DEATH BY DR. GOOGLE
On the reevaluation of mortality and accountability, surviving year long psychosis, and giving hyperpop a chance
hypochondriac review, by a hypochondriac.
Few seconds to half an hour. According to most research, that’s the duration on average. Similar to what some algorithm-friendly pop albums do, it should reach its peak within the first ten minutes. Then, just the way it started, it’s gone. Fade-out, a solo off of Continuum.
Every single person who has experienced a panic attack has also gone through the motions of googling it. “Sharp sudden chest pain”? “panic attack how long last?????” Most importantly, Dr. Goog, “howw thefuck do i stop it?!!!” Affirmations videos? White noise? Breathing instructions?? DIY Exorcism??!
I used to scroll Healthline.com feeling a rabid sense of jealousy towards those who experienced it the way Google explained it. My symptoms were lacking in linearity, no climax as promised by the online diagnosis. It took a whole year for my first ever panic attack to start wearing off, though it never entirely did. Part of me knows it will linger forever as a semi-psychotic altered state of being. The first time I allowed myself to scour the Internet for answers about myself was also the time I allowed it to convince me I had testicular cancer.
Every bump was leukemia. Every cough was tuberculosis. Every stroll outside was a race to the hospital bed. Then, there simply came a point where the chronic sense of embarassment became stronger than the hypochondria, plus the cocktail of acupuncture + meds + cognitive behavioral therapy + all those herbal concoctions became real heavy real quick on my student finances. I made sure I learned to bottle the feeling up, save the quirk for special occasions of solitude instead of calling the ambulance on myself with a more rigorous weekly cadence than a Serie A stan calling pizza delivery on Saturdays.
I never really overcame health anxiety, not when COVID gradually peaced out from TV, not when I MRI scanned my insides for the tenth time, not when I survived the benzo addiction-induced brainzaps that come with quitting cold turkey. The time came when the thought of actually dying became more reassuring than the idea of giving my mom / my psych degree friend / my poor unfortunate then-boyfriends / the random lady at the supermarket one more speech explaining how i was definitely about to.
And while I never did die, that shit most definitely killed my 21 and 22 year old self: aggravated murder of relationships, family dynamic, aspirations and passions. Death of the comforting knowledge of being capable.
There has been lots of talk across centuries surrounding the tragic burden of being sick in the head, from Goethe’s Die Leiden des jungen Werthers to Vincent Van Gogh to Creep by Radiohead. Similarly, most people are familiar with the devastating effects of physical illness, or so i hope.
Like, we knowww. It sucks. But was there ever anyone who dared talk about how obnoxious you can allow yourself to become in the process? Probably, but brakence said it exactly the way and the second I needed to hear it.
And yeah, it may have something to do with the fact he’s an Internet zoomer who kinda resembles Jesus. But also, his second LP hypochondriac is one of the few to say the h word and mean it. Art wise, brakence was the first hyperpop-glitchcore artist who instead of making me stand awkwardly from afar going “awwww, look at the youth expressing themselves” actually got me enunciating it: holy shit, I get it. He is exactly like me, for real.
Granted, I didn’t entirely get it at first. The first single i heard, caffeine, was layered to the point of neurotic intricacy and the tingle-triggering use of samples felt overly stimulating. But there was an intrigue to the perfectionist chaos and the bleep-bloops. Plus there were some stunning midwest-emo inspired guitar riffs, so I had to give more songs a try.
First impression one full listen in: despite his tenor croon and heaven-sent rNb runs, brakence still kinda comes off… whiny as fuck?
Current impression, a million listens in: was that the whole point?
How do you think a digital native, 21 year old from Ohio using Logic (the software) to come to terms with his shortcomings and ego complex, battling a conflicting sexuality and perpetual intrusive thoughts about dying would sound like? Turns out it sounds a lot like my internal monologue when I was going through that same shit.
Two things strike me the most about the first half of hypochondriac:
1) The way you can move through it without realizing it was a succession of immaculate transitions between songs and not just one massive first act.
2) brakence’s capability of coming across equal parts unbearably cocky and heartbreakingly insecure.
Isn’t that just gifted weird kid behavior, knowing you’re smart and not being able to shut the fuck up about it, because that’s all you have? While I cannot really vibe to lyrics like Why you wanna link, I'd rather finger-fuck strings / And I don't know how to be a lust king, I can surely relate to that sentiment.
Those lyrics are off of bugging, an opener which familiarizes you with the glitchy layers that carry the entire thing like a safety net. Medical lingo is already being sprinkled over talks of toxicity and ego: going so fast he tears a ligament, being so great his beat causes concussions. First it’s a tight, braggadocious verse over 808s, then it’s a syrupy guitar twinkle. There’s the age old dilemma: are those heart flutters actual butterflies or a primal indicator that you should run?
As the golden triad of songs venus fly trap / teeth / intellectual greed mark the all time high of the album in terms of catchyness, the bits that perhaps weren’t supposed to feel too meaningful start hitting harder than the actual tear jerkers.
I’m not sure what it is about brakence’s constant try-harding that moves me so deeply, how motivated his attempt to convince the listener that he may be young, but look, he has mastered the craft, he may actually be the best within his niche (spoiler: he is). He may be terminally alone, but it doesn't matter, you don’t need people when the internet has already taught you everything about the world, he screams in the math-rocky intellectual greed.
Venus fly trap is the radio hit of a hopeless perfectionist who, halfway through the album, you will witness giving up on perfect, progressively succumbing to the pressure, and finally writing the sad song you wanted out of him, like the absolute people pleaser he was all along.
Like all of us high-functioning tormented folks, brakence isn’t all that great at putting on the all-knowing lone wolf act for too long. He may take an upper and feel invincible and write a drill-emo-sturdy rager like 5g, just to prove he can. He may take a downer and chill out for a while, basking in solitude trying to convince himself, going “I don't need supervision / I'm ballin' with no provisions /I'ma be a musician, I'ma fuck up my life / And that's why no one cares for me” in the groovy, soul-healing cbd. But it’s only a matter of time before the spiral catches up on the songwriting, and the author gives in.
Argyle marks the beginning of the oversharing portion of the album, with the last of the twinkly guitars and trap-influenced beats coming through, leaving space for pianos, orchestrals and huge electronic cocktails of glitch and.. Why am i crying to tasteful dubstep? Even if up until this point you still thought of brakence as some braggy theater kid-turned emo rapper, the closing stretch deepfake / introvert / hypochondriac spins the album into a gorgeous singer-songwriter experience.
Hypochondriac is a proficiency exercise from someone who sleeps too little and overthinks to his death. It’s an album about feeling gaslit by doctors, betrayed by friends, replaced by lovers. Sucking at handling stress and criticism, wanting to sock the next person who suggests “lots of sunlight and hitting the gym”.
Hypochondriac is an album, it is also a label I hardly ever use on myself anymore. That’s how it made the unshakeable belief that I was going to die in a month less embarassing and easier to wrap my head around.
I awkwardly stand from afar looking back at 21 year old me, the way I do with hyperpop: you don’t get it now, but you will.