There’ll be some people here who couldn’t care less, but in the hope it resonates with some, I thought I’d share a short piece I wrote about my feelings about the band 3 years on fromago the allegations:
On the eve of Arcade Fire’s 2022 world tour, I was approached by a Sky News journalist for my thoughts on the Pitchfork article that had surfaced a couple of days earlier. Already in Dublin, having flown out that afternoon, my queasiness turned to anger, turned to disgust, turned to numbing sadness. I wrestled with whether I should go to the show the next day. More shockingly, to my 14-year-old self who’d fallen in love with the band thanks to their televised set at Glastonbury 2007, I didn’t think I even wanted to go.
Sexual misconduct allegations against rockstars are nothing new. Since the birth of guitar bands, the phrase “sex, drugs and rock’n’roll” has done more than its share of heavy lifting when it comes to transforming power imbalances into laissez-faire “boys will be boys” eye rolling. Still, this was the kind of thing that happened with other people’s favourite bands, wasn’t it? Never in a million years did it occur to me that the frontman of such an outwardly socially, morally, and politically conscious music family affair would abuse his position in such a way.
Now, Win Butler yelling “A woman’s right to choose, forever and ever. Amen!” at the end of the band’s SNL performance in May of the same year felt, at best, like pre-emptive management of a narrative he knew was going to catch up with him down the road. At worst, it felt like support for something that could further absolve him of any responsibilities, as fans of the band reflected on the crusade of extra-marital affairs and alleged coercive behaviour he’d been waging behind the scenes.
This blurring of the lines between sensitive, moral arbiter and cynical manipulator was furthered by Win’s response to the allegations. A disasterclass in crisis management, hastily assembled by infamous PR guru Risa Heller, saw Win suggest his conduct may have partly been influenced by depression brought on by his wife and bandmate, Regine Chassagne’s miscarriage. For her part, Regine responded by echoing Win’s assertion that “he has never, and would never, touch a woman without her consent”. While this unified, backs-to-the-wall stance offered a mirage of the us-against-the-world attitude that had made the band’s live performances swell with electric catharsis, there was also something concerning about reading a woman’s staunch defence of her husband’s allegedly coercive and manipulative behaviour.
In the end, I attended the show in Dublin. I’d celebrated the band’s shock success at the 2011 Grammys, and passionately defended their billing as 2014 Glastonbury headliners in debate with university classmates. Having been front and centre at shows during their peak, I now, despite my uneasiness, felt an almost journalistic intrigue in witnessing a less savoury milestone in Arcade Fire’s history.
Standing in Dublin’s 3Arena, as songs that meant so much took on new meaning, I looked at the crowd around me. Though the atmosphere in the venue before the show had been oddly muted, save for a rare, yet timely and beautiful rendition from Feist of A Man is Not His Song, there was no doubt that the vast majority of the crowd were fully supportive of the band. I baulked at, though was admittedly envious of, the mental gymnastics of those there who’d so quickly separated Win’s actions from his music, or perhaps had never paid much mind to the news in the first place.
I asked myself to what extent those enjoying the show were also victims of Win’s charisma, and whether it was conceivable that his defiant showmanship, in light of the allegations, could have tangible, insidious effects on an audience lapping up his performance.
After leaving the show, my partner at the time told me that a man standing behind us in the crowd had groped her. She hadn’t wanted to tell me when it happened as she hadn’t felt safe to do so.
I had my answer.
I never replied to the request from Sky for a chat about my feelings regarding the accounts and allegations laid bare in Pitchfork’s exposé. Partly, this was because I knew this story wasn’t mine to tell, even in some small part. As much as I felt betrayed, I also blamed myself for feeling that way because I’d allowed my immense love of Arcade Fire’s art to transgress into a parasocial love of the artist. My discomfort and shock were nothing compared to the pain felt by the people brave enough to come forward with their stories.
I also didn’t reply because I didn’t exactly know how I felt. I knew I felt a weight, but it’s taken the best part of three years to put a name to its constituent parts. Three years of having Arcade Fire blocked on Spotify. Three years of apologising for zoning out and feeling a lump in my throat when unexpectedly hearing No Cars Go on the radio during dinner. Three years of ignoring the Power’s Out-inspired lightning bolt tattoo on my wrist.
I’m aware that the last paragraph sounds dramatic. It’s even vaguely comical that a grown adult in his 30s could feel such a strong connection to a band that their self-imposed downfall could affect him to the extent it did me. But I’m also aware that I’m not alone in having so readily and happily pinned countless emotions to Arcade Fire’s soaring choruses and evocative instrumentation. I highly doubt that I’m the only fan struggling to make sense of the situation; sometimes wishing I never had to think about the band again, and sometimes wishing I could flick a switch and let go of my moral hang-ups.
The late naughties and 2010s are littered with bands that tried to ape the stomp and holler emotional exorcism of Funeral and Neon Bible. Other artists have taken inspiration from The Suburbs’ scene-setting and storytelling. But more than their musical ability and stagecraft, what’s separated Arcade Fire from the rest of the indie landscape for so long has been their ability to combine the thematic with sincerity.
In 2022, the dark irony that a songwriter who’d spent half his career writing earnest songs warning about the encroaching danger of modern life and technology was now releasing mobile screenshots of conversations with his alleged victims was not lost on me.
Three years later, with the release of the band’s 7th studio album, Pink Elephant, I found myself, more than anything, hoping that they had somehow found a way to not only reclaim that sincerity but use it as a power for good - that somewhere along the way they could demonstrate that Win’s ademance that “ I can do better and I will do better” wasn’t just empty, cookie-cutter, platitudes.
Instead, this album release has been dominated by silence. Hunkered down in their New Orleans recording studio, Win and Regine have neither offered nor accepted any interviews, instead communicating to their fans via the nauseatingly named Circle of Trust app.
The album itself, released on May 9th to mainly mixed (read: “poor” to “meh”) reviews, is a strange beast, to the extent that I’m not entirely sure who it’s for and just what its purpose is. The notion of a pink elephant is most closely tied to ironic process theory - the idea that once someone mentions a pink elephant, it’s impossible not to think about a pink elephant - even if pink elephants have never crossed your mind before.
On the surface, this is a typically Arcade Fire decision insofar that the title is clever, yet laced with a charming pretentiousness. However, upon listening, it feels as though despite conceding that the listener is unable to engage with the album outside of the context of the allegations, Win’s lyrics flirt with flippancy and, sometimes, downright grossness.
Since he took to simply listing the days of the week in 2017’s Signs of Life, it’s been fairly widely acknowledged that Butler’s abilities as a wordsmith probably peaked on The Suburbs. Still, given the opportunity that the new record offered him to demonstrate genuine contrition and growth, nothing can quite prepare the listener for the sound of a 45-year-old man interrupting a textually delicate song otherwise dominated by his wife’s vocals, to proclaim “I’m a real boy / My heart’s full of love / It’s not made out of wood” on Year of the Snake.
Meanwhile, a lover’s desire to “make new constellations from your permanent scars” on I Love Her Shadow feels - much like Butler’s closing statement in the crisis management press release - to be merely a shallow nod towards the desire for personal growth for as long as the band refuse to confront the situation head on. Identifying the fact there’s a pink elephant in the room and that it’s impossible to ignore is one thing - demonstrating you’re actively trying to do something about it is another.
Is Win’s plea to the audience to “take your mind off me” on the eponymous track an attempt to give doubting listeners licence to enjoy the song for what it is - the type of slow burning, shoegazing ballad I’ve ironically found my self drawn towards as I’ve looked to fill the Arcade Fire-shape hole in my listening habits? Is it said out of the hope that everybody can move on with their lives and forget the whole thing, albeit briefly? Is it an order or a request? I’m not sure, and I don’t think he is either. For what it’s worth, despite myself, there were some moments while listening to Pink Elephant that reminded me why I loved Arcade Fire in the first place. The rousing build-ups and beautiful chord progressions may be buried deep under sometimes muddy production and even murkier morality, but they’re there. I challenge any fan of the band, no matter their personal opinion on the shift towards this album’s electronic, lo-fi sound, to not feel something that resembles their favourite memories of Arcade Fire’s pomp, as they listen to the closing third of Stuck in my Head.
But still, while Butler yells “I’ll clean up this bedroom, clean up this head”, over a deafening and arrestingly passionate crescendo, I couldn’t believe him. Admittedly, there’s a big part of me that wishes I could, but everything around this record and the band at the moment feels to be part of a bizarre, and ultimately pointless, magic trick whereby the context is simultaneously acknowledged, skirted around and completely ignored. Pink elephants indeed.
This said, should you, or anyone else reading this, find yourself perfectly capable of wholly enjoying the band’s music despite the situation, I honestly don’t blame you. As mentioned above, I’m envious of you. Life is too short, and profits from Spotify plays too low, not to find what joy you can in things. Over the course of the two or so hours it’s taken to write this piece, I’ve asked myself multiple times why I’m moved to share these thoughts. I’m not a victim in this situation, not in a tangible, meaningful way. The band are strangers and Win Butler owes me nothing. Fans feel let down by their favourite actors, musicians and personalities on a regular basis, and my sense of betrayal is neither something unique nor new in a world where we are more in need than ever of meaningful art to pin our hope, aspirations and desire for community to.
But herein lies the crux of my struggle to reckon with this particular situation. We increasingly live in the type of world that Arcade Fire used to warn us about. Fake news, war and division are in abundance, while rampant advances in technology take us closer to the stars in willful ignorance of what might happen when we get there. On 2007’s Windowsill, Win Butler sang “the tide is rising / and it’s rising still / and I don’t want to see it at my windowsill” as a warning of the world that tomorrow may bring. Now faced with his own personal armageddon, and refusing interviews, Win seemingly feels like his best plan of action is to draw the curtains.
At this point, I can’t imagine what could happen for me to say “I am a fan” of this band again. I’ll still occasionally hear their music and feel a slightly sickening mix of guilt, saudade and happiness. I’ll look at my wrist and try to tell myself that my tattoo and its meaning might be intertwined with the band’s lore, but that its value lies in its connection to a time when I myself was a different person, freshly graduated and eager to discover the world. I’ll still secretly think that the Win Butler-inspired home haircut I gave myself in 2011 was kind of cool. But my prevailing feeling is one of sadness. For many people, myself included, a band that once signalled joyfully reckless abandon, cathartic live wire sing-alongs, and a sense of community at a time when we need it most, is no longer able to provide any of those things. For as long as the band buries its head in the sand, there’s simply no way that something that was once so magically communal can feel like anything other than alienating and hollow.
