72 THENEWYORKER, MARCH 9, 2020
THE CRITICS
POP MUSIC
A WORLD OF POSSIBILITIES
On “græ,” Moses Sumney rejects classification in favor of knowing one’s self.BY HUAHSUW
hen we’re young, a love song
can seem like a beacon. It
translates the mystery of
feeling—the erratic moods and palpi-
tations associated with growing up—
into the stability of language. Pop music
is built on these pithy excavations of
fantasy and desire, even as this actual
thing called love remains ephemeral.
But the love song can just as easily be-
come a kind of provocation, an un-
workable template, a list of ways we
can’t fit ourselves within a supposedly
universal norm.
In 2017, the singer Moses Sumney
released his début album, “Aromanti-
cism,” a meditation on his inability to
engage in romantic attachment. It’s not
that he is incapable of feeling. It takes
listening to only a few seconds of
Sumney’s singing to become aware of
how much and how deeply he feels,
and of his skill for cramming as much
of himself as possible into every sec-
ond of his music. A single line deliv-
ers a continuum of these feelings, ex-
pressed by a strident falsetto, a coy
growl, a fey, broken whisper. “Aroman-
ticism” lingers on themes of ambiva-
lence and loneliness—not quite mopey
despair so much as a quest for what to
do with a surplus of energy.
“I fell in love with the in-between /
Coloring in the margins,” Sumney re-
calls on “Neither/Nor,” a brisk, rising
song on his new album, “græ.” He’s
reminiscing about his youth, singing
softly about being a boy, breathing out
“smoke with no fire.” Since he began
playing small clubs in Los Angeles, in
the early part of the last decade, the
charismatic, fashion-forward Sumney
has fit the profile of someone destined
for stardom. But there is a mismatch
between the fluid, slippery music he
makes and the narrow range of identi-
ties and poses allowed to black artists.
He has spent much of his career ex-
ploring his own emotional language
rather than writing sing-along anthems,
expanding his own world rather than
settling comfortably into the one he
found himself in.
At times, “Aromanticism” feels sparse
and withdrawn; “græ” is more expan-
sive and, consequently, more open to
vulnerability. The song “Virile” opens
with a string of carefree “ahs” and a
shimmering harp, before giving way to
a series of cathartic arena-rock drum-
rolls. Sumney goes high and low in
search of a different version of man-
hood. “You wanna slip right in/ Amp
up the masculine/ You’ve got the wrong
idea, son/ Dear son,” he sings, stretch-
ing that last word out with a teasing,
almost nagging falsetto. The song is
quickly followed by “Conveyor,” as in
belt, as in assembly line. It’s as if Sumney
were trying to lull a chorus of malfunc-
tioning machines into submission. His
voice manages to cut through the chaos
and the clatter, bringing with it a sooth-
ing synth refrain, offering a model of
resilience sometimes more captivating
than the words themselves.
Philosophers, scientists, and pop fans
alike have wondered what in a song
triggers emotion. Is it the lyrics? Is a
happy song merely any song that makesus happy? Or is there something about
its structure that makes us feel a cer-
tain way? Nowadays, our biggest pop
stars are often our moodiest. What
makes Sumney so enigmatic is the way
his work calls to mind an observation
by the psychologist Carroll Pratt: that
“music sounds the way emotions feel.”
A song conveys the storm and the stress
of how it feels to feel, the manic turns
of joy and ecstasy, the sudden onset of
all emotions at once. Lyrics may an-
chor us in a scene or a situation of being
up or down. But Sumney’s music is
more about what it means to feel, even
if you have no idea how to name the
force that is overtaking you.S
umney, who is in his late twenties,
was born in San Bernardino, about
sixty miles east of Los Angeles. Both
of his parents were Christian pastors
from Ghana. Earlier this year, he pub-
lished an essay in “Fight of the Cen-
tury: Writers Reflect on 100 Years of
Landmark ACLU Cases,” in which he
discussed his parents’ status, during his
childhood, as undocumented immi-
grants—something he wasn’t fully
aware of at the time. When Sumney
was ten, the family briefly returned to
Ghana. He ended up back in South-
ern California for high school, and
began singing in the school choir. He
attended U.C.L.A., where he pursued
creative writing.
He befriended the Los Angeles
R. & B. trio King, who invited him
to open some shows. Sumney’s per-
formances mainly consisted of himSumney’s music evokes what it means to feel, even if you have no idea how to name the force that is overtaking you.