Returning to Form: How the Heroic Cycle Continues to Shape Musical Legacies

The notion of a band or artist "returning to form" is really the same notion of the hero returning home. Said artist bursts out of the gate with a definitive mission-statement-of-an-album and proceeds to indulge "concepts" and maturity, typically yielding failed second and third albums or 180s from what they did so well in the first place.

Critics have bestowed a litany of titles on this pop/rock phenomenon that are equally cliché, the "sophomore slump" and this curious notion of "backlash," to name two, when really they are referring to the second act of what may in fact turn out to be a successful drama. Consider this: Once the hero has set out on his journey, he will inevitably get lost, thanks to a deadly combination of flawed character and a predetermined dramatic device the Greeks called "fate." A common flaw in the Odysseyan hero is hubris, and this same characteristic is no doubt omni-present in rock n' roll. That the hero (artist) should fail once dispatched from home is not only inevitable but arguably desirable, for failure quite literally "builds character." In the heroic cycle, failure and the accompanying humility bring about the internal change that will get the hero home.

This proposed framework for disseminating pop music is perhaps more vital to the critic than the artist, for it is the critic whose predisposition it is to apply frameworks to art in the first place. Should you ask the artist, he will tell you he has no interest or need labeling his art.

If there is one common trope the analytical community demands from the pop/rock artist it is progress, or at least the illusion of progress throughout their discography. It is for this reason that the artist appears to routinely under-perform on the second album; build too closely to the first structure and it's a cowardly venture. Wander too far from the nest and risk alienating the soothsayers. Thus, the critic not only decides the value of progress in general but how much progress.

The notion of a band or artist "returning to form" is really the same notion of the hero returning home. Said artist bursts out of the gate with a definitive mission-statement-of-an-album and proceeds to indulge "concepts" and maturity, typically yielding failed second and third albums or 180s from what they did so well in the first place.

Critics have bestowed a litany of titles on this pop/rock phenomenon that are equally cliché, the "sophomore slump" and this curious notion of "backlash," to name two, when really they are referring to the second act of what may in fact turn out to be a successful drama. Consider this: Once the hero has set out on his journey, he will inevitably get lost, thanks to a deadly combination of flawed character and a predetermined dramatic device the Greeks called "fate." A common flaw in the Odysseyan hero is hubris, and this same characteristic is no doubt omni-present in rock n' roll. That the hero (artist) should fail once dispatched from home is not only inevitable but arguably desirable, for failure quite literally "builds character." In the heroic cycle, failure and the accompanying humility bring about the internal change that will get the hero home.

This proposed framework for disseminating pop music is perhaps more vital to the critic than the artist, for it is the critic whose predisposition it is to apply frameworks to art in the first place. Should you ask the artist, he will tell you he has no interest or need labeling his art.

If there is one common trope the analytical community demands from the pop/rock artist it is progress, or at least the illusion of progress throughout their discography. It is for this reason that the artist appears to routinely under-perform on the second album; build too closely to the first structure and it's a cowardly venture. Wander too far from the nest and risk alienating the soothsayers. Thus, the critic not only decides the value of progress in general but how much progress.

One band that seems to have openly embraced this notion has just released one of the best albums of the year in You & Me. The Walkmen, whose third album A Hundred Miles Off has often been categorized as a "misstep" or crisis of identity, seem to have completed one cycle of the heroic journey with their fourth album, and they seem to have done with a trace of reverence to that cycle. That is, A Hundred Miles Off was an explicit road album that saw the band happily indulging in the depths of the second act, careening from the romantic nostalgia of "Louisiana" to the mania of "Lost in Boston" (note the geographical theme, as well). Of all the 00s rock revivalists, the Walkmen seemed to enjoy getting lost the most. Now it would appear that the heroes have returned. And they have some stories to tell.