'Lianne La Havas' guides us through the journey of heartbreak
Reflections on moving, self-acceptance, and new beginnings
In less than a week, I will leave D.C for my childhood bedroom in New York. Every day, since deciding to move, I’ve removed a single piece of furniture or decor from my apartment; objects I cherry picked to make this tiny box my own. On my last day of work, I removed the stolen street signs taped above my T.V. The next day, the Kanagawa wave tapestry hanging above my bed came down. The day after, my desk disappeared. My bed frame, shitty plastic chairs that annihilated my back, and my maps followed suit. After peeling the final map off the wall, I took a couple steps back and stared at the blank canvas, a poignant undoing of my own creation. “This is it,” I told myself as I gazed into the void. “This is the end.”
I don’t know what literal heartbreak feels like, but its underlying principle is pervasive. Heartbreak is a symptom of severance, a relationship you poured your heart and soul into coming to an end, whether abrupt or expected.
To some extent, I am going through my own special kind of heartbreak. I am grieving the loss of an apartment I called home for a year, a relationship to the epicenter of American political power I built from scratch. I lost a part of myself to an unforgiving city I gave my everything to, and it all began when I moved into an unfurnished 170 -square foot room. Never did I possess full control over the architecture of my life until I moved to DC, and so I reveled in the freedom of design. The possibilities of what my life post-college could look like seemed endless, even if that manifested as solo trips to IKEA.
Lianne La Havas’ self-titled third album ‘Lianne La Havas’ maps out the contours of heartbreak that I, and those who have faced a particular kind of loss, can relate to. Mixing folk with R&B — lyrics imbued with vulnerability and introspection — ‘Lianne La Havas’ is an intimate exploration of La Havas’ breakup with her ex-boyfriend. From beginning to end, listeners bear witness to La Havas’ journey towards self-acceptance in real-time. It is a 52 minute reckoning with loss, conveyed through catchy rhythms and sorrowful melodies that package emotional distress into a groovy sonic experience. It follows music writer and poet Hanif Abdurraqib’s definition of the heartbreak album, that “Most breakup albums have an end point.” “Some triumph, a reward or promise about how some supposed emotional resilience might pay off.”
‘Lianne La Havas’ could not have come out at a more convenient time. It was released in late July, when I impulsively decided to quit my job during an economic crisis in search of new beginnings.
Confused and torn over my decision to leave, Bittersweet — the first track of the album — encompasses this dilemma. “No more hanging around / Now my sun’s goin’ down,” she repeats in each verse, “Tellin’ me that something isn’t right, something isn’t right.” She’s become cognizant of the fault lines in her relationship, a self-awareness I denied every time I considered my relationship to D.C.
Bittersweet is followed by Read My Mind, a brief throwback to the memory of falling in love. “So right, I could make a baby tonight,” she sings. “Throw my life away / I’ll die another day.” She is intoxicated by infatuation, eager for the relationship to flourish as she decries “What you waiting, what you waiting for?” throughout the chorus. It reminds me of the initial excitement that enveloped me when I received a job offer in the city, a pull towards an aspirational future that once looked bright and promising.
Read My Mind transitions into Green Papaya, a track that articulates the emergence of sexual tension. Green papayas are known for its aphrodisiac powers, the embodiment of La Havas’ blooming sexuality. “I’m greedy with love, but my hunger to give is strong enough,” she sings. “Mm, take me home / let’s make real love, real love.” La Havas is floored with lust, a feeling that once mirrored my burning desire to make something of myself in a lonely place.
While the first three songs of the album ooze passion and love, the next song Can’t Fight reminds us that this is, in fact, a heartbreak album. Can’t Fight emblematizes the moment La Havas notices something off in her relationship. Despite the gravity of the lyrics, she treats the song with brightness and levity, layering the track with distorted guitar riffs accompanied with a subtle melodic beat. “I knew that I should give you up / I tried to run but got my heart stuck,” she casually laments. “I can’t fight away this love.” This is the moment she wonders what went wrong, the moment I began to critically interrogate my D.C experience.
La Havas’ state of emotional unease is more deeply explored in Paper Thin, where her fears and insecurities over the viability of the relationship arise. The song begins with “Paper thin / You understand the pain I’m in,” the start of a serious conversation she has with her partner. She becomes weary whether he really loves her or not, as she is “Slippin’ in and out of such confidence and overwhelming doubt.” However, she refuses to let their issues obstruct their love, whispering “So let me love you / I just want to love you”. It’s this juncture of uncertainty that pulls your consciousness in opposite directions as your mind desperately searches for answers that may not exist. It is a form of mental torture I inflicted onto myself while I spent days in my head agonizing over the pros and cons of living in D.C, a place I never felt like I belonged to. Despite my countless attempts to rationalize my ambivalence for the city, my efforts were to no avail. I felt stuck, wondering, as La Havas does, if “There must be another key.”
La Havas’ concerns over the future of her relationship reaches its peak in Out Of Your Mind. The interlude is a one minute cacophony of sound where she wistfully repeats “Hey, out of your mind / you’re out of your mind, now,” in rapid succession until the track fades into a cover of Radiohead’s Weird Fishes. Triumphant in sound and confident in its lyricism, La Havas surrenders to the fight. She waves her white flag in the air, soulfully asking herself ‘Why should I stay here? Why should I stay?” It resembles the brutal acceptance of loss, reflecting my own realization that my time in D.C has run its course. I, too, got “..eaten by the worms and weird fishes,” in a relationship that chewed on my body and spit me out every time I gave it a chance.
The last four tracks of the album walk us through the moment we’ve all been expecting — the breakup. Although her partner succumbs to the end of the relationship, La Havas continues to negotiate its terms, asking him to “Stay for me, my heart on your sleeve / Tread carefully and I’ll never leave.” But the relationship is irreparable. In Seven Times, La Havas is fully aware of his flaws, finally accepting that she cannot fix him. “You didn’t pay your rent / So I guess you’ll be leaving,” she sings. “You made promises that you won’t be keeping.”
Now officially single, La Havas’ sings about post-breakup loneliness in Courage. Written in 10 minutes, La Havas’ overwhelming grief effortlessly spills out in lyrics that reflect a yearning for the past. She wallows in the memory he’s left behind, fervently singing “I can’t resist your spell.” She’s defeated, desperate for help but with nobody there to save her from herself. “Courage, save me somehow,” she implores. “This is the only way out.” It’s the post-breakup moment we dread the most, a surreal block of time that leaves you unprepared to be left to your own devices. As I close this chapter of my life, a new door opens. Except, what’s behind that door is a mystery. Like La Havas, all I can do is pray that I have the courage to make it to the other side.
La Havas’ journey of self-discovery comes to a hopeful end in the final seven minute track Sour Flower. She reaches an emotional breakthrough, acknowledging that she is stronger and better off without him. “No more looking out for someone else but me,” she purports with a gentle self-assurance in the first verse. “I’m done settling for so much less than I knew I deserved.” As the song progresses, she becomes more confident, the instrumentals and vocals ascending in volume and instrumental texture. It culminates into a powerful chorus struck by 20/20 vision, as La Havas sings “When I’m hot, when I’m blue / I’m not crying over you,” at the top of her lungs. She may be hurt and alone, but she finds solace knowing that everything will be alright. “I have been waiting for the fog to drift away,” she sighs with a breath of relief. “Letting the light in, now I’m getting strong every day.” It’s time to move on, and she is ready to take that leap.
It is this reckoning of the self that renders breakups a powerful force for change. Whether you’re ending a relationship with a significant other, or are forgoing a place you’ve become deeply intertwined with, the clarity you acquire from navigating loss is invaluable. A breakup may leave you feeling broken and demoralized, but it can also empower you to move forward. I am trying my best to manifest the latter.
As I clear the apartment of its final possessions that once made the space distinctly my own, I countdown the days to the beginning of my new life. While I don’t know what that will look like, ‘Lianne La Havas’ reassures me that things will turn out okay. Heartbreak is difficult, but like La Havas sings, I am “Running my own show .. dancing on my own as hard as it may be.”