Two years ago, Ezra Furman awoke with a sudden illness and lost consciousness in the bathroom. Given the all-clear in hospital, she returned home only to spend months in her bed, unable to function and seemingly undiagnosable. But, like Paddy McAloon piecing together cult masterpiece I Trawl the Megahertz as he recovered from retinal surgery, the burning desire to make something of it was her constant companion. The torrential frustration borne from those long months gave rise to a clutch of songs which became Goodbye Small Head.
Following on from the life-upending disruption which brought this record into being, Furman describes the album as ‘twelve variations on the experience of completely losing control’, which is one way to remind people of Joy Division. The fretfully compassionate ‘She’s Lost Control’, written by one sufferer of severe epilepsy about another, is so deeply associated with the late Ian Curtis that his 2007 biopic was titled for it.
If this seems like a bit of a reach then let’s take a look at the first two tracks. ‘Grand Mal’ and ‘Sudden Storm’, Furman says, ‘were written in one hypomanic sitting after talking to an epileptic friend about the mystical quality of certain epileptic seizures’. Wisely enough, though, Furman isn’t interested in coming off as a second Curtis.
In fact, she takes a hairpin swerve in the opposite direction. ‘Grand Mal’ stutters into life not via the metallic unexploded-bomb tick of post-punk percussion, but with the sort of ultra-processed, peculiarly sensual vocal samples that mark out J Dilla’s head-spinning hip-hop gamechanger Donuts (another work of art which, for better or worse, will always make the biographically-minded think of its author’s illness).
But the disorientation this suggests doesn’t last, yielding to smart, sturdy jazz drums and a smoothly undulating bed of strings. The only real counter to the blissed-out atmosphere is Furman herself, ragged fear straining sweetly through the high keen in which she delivers her urgently physical lyrics.
‘Sudden Storm’ sits even further away from Joy Division’s bleak milieu. Blooming into drowsy, sun-soaked 60s psychedelia, it sounds as if it could’ve come straight from Sgt. Pepper’s, tinny multitracked vocals and all.
If Furman so often chooses to undercut the songs she describes as ‘vivid with overwhelm’ with peaceful settings, she equally as often leans into her panic-as-ecstasy thesis with driving rock and roll. As ‘Jump Out’ gathers its barrelling momentum through a cello’s repetitive-propulsive throb, it’s easy to be reminded of ‘Love You So Bad’ from her 2018 album Transangelic Exodus, one of those rare songs so perfect that it’s hard to believe that nobody’s written it before.
One timeless tune per album would be enough for most people, but then ‘Jump Out’ hands over to ‘Power of the Moon’, an ‘existentialist wrestling match with whoever’s in charge of the universe’. Led by twanging guitars as languidly easy-going as they are decisively confident, if not for a couple of distorted samples it sounds uncannily like a lost cut from the Velvet Underground’s irresistible 1970 pop platter Loaded.
Here we find Furman nailing the wry, searching urban spirituality that rock music, that ever-growing anthology of the teenage condition with its alternating wonder and cynicism, has been trying to get at from the start. ‘I think I see a promise from God in the rainbow on an oil spill,’ she declares before more sceptically asking, ‘what’s the blues but a lust for affection plus the sound of a whistle on a far-off train?’.
Grander still is theatrical showstopper ‘Slow Burn’, a swelling wave of strings and Morricone-meets-Hank Marvin guitar which shatters like sea spray into a dreamy wash of doo-wop. If Brian Wilson ever wrote a West End musical, it might sound something like this.
Despite the enormous production of this and many other tracks, her lyrics are always given the space they deserve, particularly on the record’s more intimate numbers. She’s an especially capable writer about relationships, proving time and time again that her talent for balladry remains undimmed.
The raindrop-delicate ‘Veil Song’ provides the perfect setting for the softer side of Furman’s voice, lilting in an-up-and-down meander as she navigates anxieties around long-term commitment. Then you get twinkling, sweet-sour earworm ‘You Hurt Me, I Hate You’, a Roy Lichtenstein portrait in song which hits all the requisite 50s teen-heartbreak notes with unerring precision but unusual lyrical maturity. It’s irresistibly camp while never being corny, although a very brief dip into spoken word melodrama – ‘I’ve tried to tell you, but I don’t know what to say!’ – might put some in mind of ‘Lonely This Christmas’.
This is perfect pop for difficult times, both personally and politically, and nowhere is this fusion of beauty and horror more pronounced than on the smouldering, noirish ‘Strange Girl’. Built around a spare, slow, erratic drumbeat which sounds like something knocking around in a dark alley, Furman’s mournful jazzy croon enunciates each word with chilling emotion.
That distinctive but versatile voice helps Furman to traverse drastically different genres with remarkable conviction. With its choppy electronic beats, ‘You Mustn’t Show Weakness’ is about as close as this record flies to outright techno. Still, her delivery charges the song with a tight-throated humanistic rage recalling the most biting observations of Cave, Cohen, or Dylan.
Even so, it is not as accusatory nor as joyful as the record’s most direct number, ‘A World of Love and Care’. Imagine ‘Imagine’ with the schmaltz scraped off (it’s easy if you try) to reveal the strong stuff beneath. Encouraging the listener to picture a better future over the steady marching pulse of her string section, Furman puts forth a call-to-arms too uplifting to resist. ‘Dream better, dream bigger, with me!’
“The band and I had had a run of records that were very communal, very first person plural,’ Furman says. ‘But there does come a time when a woman is left alone in a room to unravel. And you need music for those times too.” Yet while so many confessional songwriters end up navel-gazing, Furman never stops reaching out, especially on Goodbye Small Head’s epic final track.
A cover of a song by her friend Alex Walton, Furman honours ‘I Need the Angel’ by transforming its original lo-fi arrangement into the gigantic castle-of-sound rocker it always deserved to be. When the song reaches its halfway mark, roaring back into triumphant life as she begs ‘please, please, listen, listen!’, it’s a good thing Bruce Springsteen doesn’t seem given to envy. If he was, he’d surely be green with it.
“A look over the edge into the frightening and beautiful realm that lies beyond ordinary life” is how Furman describes Goodbye Small Head, and she meets this self-imposed challenge with all the courage it requires. You can’t really call Furman’s work an anchor in tough times. It’s too honest in its embrace of uncertainty for that.
It’s more of a rock and roll lighthouse, standing firm against the turbulent seas which weather it, a landmark helping those in need to find their way. How could we expect anything less from one of the most individual-minded, collective-hearted songwriters and performers around?
Goodbye Small Head is out on Friday 16th May via Bella Union – order now via Ezra Furman’s official website
Ezra Furman is currently touring the UK – find all upcoming dates and book tickets here
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Review by Poppy Bristow
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