We're All Needed Here: the profound hopefulness of Lauren Auder's The Infinite Spine
More than two years on from her last EP, 5 Songs For The Dysphoric, and having already released two more, Lauren Auder has produced a masterwork in the form of her debut album. Where Who Carry's You from 2018, 2020's Two Caves In and that of 2021 had sown the seeds of an experimental and forward-thinking artist, The Infinite Spine evidences and embodies Auder's musical trajectory from the past, the present day and into the future; where stunning gems gleamed in her previous works, this venture shines flawlessly.
I had first heard her music - specifically that third EP, though the rest of her discography reached my ears soon after - while isolated amidst the UK's third lockdown. 5 Songs... came to my attention during a particularly pivotal and introspective time of my life, in which thoughts surrounding gender identity and incongruity dominated my mind. Tracks like Animal, Quiet and the Celeste-featuring Unseen didn't just speak to me, but seeped into my very bones.
For accompanying me throughout this period, as well as for simply being so beautifully and intricately crafted, I hold Lauren Auder's compositions in (righteously) high regard. Biased towards her music as I may be, rest assured that the opinions I have formulated in listening to this record have been purely in response to the many new sounds and lyrics I've absorbed and mulled over.
That said...I am completely and utterly enraptured by The Infinite Spine.
Nascent, dissonant flutes usher in Auder's subdued croon of 'I was born an open wound/that only suicide could sew up' in album opener '33 & golden'. A tension rising gradually as heavy bass intermingles with orchestral trills. Croons swiftly turning to guttural cries of 'I'm done with this body, I'm done with this skin' when the chorus takes to the fore. In the first of 12 songs, the listener is captured by a wave of emotion that has been carefully condensed into word and verse. Thus, they are introduced to a sensation this album provokes so frequently.
They're also exposed to one of several themes weaved into the record's fabric: the feeling of discomfort both in and that expressed by others towards oneself; a feeling those in the queer community are all too well acquainted with. This is implicit within references simultaneously applicable to the musician's physical troubles - she temporarily lost the use of her legs after two disks slipped from her spine in recent history - and so, one imagines that escapism into soundscapes and away from what was, at some points literally, a painful reality has been an essential respite for the artist.
Strife is another palpable element featuring in The Infinite Spine, as in the pounding '118-madonna,' wherein Auder 'had to grow an extra ear just to survive' - the stark and surreal imagery illustrative of the extent of her struggle - and subsequent track 'city in a bottle,' a piano-driven and synth-pop tune that poses the question as to whether transphobia, a 'cancer,' is 'born from man'. Floor-shaking banger 'the ripple,' in spite of its euphoric punchiness, tackles an equally troubling subject matter: 'give up on your personhood/hope it sends a ripple/give more than you ever should' pointing towards the lengths to which people are driven in order to quell their pain.
This collection of songs is nothing if not an album of contrasts, meaning that, as life is so wont to create strife, Lauren also reflects the hope that it can occasionally conjure up in the wake of such suffering. 'hawthorne81' depicts, through rising, industrial crunchiness and violently panned vocals, the musician's defiance against her and others' tormentors; declaring 'I won't sit by while they hoard us/won't let them do as they please'.
So does this back-and-forth between the two inextricable aspects of life continue as The Infinite Spine winds on, where the enthralling instrumental of 'equus,' underpinned by a dreamlike piano melody belies the darkness of lyrics like 'tear me limb from limb' and, in 'datta920,' Auder resides 'by the abyss' until the person to whom she directs this song 'can be alone' - a sentiment brimming with care, affection and a yearning for their improvement.
It is upon nearing the album's conclusion that the listener is faced with its most profound moments. Enlivening the eardrums in an instant, the anthemic 'we2assume2many2roles' looks out to the horizon: Lauren's velvet voice conveying catharsis in the line, 'if today I was haunted/tomorrow I'll be free'. 'being here (all my 48s)' is similarly grand - both compositionally and lyrically - and speaks of 'all you must slay...just to be here' in a raw reflection of life at its realest.
Closing track 'all needed here' serves as a heart-rendering and hopeful ending, fitting for such an all-encompassing body of work. With acoustic guitars, glockenspiels and harps cushioning her words, Auder embraces her listeners with a single utterance - 'we're all needed here' - and reassures them, perhaps alongside herself, with the wisdom that 'time heals me and therefore will heal others'. Be it a physical injury, or strained mental health, things will get better.
Isn't it funny, how quickly you can grow attached to something? It's been less than 48 hours since I acquainted myself with this record and, already, I'm wishing to go back to that first listen - to take in with astonishment The Infinite Spine's sheer depth, its creator's stunning lyricism (see every line in 'atoms') and vocal delivery that, evident in '730kingfisher,' fluctuates with ease from plaintive and quiet to desperately resonant.
Of course, these elements haven't just disappeared since that first listen - god knows this summer will be sick of hearing them by its end - but there was something overwhelming about experiencing, in the space of 40 minutes, how far Lauren Auder has come as a musician. As a person, too: it takes a lot for someone to feel able to utilise their experiences, not just in a creative manner, but in a way that seeks to help others with whatever they might be going through.
If you're reading up to this point and, for whatever ungodly reason, haven't yet heard The Infinite Spine, I implore you: listen to it. (And no excuses - I've linked it below this article.) You'll doubtlessly find other interpretations and reach different conclusions with this sprawling journey of a record, and so it should be: in my opinion, that's the joy of indulging in so subjective an art form as music.
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