“Threatens to tip over into something more angry or rambunctious, toeing the line between intimate and ominous and perhaps slipping into both.” so we wrote of Magana’s Golden Tongue EP back in 2016, with songs like ‘Get it Right’ painting the image of “a relationship coming to a head, approaching some climax that could still swing either way, though the conclusion passes before it can blossom into something meaningful or fall in a trail of flames.” It is a testament to Jeni Magaña’s songwriting abilities that her brand of pop could bring to life such an ambiguous picture, and though subsequent releases have seen the Magana sound range from cosy folk to witchy rock, this sense of ambivalent depth is what persists.
Following 2020 full-length you are not a morning person, Magana began a three-release cycle which more than fulfils this description. Each release represents different moods rendered in varying shades, though all look to delve into the emotional complexities which sit behind any scene or story. Out now via Audio Antihero and Colored Pencils, Bad News is the closing part of this triad. An EP which uses narrative-based songs to effectively close the loop of the previous releases, following a seasonal pattern so that the releases can be enjoyed as an endlessly repeating cycle.
“This EP is the last of what I think of as an interconnected trio of releases,” Magaña explains. “Teeth was made for spring, a period of growth. It was expansive and exploring. Dreams was made for fall. It was about dusk, the dawning of the restful months. Bad News is made for that period of time between the end of winter and the beginning of spring. Stillness before movement. Each song is about the period of time right before a transition: the realization that change is coming or that it needs to come. As the most lyrically driven of the releases, it is mostly about storytelling. I think of each track as a vignette of a moment in time for four different stories.”
To further develop this sense of narrative within the EP, Magaña has written four pieces of fiction to accompany the release. Small vignettes which pick up threads within the songs and breath extra life and colour into the scenes. Read on below.
Half to Death
The bedroom is almost pitch black. Only a tiny sliver of the curtain moves above the radiator, letting in flashes of warm light from the lamppost outside. Susan is in bed, listening to the sound of her husband’s breathing and trying to sync her breaths to his. She, too, wants the blissful oblivion of sleep. But her husband had the advantage of going to bed very drunk, and she has been stuck with the unfortunate position of being the one filled with dread and existential anxiety.
What can a few hours change? Potentially, everything. Her mind spins. It doesn’t seem fair that one action can undo years of built trust in a relationship, but she knows better than anyone that one action can easily turn into more than one. Her husband’s arm is draped over her chest. It’s so heavy. The room seems to be smaller than normal, and the heat radiating from his body is making her dizzy. Slowly, so carefully, Susan moves her body toward the edge of the bed. Down the side, onto the floor. He has not stirred. It is dry and hot and scary inside the bedroom that she once called cozy. Her throat is raw and dry. In the dark, her hand searches for her glass of water on the bedside table. Empty.
Her husband turns onto his other side, breathing through his mouth now. Susan puts her hands on the wall and pushes up against it. She glides her hands along the wall to orient herself. She slides her body along the wall until she reaches the door. And then, she walks through the door and leaves.
Hold On
Charlie,
Yesterday your mother forgot how to add. We were at a restaurant and she was paying the bill and adding a tip when she stopped and just looked at me. It was just for a moment, but I think I saw a flash of something new in her eyes.
This morning she lost her keys. We were going to the grocery store and she insisted that we take her car, but the keys were nowhere to be found. You know that this is not new. For as long as I have known Gwenyth Miller, the location of her cell phone has been a renewed mystery each day. But this time, she was so distressed. I didn’t want her to be embarrassed and so I asked her to make me a cup of coffee and I searched frantically behind her while she was in the kitchen. In the plants, in her closet. I found them in her jewelry box.
Earlier tonight she asked me to undress her. I have done so before, of course, otherwise you wouldn’t have been born. But now she can no longer manage the movements. Her head was lowered and her voice so soft. And I thought to myself again, I am ready for this.
Even so, it is a privilege to be married to your mother. It always has been. And so I peeled off each layer of her clothes slowly and reverently. A kiss was placed where each button was undone. She giggled softly as I pulled her collar down her shoulders, and I swear I have never loved her more. She held my gaze as I pulled her fleece pajama pants up each leg, stopping to kiss each knee. We laid in bed and laughed and fell asleep holding each other.
Charlie, I do not believe I will send this letter. This is not information you need right now. But I will keep it because one day, when we are both gone and you are looking through our belongings deciding what to keep and what to throw away, I want you to know that when everything seemed to be falling down around us, there was this moment. And we were happy.
Shower Song
Chelsey steps quietly into the bathroom and closes the door with a soft click. The cacophony of sound behind the door mercifully muffles to a dim roar. Dan knows that she is tired from the move and will want to go to bed early. He’ll handle dinner for himself. Maybe he’ll order takeout. And he probably understands why she has locked herself inside the one room in the house that can afford her privacy. He’ll leave her alone for now. Her little tiled cell of blue and white. She starts the shower and then examines the glass trinkets on the shelf beside her as she removes her clothing. A piece of old wallpaper is framed on the wall. A single bar of soap sits on the sink. She is standing naked on the white plush rug.
It is an odd feeling to be so exposed in a stranger’s home, even if the door is locked and no one is nearby. We do everything we can to armor ourselves around other people, and yet here she stands stripped bare in more than one way. There’s a movement in her periphery and as much as she doesn’t want to, Chelsey can’t help glancing up toward it. A mirror. The woman in it is a stranger. There is a foreign slope to her shoulders and wrinkles on her face. Her hair is dull with broken ends. Her eyes are just as dull as her hair. What has this woman been through to look so weary?
Several minutes pass, but eventually the steam from the shower starts to obscure her view. Not ready to handle this new version of herself, Chelsey turns off all the lights before she steps into the shower. It is too dark to see that her hands are chapped and cut from carrying all of the moving boxes, so she is unprepared for the sudden stinging of the hot water on them. Surprised, she cries out in pain. And then, as if drifting down a river with a strong current, Chesley finds that she cannot stop the cry that she has started. She is drowning in it. The water from the showerhead mingles with the tears and runs onto the floor. She is alone and it is dark and she is covered by the sound and the feel of the water. In this space, and only in this space, Chelsey takes a deep breath and admits to herself that this is not the life she dreamt of. Then she washes the admission away, and steps out of the shower when the water begins to run cold.
I’m Not Doing Anything
James was always considered an odd kid. He preferred to play alone, and act out characters to himself for his own amusement. He read and he drew and he socialized well with other children, so no one had any reason to demand that he change. He got good grades and showed no outward signs of depression. He went to parties hosted by his classmates, but never stayed over and never indicated that he wanted to throw any parties of his own.
When James went to high school, he was labeled “mysterious” which was a good deal more acceptable to his parents than “odd”. Mild popularity was bestowed on him because he was amiable, all the girls liked him, and because being so mysterious meant he was unlikely to gossip about anyone. His parents were given no cause for worry. But they were worried anyway, because that’s what parents do.
When James went to college, he did what many of us do and had a small group of friends that he would then keep for life. That is to say, a few gregarious and outgoing people decided that they liked James and befriended him. Then they decided they were going to keep him. This suited James quite well.
James graduated and stayed in San Diego with the rest of his friends. He wrote a book about them. The book became a bestseller. James, who refused to do any press, was heralded as an enigmatic author. Everyone became interested in the life of James Holland: the Banksy of Books. Someone bought the rights and made a movie out of the book.
One day, James was walking down the street in San Diego with a coffee in his hand when a child stopped him. He signed the autograph and took the photo and then the child leaned in and whispered
“What is your secret to success? I want to be just like you.”
“There is no secret.” James replied in just as small of a whisper. “I’m not doing anything.”
Bad News is out now via Audio Antihero and Colored Pencils and available from the Magana Bandcamp page.
