The new WHY? album The Well I Fell Into begins with a flashback. Over morose piano chords, the band’s lone full-time member Yoni Wolf catches us up to speed: “I used to be married, now I drag around the ring on a sling in a barrel of salt.” What appears to be the end of a story is actually in media res. Wolf’s character goes through the heartbreak of realizing a soulmate is no longer compatible, mourning, and eventually figuring out the way to once again put the pieces back together. A death has occurred, but rebirth is possible through honoring what was while continuously moving forward—even if it’s an inch at a time.
As is always the case with Yone Bone Capone, it’s unclear what is fiction and what came from his lived experiences. For his sake, I hope the image of riding a bus line to its last stop and being told he’s gotta get off courtesy of the driver is what we in the biz like to call “creative license.” As is also always the case with WHY?, trying to figure out what’s real, what’s not, where reality blurs with fiction, etc., is so far from the point. The words and music are too good, too rich, and the perfect blend of imagistic and anecdotal.
To help unfurl the knotty narrative of The Well I Fell Into—“Originally called ‘Papa and Marsie from Here on Out,’” Wolf tells us, “it could also have been called ‘Year of Atonement.’ Shout out Lillie West (Lala Lala) for suggesting ‘The Well I Fell Into’ as an album title, and Kitty (Kitty, Teen Suicide) for cosigning it)”—we had Wolf break down each song on the album, in doing so helping us to piece together the record’s shattered narrative. Check it out below.
1. “Lauderdale Detour”
T’kiah g’dolah. In summation, the final shofar blast. Originally part of “Marigold,” this intro track depicts a memory of lightness and joy. The voices express excitement about “going to Cancun.” The backstory involves an expired passport and a last-minute backup vacation to a seedy Florida rental.
2. “Marigold”
We begin somewhere near the end. This song follows a dispossessed soul, wandering—spiritually and amorously homeless—through the wintry city after his Jetta breaks down (see “Versa Go!”). He ends up on a bus, ruminating on the past and the many small kindnesses his ex-love would attempt to vivify his spirit and thereby perhaps repair the relationship. She’d natural-dye his old stained and faded clothes. The chorus, spoken by the bus driver, sympathetically hastens our character’s departure for reasons of “last stop.” Finality. Yet another disorienting displacement.
3. “Brand New”
“Brand New” brings us back to the beginning…the beginning of the end, as it were. Our man is feeling shifty—like he isn’t fully living, like his purpose may be behind him. Is this all there is? Is it the relationship? Has he lost himself in it? Could there be more—another chapter—if he were to start fresh on his own?
4. “G-dzillah G’dolah”
Here, we come to a moment of doubt about the doubt. In an airplane, flying to meet his love after not seeing her for some time, our guy feels small and helpless at the prospect of the impending engagement. In her absence, he has reconstructed her into a towering monster within his affections: a G-dzillah G’dolah—the ultimate God shadow baddie. He assures her that when they see each other, they will “make it right,” but it’s clear he’s only grasping at tatters of the past. He can feel it, she’s slipping away. He’s supremely intimidated and hates himself for losing her in the first place. The song is entirely spoken from 30,000 feet up in anticipation of the meeting, so as listeners we’re left without resolution or report after the fact.
5. “When We Do the Dance”
In the same spirit as “G-dzillah G’dolah,” but infused with complete conviction in content and confidence in delivery, we witness a moment that (confidence aside) could be the aforementioned post-flight meeting; seeing his on-again love after a long interlude apart. Our man is sure that he’s sure the old lovers must reunite; that divine plan and the preordained trajectory of the universe require it. But has he been truly heard or has his fate-talk fallen on deaf or icked ears?
6. “Jump”
From deep in trough state, a transmission: he, his own unreliable narrator, a confession, a cry for help. He needs a “jump”—perhaps from the same Jetta breakdown alluded to in “Versa Go!” Suspect of any integrity, all things chaotic entropy from this pessimistic vantage point, threatening that he’s “calling it off.” What is he calling off? Is he calling off something that’s “on,” or is he calling off the “off”? He’s full of guilt and regret, but he wouldn’t dare crawl back to her in this state. Better to roll in the bog, endure the wallow until the puddle dries up.
7. “Later at the Loon”
Here we witness a domestic scene from somewhere deep in the midst of should-we-or-shouldn’t-we-be-together. A gratuitous recounting of a therapy session that might’ve better remained private, a harsh proclamation and exposition of “why we’re not the best fit”—all while crudely devouring cheap beef and milk. And later (at The Loon), in a sobering moment—while drinking a digestif—regret at what was said, and self-loathing.
8. “Nis(s)an Dreams, Pt. 1”
The month of Nisan. Dreams of springtime. For her sake, cut her loose. Let my people go. Feels like a new beginning for her—“a marigold heaven” after a toxic several years in a stifling “field of aerosol.” Another case of feeling small in the face of the one he loves, who no longer wants to be with him. Backstory: She gives him a ride home from an Ada Lea concert (see “The Letters, Etc.”) after he professes his desire to rekindle (see “When We Do The Dance”)—on the very trip previously alluded to in “G-dzillah G’dolah.” It doesn’t go over as he would have liked. The song takes place from his perspective while she’s driving him home from the concert. He feels completely “murked” when his admonition is received poorly.
9. “The Letters, Etc.”
This was the final song to be completed on the album. It was partially written for a year or two, but the words to finish it just wouldn’t come until some further life experiences led the song into its current incarnation. Though potentially filled with paranoid conjecture, it’s also a song of acceptance, with only best wishes after embarking upon a difficult longterm estrangement. T’ruah. Love and let live.
10. “What’s Me?”
Perhaps told from the perspective of longtime WHY? shadow-self proxy, Mr. Pontius Fifths, we are confronted with our man in the midst of his lostness, acting out—chasing a strange woman in the absence of the true object of his desire: the one he loves. A momentary lapse of judgment? A cry for help? Self-sabotage? A violent run-in with small town law men, a plea from his higher self to “please go easy,” and the ever important question: Of the many selves with each their own will, which is the self to live from? Can he learn to be that higher self (“the will below the will below the will”) or does “the impulse to pursue the pleasure, purely for the pleasure” win out every time?
11. “Sin Imperial”
In a similar vein to “What’s Me?,” “Sin Imperial” is a song of faltering and philandering, but with maybe more self-awareness and therefore a great deal more guilt. But there’s also a little finger pointing in the chorus—a little adolescent excuse-making in the sentiment, “But you said not to call, and in my grief it feels like relief ’til tomorrow”—as if to say, “Well, what did you expect me to do? You cut off my access to you, the one who I really care about. Of course I was going to take up with these random temporary interests.” But the phrase “until tomorrow” denotes there will be a lust hangover full of guilt and depression and “what have I done?”
12. “Atreyu”
“Atreyu” sort of sticks out. It’s directed toward our man’s dog. A promise—now that it’s just the two of them, since their family has been severed—that they’ll be with each other until the very end. They’ll walk each other home. Outwardly, perhaps it made more sense to include in the track list when the working album title was “Papa and Marsie From Here on Out,” but it still feels like a big part of the story, which would be a shame to exclude. This is something not discussed often, one of the silent casualties of divorce: who takes the pets? The sudden secession of a human/pet connection is extremely traumatic for both pet and human. “Atreyu” is an assurance to the dog that even though he’s lost someone he loves dearly, our man will never leave his side.
13. “Versa Go!”
Sh’varim. We find our guy broken down on the side of the road in the snow and ice pleading desperately with his Jetta to “get us home! take me home!” But instead of bitterness over the overwhelming finality of his relatively newfound solitude, he’s understanding and remorseful (“I know I’m not a carnival”) and rooting his old love on (“Stall out Jetta, Versa go!”), acknowledging that perhaps his time has passed and this is her time to shine.
14. “Sending Out a Pamphlet”
The postscript. A scene that shows up in a small frame on the side while the credits are rolling. The dust has settled. We find our man desperately trying to reach out for some/any kind of romantic connection. His heart is leveled. His yearning is palpable, possibly embarrassing.
