In a way, my goal here is to make you uncomfortable.
Literature is a medium that requires your whole attention. It is ritualistic, sacred, reading every page from front to back. No talking, no multitasking. The world should disappear.
Music is a part of our everyday lives. It’s seeped into morning walks, coffee runs, and everywhere else. We listen from track 2 to track 15 to a different album, with no regard to order or intention.
I believe music deserves the same respect. The same ritual.
That belief is what drew me to “Preacher’s Daughter,” Ethel Cain’s emotionally exhaustive debut album. The enjoyment lies in the listening experience and the attention it demands, much like books.
Similar to Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” “Preacher’s Daughter” is, put simply, messy. The album tells the tragic story of a young woman raised in a strict Evangelical household whose attempt to escape oppression, and find love and freedom, culminates in her tragic fate— killed and cannibalized in a basement. The story unfolds in unclear timelines, with shifting tones and dreamlike interludes. There are moments where the plot is hard to follow, where emotion outweighs clarity. That’s exactly what makes it valuable.
In both works, the mess isn’t a flaw; it’s the point. Trauma, memory, and faith rarely move in straight lines. Ethel Cain, like Garcia Marquez, leans into that chaos to tell a story; one that lingers long after it ends.
Cain’s story fuels conversations about the American Dream, religion, and being a woman. Hayden Silas Anhedönia, as Ethel Cain, does this not only through gut-wrenching lyricism and evocative prose, but through a background of emotive instruments.
The product, a 13-track self-produced album, somehow ends up being greater than the sum of its parts for the reluctant listener. “I wasn’t a fan of [Ethel Cain’s] sound until I heard the story behind the music,” said Daniela Garcia ’26, whom I forced to listen to Ethel Cain in the car. “It was no longer just about the liking of my ears, but it became about dissecting the actual purpose of the musical elements and the story they’re trying to tell.”
There’s something so magical about the “Preacher’s Daughter” listening experience, the musical components all working together to achieve a lyrical and narrative goal. The third track in the album, “A House in Nebraska,” features a two-tone piano motif that repeats throughout the eight-minute track. It’s easy to reduce to boring and repetitive until you consider that it reflects Cain’s inability to move on. Cain expresses this constantly in the song’s lyrics, as her brain drones over her lost lover. The choices are bold, sometimes controversial, but always intentional. Storytelling isn’t confined to lyrics; it’s woven into the sound, conveying emotion in a way words can’t.
As a listener, you live through the raw hardship and yearning with Cain in the most vulnerable way possible: through her emotions. And it’s not comfortable. But it sure is rewarding.
It proves to us that we can feel. We can empathize. It’s what makes us human.
Unfortunately, a dismissiveness toward complexity has shaped the music industry from the inside out. Music is made for TikTok, for a catchy beat, or for the billionth stream. Many people disregard the whole album, only listening to a track or two. Songs become a melody with consonants you recognize, not lyrics you analyze.
However, contemporary mainstream artists such as Taylor Swift have successfully curated beautiful, cohesive storylines through song, Swift specifically told a story about a love triangle on her 2020 album “folklore.” “cardigan,” “betty,” and “august” all contribute to the same story from different perspectives through folky acoustic guitar and layered verse.
“folklore” is enriching and enjoyable. But the key difference between Swift and Cain is exactly that: Swift makes a difficult situation into a comfortable listening experience. The narrator’s grief is cleaned up, made pretty for the listener.
“Preacher’s Daughter” rejects this approach completely. Cain’s story is told through guttural screams as she takes her last breath in “Ptolemaea,” and heavenly cathedral ambience represents her ascent into heaven in “Televangelism.” The songs are raw.
This album is nothing short of demanding. It requires an hour and fifteen minutes of your time, some research, and an hour or two to digest what you’ve just swallowed. The toughest pills are usually the most painful, the ones that scratch your throat. But they’re also the ones that might actually heal you. “Preacher’s Daughter” goes down like a hefty antibiotic—one I constantly prescribe.
The story will make your skin crawl. It will force you to exercise the strained muscle of empathy. It’s unsettling, but it stays with you; it demands something real. So next time you scroll looking for new music, ask yourself what you’re trying to get out of it.
Absorb the story, one chord at a time, as dissonant as it may be. After all, it deserves the same kind of respect you gave to the literature that made you who you are today.
