Grief is something you can feel coming, like vomiting or panic attacks.
When you’re reminded of someone you lost, through death or otherwise, there’s a split second before the reaction kicks in and the waterworks start. It’s a moment of icy clarity, sometimes more upsetting than the memory itself: fuck. It’s coming. This is really happening. It’s what I imagine a person on a boat might feel right before they plunge over a waterfall.
But when the tears subside, at least for a while, you feel a strange, wringed-out sort of calm.
“Crying it out” might be a cliche, but it’s based in truth: tears are how our body gets rid of stress-induced hormones, and once those hormones are gone they leave behind a peculiar emptiness. For those who feel so full of pain they could burst, there’s something pleasant, almost relieving, about that emptiness.
Carli Naff, the singer-songwriter behind Carli & the Dark, describes tapping into that sense of grief on “Voicemail”: “the anxiety of its approach – then the weightlessness after it has passed.” Thanks to heartfelt lyrics and her own strong, soulful voice, she does a great job of conveying both parts of the experience, hitting the right balance between the specific and the universal. It will ring true, even for those who, unlike Naff, haven’t experienced a great loss.
“Voicemail” starts with the familiar sound of the New York Subway’s intercom speaker, cheerfully oblivious to whatever problems passengers might be having: “This is a Manhattan-bound L train. The next stop is…” Then, accompanied by the pleasant bing of the doors closing and the metallic whine of the train leaving the station, a plaintive guitar chug leads us into “Voicemail.” It’s more than just a bit of found sound: the song is set in a subway station, detailing the way a song on a Spotify radio station can lead to a stark reminder of mortality.
Naff listens to this song and thinks that her father might like it; reflexively, she goes to send it to him, but stops herself. Her dad died a few months earlier, and they had bonded over songwriting before his death. Then it all starts to come back – memories of how he looked, his nickname for his daughter, the way he sounded on his voicemail message – and Naff realizes what’s been set into motion. “I think I need to leave this train!” she cries out, with the urgency of a panic attack, before lamenting that she “can’t make it go away.”
The song builds to a chaotic, noisy climax right in the middle, ratcheting up the tension until it’s almost unbearable, before slowing all the way down. Stripped down to spacious guitar chords, Naff recalls a memory of her dad, looking at her from his car, and settles into that post-breakdown peace. “And though you’re not around/you would love this song I found.” Beatific harmonies climb over each other as the song approaches its end, traveling towards something like closure.
