Dancing to Death with Danse Macabre, by Jocelyn Gale

I never figured I’d define the approach of Halloween with an electric dance album–but who am I if not one for new things? As I transition back to Oxford for my senior year at the one and only Miami University, I am greeted with the familiar phases of changing seasons and nostalgic feelings. Although the heat persists, with mere whispers of changing leaves–I am drawn to the synthetic, grim, electro-rock album that is the 2001 release, Danse Macabre by The Faint, to keep me going. The phrase “danse macabre” is another way of saying “dance to death,” and The Faint crafted a rock album so irresistibly danceable–the inevitability of death becomes artful and exciting.

It’s difficult to explain exactly how this album feels without some kind of representative or interpretive dance, but I will make do with words on a page. This album is an exploration of death-grotesquely without exception–and is full of electric groove. For a band formed in Nebraska, they’ve truly honed the dirty European dance bar vibe. Even if poison-related deadly lyrics aren’t your cup of tea, it's impossible not to move.

The album’s opening, “Agenda Suicide,” is a nod to ‘80’s predecessors with synth sounds but modernizes itself with heavy, pulsing, beats. Plainly, The Faint has written the lyrics of this track about working yourself to death, saying, “Our work makes pretty little homes/Agenda suicide/The drones work hard before they die.” The idea of this American Dream-esque life is questioned, what exactly are we doing here? What is the point of all this?

“Like a cast shadow” The Faint reminds us that the lack of living for ourselves looms over us, as our lives are worked away for the sake of white picket fences and idealized comfort. But god, does this song make you wanna dance. My head nods to the pungent beat–I am singing along about dying drones, a life not lived, and I am having fun.

The fourth track entitled, “Let The Poison Spill From Your Throat” is infectious, and at times, poetically grotesque. The textured sounds create such a punk rock energy to accompany the lyrics telling the expenses of acting on selfish insecurities to be a part of a higher society. “If there’s dirt you’ve got on someone/You let it loose without a thought/Just let the poison spill/Spurt from your throat,” calls for morality. Yet–this is followed by, “Cause the pressure’s unreal/I’m not saying that it's not,” to recognize the humanity of a misguided moral compass. The song continues to go back and forth, a narrator recognizing the overwhelming screams of deep guilt, understanding this feeling, and still expressing that this is no excuse. A song filled with anxious, accusatory lyrics, yet once again, set to a tantalizingly danceable beat. The digitized whispers of the final bridge and the slow pour into the second chorus and the punch of a beat in the middle–oh come on! It's begging to be played in the basement of some London bar full of rocking university students with class on Monday.

The fifth track, and dare I say my personal favorite, is entitled “Your Retro Career Melted.” To spin back to those nostalgic feelings I mentioned all the way back in the beginning; this song is exactly that for me. This was frequently bumped in my Dad’s Honda CRV on the way to my middle school soccer practices. As we passed by stretches of dried out cornfields, my dad tapped his hands on the steering wheel as we bobbed our heads left to right in unison to (unsurprisingly), another infectious beat from this album. The bizarre lyrical imagery of a mannequin performance ending with its violent and murderous disassembly and eventual reassembly to flowing punches of robotic beats. I enjoyed staring at these lyrics to understand what exactly the song is saying, and after much internal deliberation–I have settled on it being a statement on societal resistance to change. “They didn't understand what the mannequin meant/The sound of a barreled gun held to the back/Some plastic clicks as the shell parts pass,” a rural town presented with a robotic figure, presumably explaining a new way of thinking. This society doesn’t understand this new way, instead of greeting it with curiosity, they kill this robotic figure and dispose of it elsewhere. But it reassembles, their denial can’t force elimination. The weirdo lyrics are somewhat Bowie-like to me in their odd nature and commentative approach–which is an inviting aspect of this oh-so interestingly strange song.

There are songs aplenty worth discussion on this funky album, not a single skip in my electro-rock appreciative opinion. “Posed to Death” is a striking and immersive track, “Violent” is a cello heavy and lyrically sharp piece, and the album's final track, “Ballad of a Paralysed Citizen,” acts as the slow and haunting exhale of such a quick paced album. All are exceptional examples of this album’s breadth.

The juxtaposition of gothic lyrical prose to rapid electro-dance rock beats is so killer, I have started to turn my headphones up loud enough that those walking nearby can hear; and I consider it a favor. You’re welcome, fellow Miamians. My transition from sun bathed pavements to crunched over leaves in my path has been made all the more exciting because of this stellar album, and I expect the same captivating fate for anyone else who listens.