((God knows how I managed to acquire a copy of this a week before its publication fate – bought it at the same time as I bought the latest album, High as Hope. Foyles on Charing Cross Road had a few rogue copies out so I bought one before they realised what they’d done.))
Useless Magic is the first collection of writings (verses?) from Florence Welch, most notable for being the frontwoman of Florence + The Machine. She’s often acclaimed for her vocals, and the band is often praised for the brilliant noise that it makes, but her lyrics are rarely commented on. Seeing them here, stripped of their music, stark on the page illuminates firstly, just how brilliantly Welch captures sadness, and secondly, just how dense they actually are.
Packed with literary allusion and mythic inspiration, each lyric seems to be in conversation with something else, be that another text, or something larger. Organised here by album, you can chart how the almost triumphantly drunk Lungs give way to the darker, more difficult, water-soaked Ceremonials, through to How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful, which certainly seems to be Welch at her happiest, to the latest lyrics of High as Hope, which are subtler, more subdued.
The book itself is shot through with imagery; lyrics are separated by and punctuated with photographs, paintings, postcards, scraps of Welch’s handwriting (one of the most pleasing things about this book is learning that just like me, Welch seems to write on anything and everything she can get her hands on.) Some of the images are recognisable, like The Lady of Shallot, others are not, more obscure references to pop-art, and many are Welch’s own. The images, like the lyrics, shift as the book progresses. It feels completely seamless, after all, Welch herself looks as though she’s toppled out of the frame of a Raphaelite painting.
The most interesting part of the book is the part that hitherto has been inaccessible to her fans, that is, her poems. She writes in her brief preface that she is unsure what marks a poem as different to a song, but from a reader’s perspective, it seems that her songs weave her life into a tighter patchwork of allusion and repetition, focusing on moments, whereas her poetry feels more overtly confessional, or autobiographical. In shorter, clipped verse (apparently Nick Cave helped her edit) she covers more ground, sketching out swathes of her life in no times at all.
And as you read, you start to notice recurring ideas, words. Some are more obvious than others – Ceremonials is famously full of songs about water – and others accumulate, ideas of ghosts and gods, demons and drink, years and arms. It feels larger than words, which is I suppose what makes them brilliant lyrics. They feel mythic, magic maybe – useless or otherwise.