The story of Preacher's Daughter begins in 1991, ten years after the death of Cain's father, the town preacher you can almost hear the Garth Brooks and Metallica wafting over from the neighbors' boombox. We meet our protagonist drunk on whiskey and crying in the football bleachers, and when she sings of the neighbor's brother coming home in a box, her voice is clear and pure - a '90s strain of angel. And it begins with a pump fake: "American Teenager," the most arena-ready song in Cain's arsenal, might have you picturing Preacher's Daughter as a moodboard for a certain "Don't Tread On Me" splendor: Budweiser, NASCAR, purple mountain majesties. Anhedönia's been piecing the concept album together since she was 19 (she's now 24), culling what was initially a 2 1/2 hour project down to a modest 76 minutes - her life's work as Ethel so far. Since that first EP in 2019, she's blossomed from Soundcloud unknown to mid-sized cult favorite, a pop star who seems to abhor fame and rejects the advice of Dr. Heaven and hell are places on Earth in Ethel Cain's discography: three EPs worth of harrowing dream-pop that set the tone for her full-length opus, Preacher's Daughter, released earlier this month through her label Daughters of Cain, an imprint of the publishing company Prescription Songs. (I wonder whether Anhedönia - a gorgeous name for the inability to feel pleasure - has read O'Connor's story "A Good Man Is Hard to Find," in which an escaped convict known as "The Misfit" concludes, after murdering a devout Christian family: "It's no real pleasure in life.") The screenplay practically writes itself: the brutal morality of a Southern gothic novel meets the seductive nihilism of Spring Breakers. Songs like " A House in Nebraska" spewed out - a 7 1/2-minute power dirge about doomed lovers on a dirty mattress, alone in the heart of God's country. What followed was a blackout period of dysphoria, hard drugs and bleak electronic music under a few aliases when the idea for Ethel Cain arrived, it may as well have been divine intervention. after high school, she felt like the last girl alive at the end of the horror film. When she told her mother she was gay, all hell broke loose: "Everyone thought I was a freak," she recalled in a recent interview.
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churchgoer who seems, though not yet dead, post-alive.Īnhedönia grew up homeschooled in a small town on the Florida panhandle, a Southern Baptist community where "pop culture" meant Gregorian chants, evangelist Billy Graham and the occasional gruesome true crime show on her grandparents' TV. The name evokes biblical murders, pinched American Gothic-type faces and the kind of ancient 5 a.m. You can picture her there, haloed in dusty sunbeams and dressed like Laura Ingalls Wilder with stick-and-pokes, writing long and crushing ballads that feel, to borrow the words of writer Flannery O'Connor: "Christ-haunted." Anhedönia makes these songs as Ethel Cain, a persona that possessed her, more or less, just after her 20th birthday, when she publicly came out as trans.
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Army post, or in rural Indiana, where she once made an abandoned 19th century church her home. I bet Hayden Anhedönia has passed a hundred billboards like these, driving her truck barefoot around southern Alabama, where she currently lives with her sister near a U.S.
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Now when I see those evangelist billboards - warning drivers that " HELL IS REAL" from the side of the Midwestern interstate, studded between casinos and sex shops and prisons - I think, "Well, of course: it's right here." But the problem is that hell is also on Earth." I'm not usually one for pondering the hereafter, but the sentiment struck me as true. Months later, they get a matter-of-fact reply: "Yes, on Earth. "So heaven does exist!" comments one user on the song, whatever it was.
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I came upon it years ago, underneath a video for a song I no longer recall I consider it now as arcane wisdom passed down to me like an heirloom, which I keep in the screenshots folder on my desktop. List of relevant XXX searches xxx sex XXX.There's this YouTube comment I think about sometimes.