I don’t know about you, but both my favorite album and I are turning twenty-two: A love letter to 69 Love Songs

On September 7th, 1999, a new life was brought into the world. Though only a newborn, it was filled with complexity, somber observation, cynicism, and underneath it all, a guarded sense of optimism. Two days later, I was born, knowing automatically I had a very similar natal chart to the masterpiece that is The Magnetic Fields’s 69 Love Songs.

True to its name, the collection of songs are all love songs (technically), but they are rich with references to people like Saussure, Camus, and Fellini, all of whom I have been fixated on at one point, likely because of this album. There is an overarching theme of meaninglessness, as you may be able to guess based on the aforementioned cast of characters, but ultimately the album refutes the idea that any kind of love is truly meaningless.

The instrumentals are even more confusing than the lyrics, changing the genre of every song and including noises that sound like galoshes or air raid sirens. Though the songs were written by The Magnetic Field’s frontman, Stephin Merritt, they are from the perspective of a plethora of characters that float between the voices of people in the band and guest singers. As a gay man, Merritt writes about his queer experience often, and through this jumble of narratives and speakers, the lines land in a way that helps Merritt paint his fluid vision of love. This leads to lyrics such as “should pretty boys in discos distract you from your novel, remember that I’m awful in love with you” and “is there a boy who…well, he’s just a whore; I’ve had him before!” being sung by feminine voices (Shirley Simms and Claudia Gonson, respectively).

Just as the narratives shift, so do the moods. There are lyrics that are light-hearted and funny such as “let’s pretend we’re bunny rabbits; let’s do it all night long,” and “you’ve been diggin’ in the rubble getting bitches in trouble, Fido, your leash is too long.” But then, songs like “I Don’t Believe in The Sun” and “Busby Berkeley Dreams” are so sad that even I, the self-proclaimed biggest The Magnetic Fields fan ever, skip them often. In a matter of a few songs, we switch from “How fucking romantic. Must we really waltz?” to “Nothing matters when we’re dancing.” This is what I enjoy about the album — the pendulum swing that encapsulates what it is to love and live.

I cannot remember a time in my life without this album, though for most of it, I did not understand the intricacies of the work. Since my uncle Tom gifted Volume 1 to my father, I have loved the way the music sounded, but the darker parts of Merritt’s lyricism were something I did not get until I was older. With the realization at around thirteen that Tom’s death had not been accidental, I fell into depression. A foregone conclusion, perhaps. I sought solace in the songs I loved as a child, coming back to fun ones like “A Chicken with Its Head Cut Off,” and “The Luckiest Guy on The Lower East Side.” The latter song even includes a line (“John will buy the gown for you to wear to the prom with Tom, the astronomer, who’d name a star for you”) that reminded me of my telescope-owning uncle that I missed in a way I couldn’t comprehend.

Ultimately, I resonated with Merritt’s deep sadness and cynicism, which is more prevalent in his work. His mentions of suicide, death, and therapy made my troubled young self feel validated. I have grown in and out of states of mental health since my reconciliation with The Magnetic Fields, and I will always feel the weight of their sad lyrics when I’m down. I will always love the sarcasm and violence when I’m angry. The part of me that fears commitment will always understand “We don’t have to be stars exploding in the night or electric eels under the covers” and “I always say I love you when I mean turn out the light.” The burnt-out former gifted kid in me will always sing out loud “I know Professor Blumen makes you feel like a woman, but when the wind is in your hair, you laugh like a little girl.” But only when I feel so vulnerable that I cannot contain it any longer will I feel Stephin Merritt’s almost reluctant, beautiful transparency. He sings all of the following in his own voice: “I don’t know if you’re beautiful because I love you so much,” “I know the solution: love, music, wine, and revolution,” and “The Book of Love is long and boring and written very long ago. It’s full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes and things we’re all too young to know.”

As I find myself more and more confused as time goes on, and as I age with this album, that last line hits me more and more. As I cope and heal, and love and remember, I do it all feeling grateful for the wonderful piece of my life that is 69 Love Songs. Happy 22nd!

Here is a playlist of all the songs/ mentioned in order:

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2W48JjXuV8dAln123bASKi?si=25a54196c64e4713