My grandmother never mentioned God to me, and we certainly never said grace over meals. I was only ever subtly informed of my paternal family’s religious heritage through bits and bobs floating around the household. My great-grandfather was a prolific painter and sculptor whose work frequently dwelled on Jesus and Mary. Wooden sculptures of the crucified Jesus sat in the dining room next to a set of crystal tumblers holding gin, but I never questioned them. The religious icons were the kind of comfort you can only find in your childhood home — providing security and strength without ever really thinking why they’re there.
All these Catholic artifacts ended up back in my cramped apartment, once again occupying a peripheral but distracting space. One of them was a St. Anthony’s medallion that I took to wearing around my neck. I fiddled with it absentmindedly everyday until one day I lost my debit card and fervently recited St. Anthony’s — the patron saint of lost articles — prayer. I started to invest myself in the mythology of these things — looking up saints’ biographies and imagining what my own confirmation name might be, collecting saints’ cards and palm leaves that were neatly folded into crosses for Palm Sunday. A tangle of my grandma’s rosaries followed in the mail shortly. I loved slipping the marble beads between my fingers and knowing that Pope Benedict himself had blessed them. It wasn’t long until I asked a close friend and practicing Catholic to let me tag along to mass.
The things that transfixed me were the more mystical elements of Catholicism. There was a textured complexity to it that was so much more enigmatic than anything I had experienced in any other church. The incense and the saints’ adoring gazes were almost heartbreaking to me, like they were somehow talismans that linked me to a familial past I was barely even aware of. The richness in tradition almost obsessed me. Something about this form of spirituality was simultaneously comfortingly familiar, like a blanket that smells like home, and enchanting at the same time. Every time something modern was added to the mass, I grumpily conceded to follow along but knew it wasn’t what I was looking for, what was pulling me towards the sanctuary. It was the things that were tense to discuss but revealed a rich and complex tradition. It was paradoxical, but the less tangible it was to me, the more I kept coming back.
Florence and the Machine’s second album “Ceremonials” leaps out of the mortal realm from the very first track. “Only If for a Night” feels like falling into a dream, with tinkling keys and harp accompanying you as you drift into her darkest and deepest fantasies. Suddenly the pedestrian becomes honorific. Her grandmother becomes a saint and depression manifests itself as the devil. Florence paints all of her experiences with the poetry of a King James Bible — “doing cartwheels in your honor/my own secret ceremonials.” Hearing that lyric for the first time this year, I felt a pang to my heart that was distinctly reminiscent of the feeling I got from holding those rosaries, which are now residing in a dusty jewelry box.
“Ceremonials” is consumed by an alternate, fantasy world that Florence briefly resides in. It’s full of demons and angels, saints and darker forces, each vying for her heart and mind. And for every mystical, fantastical lyric there are backing vocals and instrumentation that tie these concepts to the divine. “Shake It Out” is a soaring anthem whose bursts of percussion defy you to relinquish your inner demons and free yourself to let saints and holier things grab ahold of you. “It’s hard to dance with the devil on your back,” Florence howls, “so shake him off.” The media has detailed Welch’s previous romantic flings, and she even comments offhandedly at them herself. She’s maintained her privacy in the face of a scrutinizing public, but perhaps it is because her lyrics are so excruciatingly personal that there’s no need for detailed elaboration. We don’t know if the demons battling for the redheaded siren’s soul are ghosts of relationships past, creative inspirations that haunt her or traumas she has never spoken aloud. All we know is that the only way out is through, and “Ceremonials” charts her trajectory through a Dante-style inferno of emotional ghouls.
The full weight of losing my grandmother never really hit me until I started attending Mass daily. It wasn’t the homilies, delivered by an eccentric and liberal priest, that made me miss her smell or how she would sternly call me by my full name when I was a smartass. The theology intrigued me, but only the most mystical parts made me feel forged to my family in a new and uncharted way. The canonical implications of abortion, family planning and gay marriage — all things that mattered deeply to me — pained my heart but I pushed them to the back of my mind in favor of the things that felt rudimentary and deeply Catholic to me. Various saints appearing to Joan of Arc in a French meadow, affirming that even she, a milkmaid, was a chosen of God — those meant the world to me. I felt heartened and could find my grandmother and myself in those narratives.
I attended Mass for months, and each time I smelled the incense or heard the organ boom out the notes to the Creed we sang, I felt that connection. It became almost an addiction. I didn’t care for investigating doctrine or questioning where my morality stood on the Catholic spectrum. I was there to light the candles and look at Mary’s benevolent face, promising me that I had a place in this world of spirits and rites. A tradition that my grandmother belonged to, and one that even I, unbaptized and a Sunday school dropout, could claim as my own.
When Florence Welch’s “How Big How Blue How Beautiful” was finally announced, it was met with both a sigh of relief and a pang of anxiety over what the new era of the Machine would look like.
The new Florence isn’t steeped in mystery or draped in “ghoulish light,” a vibe she seems to be trying to escape through songs like ‘Third Eye”. Instead, everything from the cover art to her few released videos are cloaked in shades of gray and are firmly planted here on Earth. “I guess although I’ve always dealt in fantasy and metaphor when I came to writing,” she admitted in a promo for “HBHBHB”, “that meant the songs this time were dealing much more in reality.” The videos for “What Kind of Man” sees her flair for dramatics in a much more pedestrian context. She’s having a leisurely conversation while driving on a country road, or engaging in choreographed fights in a dining room. There are no other Earthly creatures plaguing her consciousness here — only the ambiguity of life in all its heartbreak and anxiety. She can’t take the same comfort in ritual and drama. If “Ceremonials” was an album about ascending to heaven via gospel choruses and spooky gothic chants, “HBHBHB” is about finding that same catharsis in the mundane. Her heavenly harps are replaced with guitars grinding out despair and confusion in equal measure. “What Kind of Man” is reminiscent of Ceremonials through the first verse, where organs provide the background to Florence’s slow and mournful voice, but this dirge comes to crashing halt. Electric shredding and fitful drums seem to throw her out of “Ceremonials’” daydream with Earth-shattering noise. Florence is here among us now, and there’s no going back.
My walks to the Church of the Notre Dame on the Upper West Side began to be plagued with anxiety and doubts. A priest once said that the walk to church was a modern pilgrimage, a way to channel the past. Past Catholics left their belongings and embarked on spiritual journeys to drink holy water at Lourdes or be amongst the remains of the holiest saints. But that three-block walk was not consumed with spiritual uplift or feelings of belonging like before. The bond I felt to the saints and to the rites and rituals of Mass were replaced by truths about the Church I couldn’t escape by lighting candles. I couldn’t deny the anger and hurt I felt towards the Church for its responses to a myriad of social issues.
I fought to keep this thread of mysticism and holiness between me and that parish, and to protect the simple comfort I found there. I fought pretty hard. But it came down to the realization that my attachment wasn’t grounded in reality, and I was just avoiding the tensions that come from living your faith everyday. When I removed the saints and the demons and the legends that adorned the faith, I didn’t have much left. My friends were Catholics who struggled everyday to maintain their religiosity and their connection. They didn’t avoid talking about birth control or marriage. Even when the Church’s position was less than compassionate, theirs was rooted in love and respect — but also sometimes in anguish over the disparity between the institution’s assertions and their own moral compasses. My head was in the clouds or the heavens and I was almost drunk on these tales of blessings and enlightenment. I just didn’t know if I could swing it here back on Earth.
Just as Florence comes back to the ambiguity of everyday life with a crashing halt on “HBHBHB”, I left the Masses with sadness and confusion but also some hope. I couldn’t rely on that place to help me muddle through failed relationships, self-consciousness or depression. It works wonders for other people, but I felt it wouldn’t for me. I’m here in the shade of grey without the demons or saints, and the battles feel less obvious. Sitting in those pews helped me find a path through my grief and now being spiritually adrift is another challenge.
The most heart-wrenching yet hopeful song of “HBHBHB” is arguably “St. Jude.” She is still attached to these spirits and saints, but she dissembles them, even using feminine pronouns to refer to a typically masculine saint. She’s both sorrowful and optimistic at this new stage of life. She sings:
“And I’m learning, so I’m leaving
And even though I’m grieving
I’m trying to find the meaning
Let loss reveal it”
The new Florence isn’t always sure and strong. Her fights are nuanced and complex, but her response is just as fierce as ever. She’s fighting for her life and sanity, and her ability to muddle through the chaos of every day. But most of all, she’s going to be okay. And so am I.
