who you are? So it's not "are you in a well" it's "do you need the well" and, well, do you?

"Tooth Plus Claw"

You prefer Maren Morris's Humble Quest.