“Burn It Down” is part of a penultimate three-song suite in which Ratboys are at their most ambitious, each track exceeding five minutes, each arranged so that their structures shift like bends in a road. “What’s Right?” shares the journeying feeling of “Black Earth, WI,” though it’s a little more enervated, trying to shake off that thing it can’t stop thinking about. A great deal of the music on Singin’ to an Empty Chair feels engineered for a road trip to nowhere, where the place you’re driving toward looks identical to the one you just left, and your thoughts migrate to half-asleep regions they wouldn’t ordinarily go. Nothing resolves, just reels outward as far as you can see.
This is where “What’s Right?” ends up in its second half; as a corresponding chord change darkens the sky, Steiner’s lyrics sleepwalk into a dream state where she meets parts of herself that resist understanding. “My subconscious is a man,” she sings, “He softly says to me/‘I’ll vanish when you need me to/I’ll hold you when you sleep.’” As in a dream, the lyrics resist literal sense, even though they seem to say something about reality that is otherwise inexpressible: “Break all your concentration/Love yourself/End these thoughts of desperation/Embrace Hell.”
The record’s emotional core is located in a far more domestic scene, though it’s no less given to sudden traumatic shifts: “Just Want You to Know the Truth,” addressed to a family member from whom Steiner is estranged, depicts their evolving and devolving relationship in broken fragments of memory, some warm, some lonely and confused, all of them insufficient to explain what’s happened. “If I told you I was OK/Well, that would have been a lie/So I blocked your telephone/Without sayin’ goodbye,” Steiner sings, distorted guitars growing over the song like weeds over something demolished. “Well, it’s not what you did/It’s what you didn’t do.”
In “Just Want You to Know the Truth,” Steiner imagines sitting across from this person and telling them everything she’s feeling. Last year, not long after a breakup, I found myself on the couch in my living room, monologuing to the air in front of me, where I imagined my ex sitting and listening. I told the air things I didn’t know my ex would ever get to hear, things I might’ve decided not to tell her anyway. I cried. My behavior may have alarmed my roommates. But in the midst of this outpouring, I realized, several months before we actually reconnected, that my ex and I would be friends, that this would be a new kind of intimacy for us, and its newness would make our connection mysterious and exciting again.
To encounter this approach on Singin’ to an Empty Chair a year after I’d tried it myself, this lonely reckoning with the unknowability of others and the difficulty and pain in trying to repair relationships, staggered me a little. Are we all trying this hard to restore something we’ve lost? Inside are we just empty houses haunted by the people we used to know? Singin’ to an Empty Chair offers the encouraging thought that there’s something worthy and worthwhile in trying, in reaching out, even if it’s just you alone in your living room, talking to your memory of them.
