Dear God, I Hate Myself

Professional athletes who manage lengthy careers fall into two broad categories. There are the All-Star level talents who quickly become the focal points of their respective franchises, the image of a team's public face, and the ambassador of team-fan relations. Those below that tier, who wish to remain employed for a decade or longer, carve out a niche for themselves by doing one specific, inimitable thing consistently and well. Som etimes a role player will fulfill their niche so well that they become indispensable talents in their own right — think of Ichiro Suzuki's maniacal propensity for base hits or Dennis Rodman's nose for rebounds — and eventually gain the recognition (and responsibility) that comes with stardom.

Xiu Xiu’s Jamie Stewart has always had an air of ridiculousness about him. With a quavering sad-sack voice that comes off as a cross between Edwyn Collins and Robert Smith of the Cure, Stewart is always crooning about his existential misery as if he’s about to collapse into a convulsive, blubbering heap. Reasonably by this point in the group’s career, we should just accept it as a characteristic quirk of the band’s sound. Still, Xiu Xiu’s new album Dear God, I Hate Myself constantly begs the question: is this guy serious?