When Phosphorescent released “Song for Zula,” the lead single off of his new album Muchacho, back in January, it seemed like Matthew Houck had begun the transition from the grimy, heart-breaking, country anthems of Here’s to Taking it Easy, to an ethereal nether-world where he could lick his wounds and ponder his next move. This transition is made even more apparent now that we have access to all of Muchacho and can see that “Song for Zula” is, indeed, just the first step in Houck’s attempt to reclaim the parts of him seemingly stolen away by world sickness and heartache.

The album begins with a song called “Sun Arise (An Invocation, An Introduction)” and ends with a song called “Sun’s Arising (A Koan, An Exit).” The songs are extremely similar lyrically, both speaking of a “sun a-rising” and brightening Houck’s "dark" surroundings. The songs are also similar musically, with “Sun Arise” containing echoes of the pulsating bass and floating snyths from “Song for Zula;” an immediate prelude to that song’s surreal landscape.

The two “Sun” songs are obviously meant to serve as thematic bookends to the album, with the “Introduction” serving as an “invocation” and the “Exit” serving as a “koan.” An invocation is a summons, most often used in a religious sense. It’s a call, or a prayer, offered up to some higher being, requesting assistance. This makes sense as a way to begin this album as on “Song for Zula” Houck certainly sounds like he needs help. Left weakened and debilitated by love, he seems to be looking for anything to reinvigorate his “wild heart” and his “bones of steel” so he can “kill you with his bare hands once he’s set free.”



The very next song, “Ride On/Right On,” sounds as if it might almost be a prequel to “Song for Zula;” a glimpse into the narrator’s life prior to his heartbroken downfall. Here, Houck is noticeably more upbeat and confidant and the song itself sounds like it was made to “ride” to, with hand-claps and a steady bass line in the front and a non-stop noodling electric guitar in the back seat. The play on words between “ride” and “right” seems to be an indication that “riding on,” or, “moving forward,” and getting “turned right on,” is the “right” thing for Houck to do at this juncture. There’s a willingness here to “go,” somewhere, anywhere, and see what life might have to offer.

On “Terror In The Canyons (The Wounded Master),” however, we get the indication that that urge to “go” might be on the heels of a relationship that’s falling apart. Throughout the song, Houck plays with the idea of trading places between a powerful position and a passive one: “see, I was the wounded master, oh then I was the slave.” Like "Under My Thumb" in reverse, the narrator isn't just losing his grasp on love, he’s going from being its domineer to its subject, which is perhaps a subtle suggestion that the submissive state he finds himself in is somewhat deserved. Houck evinces his awareness of this role reversal through eminently humble lines such as “but you’re telling me my heart’s sick, and I’m telling you I know” and “you’re telling me you’re leaving, and I’m telling you to go.” As a “wounded” former master, Houck apparently at least has the shame to be honest with himself as a newly christened “victim.”


“A Charm/A Blade,” however, appears to present something of a “last straw” situation. Apparently still speaking to the same person who Houck instructed “to go” in the last song, he seems to be looking to make a final break here, singing: “dress me down in a New York crowd, lay me down and bawl me out, tell me everything’s been sold, tell me everything, I’ll go.” We've heard a lot of threats about “going” up until this point but the narrator’s true feelings seem to be betrayed when he pleads: “this can’t be what you want” and then meekly tells his mate to “cut my heart, but do it fast.” In the end “there’s a lot in the way” that’s kept him from leaving, but it seems certain that it’s a foregone conclusion at this point. Whether it’s from a person, or a place, or feeling, sometimes an escape is a necessity.

“Muchacho’s Tune” is the centerpiece of the album and, perhaps, its thematic compass. Houck has made reference to much of the album having been inspired by a trip to Mexico and that’s evident here on this Spanish-titled track and the back half of the album, which skews more toward the sandy drunkenness of "Zula."

Houck begins by referencing Mott the Hoople’s “Roll Away the Stone” seemingly as extremely personal evidence of just how low and nostalgic of a place he has found himself. Fame and fortune have “cauterized his veins” but the focus here is on self-improvement: “fixing himself up to come and be with you." One of the most interesting lines here, however, is a reference to a “whelp without his horns.” In other words: a fawn, or a young man, or, in Spanish, a “muchacho.” It’s a relatively fitting word for a man who’s made some mistakes and is looking to re-invent himself by taking a trip south of the border.

On “A New Anhedonia,” there’s still some work to do on that front, however. Houck calls out to the wind, “o now cousin, hej, what’s happened to me?” before delivering the line: “all of the pleasures now avoiding me, all of the new music now boring to me.” Anhedonia is one of the major symptoms of depression and basically means the “the inability to feel pleasure.” Unfortunately, this “prayer in the wind” to feel something again is only answered by the album’s darkest and strongest song, “Quotidian Beasts.”


The word “quotidian,” though no longer often used, means “every day” or “daily.” The “every day beast” that the narrator is grappling with seems to be some sort of clawed, female, depression-monster whose early-morning arrival is an inevitability. The narrator, at first, seems ready to fight it off, stating: “it’s you that took your claws, you slipped them under my skin, there’s parts that got outside, honey, I want to put them back in.” These “parts” are likely those essential to internal happiness but by the end of the song, with the “beast” back upon him, the narrator is already thinking “it wasn't so bad”: either a resignation or an acceptance, and probably a little of both.

The last proper song on the album is called “Down To Go,” a final ode to the necessity of escapism recalled throughout the album. Here, Houck also delivers a brilliant meta-dialogue that perfectly explains what we've just been listening to: “you say, ‘oh you’ll spin your heartache into gold.’ And I suppose, but it rips my heart out, don’t you know?” The second person is making a statement that’s clear to us at this point: whatever depression, world weariness or heartache Matthew Houck might have felt, he probably wouldn't have been able to make such a gripping, compelling album without it. As he wryly observes, however, if one wants to spin the pain in their heart into gold, they’ll need to remove it from their chest first. Such a level of self-examination has its costs and you’re probably going to see a lot of things you don’t like very much.

The album ends on a hopeful note though: a “koan.” A koan is basically an unsolvable riddle or fable, meant to provoke reflection. (I.e. what is the sound of one hand clapping?) Given the thematic bookends mentioned earlier, it might have been obvious to start with a sunrise and end with a sunset. Instead, the album starts with a sunrise… and ends with a sunrise. Houck's koan seems to ask: if you see the sun rise, then spend a whole day (or album) reflecting on love and life and movement and depression, then see the sun rise again, can you be sure that the sun ever really went down in the mean time?