So I’ve apparently decided that this is the sword I’m gonna die on. For the past five or so months, I’ve been preaching to anyone who will listen about the phenomenon that is Youngblood. Cumulatively, I’ve probably spent a week of my life talking about the record. It’s that fucking epic.
As per friggin usual, I’m late to the party once more in that I’m just now discovering that there’s a fucking acoustic version of the titular track. And now I’m fucking dying all over again. In all seriousness—who the fuck gave these guys permission to fuck my life up this poetically?
Let’s just dive in why don’t we…
First off, it’s taken me way too fucking long to figure out how to adequately describe this rendition of what I believed to be an already perfect track, and it’s really starting to bother me. Also full disclosure: I can’t tell who the fuck is singing what part. I can confidently declare that Hemmings takes the lead throughout the song (as is to be expected for a mf lead singer), but other than that I have no fucking idea. So bear with me..
In a nutshell, this acoustic track embodies the very essence of that erratic, inconsolable and existential phenomenon we call “heart.” It’s damn near celestial.
Its sound is heavy. Genuinely speaking, listening to the rhythm and vocals arranged in this manner will weigh you down. If you let go long enough, you’ll find yourself sinking in your own body, like there’s a force of gravity within your soul that pulls you deeper inside.
The vocals are agonizingly defeated, in a way. There’s a hopelessness and depression-induced apathy that carries you through the song. There is no light at the end of this tunnel.
And it’s fucking glorious.
Let’s break down the first verse:
The guitar is practically weeping its tragic anthem about a love lost. It’s like it has a soul of its own, and it’s already given up. The pain was too much, and it’s resigned itself to a life of replaying its mistakes in its mind over and over till an accident or old age render it useless and expendable.
Hemmings’ vocals echo this sentiment and give us an even more tangible persona to empathize with. The airiness and groan of his voice remind me of the bar blues singer who drinks away his sorrows and patiently awaits the day fate frees him from his suffering.
Despite this, his voice retains a degree of innocence — a drop of water in a sea of fire. A softness, a fragility, a vulnerability. An outstretched hand for anyone who cares enough to respond to his hopeless cries for help.
The line, “yeah you used to call me baby, now you’re calling me by name,” exudes that sense of loss so singularly in the way the beginning of the line is sung like he’s reflecting on a blissful memory, only to be reminded of the dagger still in his chest when he sings “by name.”
That breach of trust — that bitter lyric spat out like poison in the next line tells us that this is no more than what he thinks he deserves. The way he mutters “damn game” suggests that he believes his suffering to be his own doing, and there’s nothing that can save him now.
The prechorus recounts the protagonist of our tale pulling away from the person who so completely destroyed this once beating heart, but the voice is weak — too weak to declare any real separation. It ended, yes. But he’s haunted in ways that keep that now-lost love entangled in his thoughts forever. There’s no “pulling away,”—there’s just the sinking.
The chorus brings all the boys together for a brotherhood’s declaration of solidarity. These waves keep dragging Hemmings down, but the choral background at least reminds him that he’s not alone.
The lyrics tell us that his love is toying with him — he walks out of their life a dead man at their behest, and finds himself crawling back when they beckon. The vocals act as a plea — a genuine cry for someone to hear, for someone to care. There are no expectations, no self-assurance or certainty that anyone will come. He’s compelled to suffer, and his only solace is to replay the scenario over and over wondering how it ever came to this. And thus, we sink further.
Here in the second verse, we’re given additional synth beats that reverberate through our bodies and dance along our skin like a heartbeat and a cool rush of air, respectively. The line “nobody could take my place” is saturated with insecurity, like he doesn’t believe his own words. How could he, when he feels himself being pulled deeper and deeper into the nothingness that he so gracefully conveys?
Moving further along, we arrive at Hemmings singing, “you push and you push and I’m pulling away, pulling away from you // I give and I give and I give and you take, give and you take from me.” His voice is melancholy, as is the theme for this rendition, but it’s like there’s a hidden question in his tone.. a timid, “why wasn’t what I gave enough?” What I find most relevant and poetic about the lyrics and this acoustic version (and even more in my analysis of “Lie To Me”) is how very real the self-loathing and lack of self-confidence is presented here.
We often get the straight-up sad break-up songs, we get the “how you could you do this to me?” songs, but here we have the very complicated, very messy break-up that leaves the protagonist genuinely believing that there’s something wrong with his or herself. The uncertainty and very dark, very dangerous conversations that happen in our heads when we start to believe that we’re the problem is in actuality what makes these break-ups hurt the most. We can always find new people to love, but when we believe that the problem is ourselves, well that’s something that we can’t really change as definitively.
Finally, our story comes to a close as we cry out the lyrics of the chorus once more. The instruments fade well before the vocals, like all that’s left is the sorrow in his heart and soul. It becomes the only real thing we have left to hang on to, and our own hearts are left to die with his.
At last, he’s left walking out — left to wander hopelessly with the knowledge of everything he’s lost, and of the punishment he thinks he deserves.
Where the album version had that spark—those flashes of anger and righteous dignity—here in the acoustic version, we’re left with pure, unadulterated pain. Excuse me while I listen to this track non-stop for the next 8-10 business days.
