Bartees Strange Finds Strength Amidst the Horror

During the first few weeks of the COVID-19 lockdown, I watched horror movies obsessively—at least one a night, and preferably films I’d never seen before. Dawn of the Dead, Rosemary’s Baby and The Wicker Man were my companions during a time in which the only certainty was uncertainty. I told everyone that I found these movies comforting because they reminded me that even though there was a deadly virus ravaging the world, at least there weren’t zombies trying to feast on my brain or a strange island community hell-bent on sacrificing me in order to salvage their harvest. But the secret reason why I was glued to the TV screen, which I felt embarrassed admitting to even myself, was that I considered them training. If things went wrong—like horror movie wrong—these films could make the difference between me becoming mincemeat or making it through as a blood-soaked final girl. And I’m hardly the first in this line of thought; Randy from Scream studied horror movies like they were academic texts, as does Jade Daniels from Stephen Graham Jones’ Angel of Indian Lake series. Oklahoma-raised artist Bartees Strange also sees these films as potential survival guides—as a queer Black man living in a country built on institutional racism, life can take a frightening turn in the blink of an eye. 

“You can’t hurt me, I been buried alive by the devil that’s in them hills,” Strange sings on the country-infused latter half of “Boomer,” from his acclaimed debut album Live Forever. There’s a resilience in his voice, but it’s hard-won; he explained in a Creative Independent interview that this part of the song was about growing up in Oklahoma and feeling “comfortable in your house, not outside.” Much of Strange’s new album, Horror, revisits that fight to feel strong in spite of overwhelming terror. He plumbs the depths of his fears—from racist violence to falling short in relationships—through the unexpected genre combinations that have become his calling card. Thematically, there’s a lot to chew on here, even if some of his sonic ideas feel more tired than those of previous releases. 

“Too Much” opens the album with promise, graduating from lackadaisical indie rock to noisy, confident rap as Strange embraces his own power. It’s one of the album’s catchiest songs—particularly the little “ooh ooh ooh ooh oohs”—while showcasing the Strange of it all, that effortless melding of genres and a perfect marriage of content and form. Much of Horror takes inspiration from the music he listened to growing up, and the following track “Hit It Quit It” in particular is inspired by Parliament Funkadelic. He invokes P-Funk mythology (the group’s ethos and space age storytelling woven throughout their albums) over rubbery grooves, casting himself as an interstellar traveler who’s crash-landed on our hostile planet: “Bitch I’m smokin, just came out the ocean / Drippin wet, black as jet, Bootsy n****a, I’m the potion.” The chorus is operatic and grandiose, reaching glorious levels of camp that match the drama of the lyrics, as Strange compels himself to rival the very Earth itself: “Become a planet, feel gravity bend towards you.” On these songs, he shows off his lyrical prowess while also creating challenging, fascinating melodies. 

Another highlight is “Wants Needs,” which finds Strange grappling with his need for an audience and anxieties around how fans perceive him. Luckily, with the guitar-driven yearning of this track, he doesn’t need to worry about us losing interest. Dynamic drums and deftly played guitar draw the listener to the dancefloor, and the unapologetic, glorious guitar solo near the end feels utterly earned. “Wants Needs” is the longest song on the album, but it doesn’t feel that way because it’s such a pulse-racing ride. 

However, not all of Horror’s tracks reach these heights. “Sober” tries to swing for the rafters, but ends up blustering. Produced by Strange alongside Jack Antonoff, Yves Rothman and Lawrence Rothman, much of its driving melody feels cheesy and overly familiar, the type of song you might skip past while scanning through stations on the radio. The screeching guitars and Strange’s earnest delivery of the proto-finale are worth the predictable build-up, but I wouldn’t blame the listener if they didn’t get that far. “17” similarly leads to a satisfying crescendo, but only after a slight snooze of a folksy melody. It’s not bad, but it just pales in comparison to the rest of Horror. The main downside to Strange’s chameleonic sound is that when something doesn’t quite land, it sticks out painfully in comparison to his more arresting moments.

On the whole, though, Horror delivers, as Strange reaches deep within his chest and proffers his heart, laying out all his vulnerabilities amidst an eclectic collage of funk, dance, country and even shades of noise rock. While his bombast is part of his appeal, he shines even in his quieter moments; pedal steel-adorned “Baltimore” follows Strange as he tries to find the perfect home and relatably confesses that “I’m thinking about the lives I don’t have.” All of his anxieties come to a head on the anthemic, country-meets-heartland-rock closer “Backseat Banton.” Will he be an observer, the titular “Backseat Banton?” Or, as he proposes, “should [he] grab the wheel and spin?” From the declarative, road trip-ready keys to his lithe vocal performance, I’d say it’s safe to say Strange has chosen the latter.

Clare Martin is a cemetery enthusiast and Paste’s associate music editor.