This playlist starts off with a cover of Jimi Hendrix’s “(Have You Ever Been?) To Electric Ladyland” by Nai Palm of Hiatus Kaiyote. There’s a lot to unpack here: Hendrix’s critically acclaimed record, which would be his last; its monumental impact on rock; Nai Palm’s reinterpretation of that legacy; her own work as possibly the greatest female vocalist working in neo-soul today.
Lauded as perhaps the best record produced in the psychedelic rock era, Electric Ladyland (1968) received most of its praise long after its release, once its influence became more apparent. The electric guitar is permanently associated with Hendrix because of his inventive use of the instrument. The lead singer of Muse described his impact: “Hendrix is not necessarily about melodies or chords, [it's] about the energy he brings to it . . . He was a pioneer in using the studio itself as an instrument — wringing out unusual sounds until the environment was another extension of his own creativity.” Since Hendrix, the practice of utilizing found sounds as samples or pieces in their own right has gone mainstream; Olivia Rodrigo recorded noises in her mom’s car for “drivers license” and Porter Robinson used the sound of his iPhone hitting a piano as a drum track in “Get Your Wish.”
Nai Palm says she was interested in exploring Hendrix’s “divine softness.” There is pressure as an electric guitarist to shred the fastest or play the loudest, and Nai Palm wants to shed that egotistic culture in favor of a more soulful, creative ethos. She chose the covers on her solo record Needle Paw (2017) from legends—Jimi Hendrix, Radiohead, and David Bowie. She doesn’t intend for her interpretation of these songs to be definitive, but rather to connect with the music she’s performing, for herself and whoever else might appreciate her work.
Frank Ocean is on a similar wave. He disappears from the Internet for years at a time and drops albums without warning. He used to update his Tumblr with cryptic messages about his sophomore album, which fans ate up. But before Blonde (2016), he posted a now infamous TextEdit screenshot which revealed that his wildly successful debut album, channel ORANGE (2012) was in part about a boy. Frank Ocean’s coming out was like anything he ever does: chaotic, casual, uncomplicated. He asserted, on his own terms and platform, that he “[felt] like a free man.”
Mitski is one of my favorite artists who I know almost nothing about. She, like Frank Ocean, is extremely private; after a false abuse allegation which confused both fans and the artist herself, she’s been permanently deactivated on Twitter. She’s open about struggling with her mental health and her songwriting makes clear that she is deeply troubled by her past; she was isolated, she moved every year, she embodied many different personae in an attempt to find out which one was actually her.
Mitski makes music that speaks to my worst fears about myself, the things I know to be true and wish weren’t. She talks often about how although her songs are emotional, she emphasizes control, rather than creative outburst. The only good article I’ve ever read about her has quotes from Michelle Zauner (of Japanese Breakfast) and Phoebe Bridgers, artists who admire her work, along the lines of “she’s sure of herself, she does things her way, she’s disciplined, and it shows.”
“Your Best American Girl” speaks to her Japanese-American heritage, the cultural insistence that as a half white, half Asian person you’re never quite one or the other. It begins with some of the most heart-wrenching lyrics ever written:
If I could, I'd be your little spoon
And kiss your fingers forevermore
But, big spoon, you have so much to do
And I have nothing ahead of me
The music video for this song features Mitski making out with her hand as a white couple—the woman clad in a flower crown and appropriative fake tattoos—kisses passionately across from her. It’s strange; as an Asian-American woman with my fair share of romantic missteps with white men, I could have definitely taken this song more personally than I did when it came out in 2016. I’d never really felt othered by my rejectors, just unwanted. I related to the heartbreak, the longing, but I never saw myself in it until much later in life. I think that it comes down to the chorus lyrics:
Your mother wouldn't approve of how my mother raised me
But I do, I think I do
I was raised by my white parent, and know very little about my Korean ancestry or culture. I feel a lot of shame around how disconnected I am from half of my genes, half of myself. I remember being asked repeatedly by my grade school classmates if I was adopted, and brushing it off. I thought myself basically white, and to my peers I was the Asian friend, stereotypes and all. As I got older and heard the term “microaggression” for the first time, I realized that perhaps the world didn’t see me as I saw myself, as I was futilely trying to be.
“Your Best American Girl” takes on new meaning every time I listen to it, and I’m grateful for Mitski’s honesty. Maybe I’ve always been the girl she sings about:
And you're an all-American boy
I guess I couldn't help trying to be the best American girl