And there it is. The thing I’ve been waiting not-so-patiently for from 5SOS. Finally—we’re seeing the integral storytelling aspect of alt rock music in their lyrics and melodies, and now they’ve branched out into using visual media to enhance and even contextualize the sentiments conveyed in their songs.
At the Irving show on their Meet You There tour, I had the pleasure of attending the Soundcheck/Meet & Greet before the set. I asked them specifically about what they perceived the significance of videos and live shows to be in constructing the meaning and identity of their unique sound, and where they planned to take that aspect moving forward. It was the last question of the M&G, so unfortunately they didn’t get very long to answer, but I was initially disappointed at their response because it didn’t seem like they viewed the medium as a critical factor in regards to their music.
Irwin commented that the time allotted to shooting videos was the biggest constraint the band had faced thus far. There was a vague assurance that there was more they wanted to do in terms of visual media, but I didn’t get a strong sense of what that would entail.
Fast forward 3 ½ months, and holy fuck I’m shaking with euphoria.
I don’t know who needs to hear this, but go ahead and miss me with any line of analysis that condemns this video as a simple performance piece.
This. Right here. Is what gives lyrics and melodies that story to latch on to and to incorporate into our own minds and histories.
I’m writing this at the same time as the piece on the acoustic version of “Youngblood,” and so I want to make one very clear distinction between these two tracks right off the bat—
As I mention in the other post, “Youngblood” is pure, unadulterated pain. It sucks you in and leaves you with no escape route. It’s a space to sulk and feel, unapologetically.
“Lie To Me,” on the other hand, is sabotage. It’s masochistic. It’s putting yourself in a space to be willfully ripped to shreds by any and everything. It’s unremorseful. And it’s the most difficult track I’ve had to write about.
Let’s break it down:
First, we see Hemmings walk into the scene towards a parked vehicle. Two other cars circle him menacingly, and he pauses for a moment to watch them with a sad look of resignation. The screen flips, and we find Hemmings sitting in the backseat of the car with a lost and hopeless look on his face. The intro kicks in, and it’s time to buckle the fuck up.
A few shots of the scenery puts us in what looks to be a NASCAR-esque track. We see Irwin, Hood and Clifford pacing mindlessly through the bleachers with no real purpose or direction. They’re lost, but not in the same sense as Hemmings. Where they’re aimless, he’s destructive. He’s intentionally placed himself in a scenario where he knows he won’t make it out alright. Maybe he won’t die, but he wouldn’t mind much if he did at this point. He’s not doing it because he enjoys pain; he’s not seeking attention. He’s quite simply already gone. Any sense of self-preservation and dignity has left the building.
We’re sent back to the car to find Hemmings singing the lyrics of the first verse, his shoulders slouched and his eyes dead. His voice throughout the verse is soft, like if he tried to raise it any louder, his voice would crack with the tears that are being held back on a mere whim of apathy. The line “you look happy,” is damn-near soul crushing, and you can see his bright eyes fade as he processes everything that entails. Most notably: the possibility that maybe she never loved him at all.
The chorus makes its debut, and I think it’s important to really hone in on this specific category of pain. The lyrics read, “and now I wish we’d never met ‘cos you’re too hard to forget // while I’m cleaning up your mess, I know he’s taking off your dress // I know that you don’t, but if I ask you ‘do you love me?’ // I hope you lie, lie, lie, lie, lie to me.”
Breathe it in. Take a moment. Listen to the way these lines are sung.
That right there isn’t, “I’m sad you’re gone.” That isn’t, “I miss you.” That is devastation. That’s a complete loss of normalcy and self and reality. The line, “remembering I thought I had this right,” which directly preceded the chorus strikes a chord with me, particularly in the way Hemmings holds his head in his hands, physically asking the question, “how could I be so wrong?”
That confusion and sense of betrayal is of course in a lot of ways directed at the person who hurt him, but we also get the sense that he feels betrayed by himself. In a way, he let himself down by trusting this person.. by giving himself wholeheartedly to them. Was he that wrong to do so? Did he miss all the signs along the way? Was she always like this? Or was he the real problem? All these questions linger on his face and in his eyes, as they do for many of us in situations like these.
As the chorus plays, we see various shots of Irwin, Hood and Clifford singing along with Hemmings. Even though Hemmings is situated as the protagonist of this particular story, the shots of his bandmates singing along to a song that so clearly communicates the protagonists’ suffering acts metaphorically as an illustration of solidarity. His bandmates haven’t left him. They’re scattered and wandering and are compelled in some ways to let him decide how the scene plays out, but they still feel what he’s going through. They haven’t abandoned him, and they don’t intend to anytime soon.
In the second verse, the camera speeds up its rotation a bit, and we see Hemmings begin to act restless in the backseat. He keeps rocking back and forth, his hands keep going to his head, he rests his arms on the headrests, and his face is contorted in a plea. A plea for the pain to stop.
Hemmings sings the beginning of the prechorus with his eyes closed, almost like a final goodbye. He’s singing his last prayers, and he’s left himself to the mercy of the wolves that wish to devour him so completely.
I want to take a moment to talk about why the backseat is important in this video. There’s a different message that’s sent if Hemmings had been sitting in the driver’s seat when he was hit. It would communicate an ability to avoid the collision and save himself, and would offer a degree of control as to how the scene played out. His placement in the backseat can allude to him taking a passenger’s approach to his life – there’s no one at the wheel anymore, because that responsibility involves deciding whether to move out of the way or remain in destruction’s path.
Even more critical, however, is the fact that Hemmings started the scene out of the car, and intentionally chose to sit in the backseat rather than taking the wheel. In this sense, Hemmings did make a choice – the choice to opt out. Rather than having to actively decide to be incinerated or save himself, he removed himself from the equation and became a passenger in his own life.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is rock. fucking. bottom. When you find yourself so deep down that you give up that absolutely and that completely, there’s nothing that can be said or done to shine light on your situation. Nothing.
As the vehicles approach on their collision course, we see Irwin, Hood and Clifford each at different positions in the stands. They’re left to watch as their brother resigns himself to his fate. They wandered the pit, looking more and more like a gladiator’s colosseum as the video progresses, and essentially found themselves just as lost as they had ever been. Only now, they have to watch.
That pain is not to be underestimated or undervalued. The fear and helplessness associated with watching a loved one be destroyed so prophetically is in some ways as bad as going through the collision yourself. We’re not here to compare pain per say, but I don’t want this to be misconstrued purely as a “Hemmings video.” This is about a family that is fucking hurting.
Imagine for a moment: imagine how it must feel to watch a friend or family member suffer because of something you saw coming, and you were both helpless to stop it, and even more helpless after the fact. Go a step further -- imagine what it would feel like to watch someone that you love suffer as a result of something you saw coming, and then you get to watch them devolve into someone that doesn't even care if they survive.
You’re left there with your guilt and your regrets and your own pain at the fact that this person is not o-fucking-kay. That’s something that you have to live with just as that person must live with their pain, and more so, you gain a sense of fear. Fear for what that person may do to themselves. Fear of what will happen if things don’t get better. Fear of it happening again. Fear that you’ll fail them once more. Fear that, somehow, in some way, it’s your own fault.
The chorus plays once more as Hemmings’ vehicle is hit, and we see shots of the band performing on a stage as the camera spins around them and occasionally flips back to the crash. The scene is very disorienting, as is this level of heartache. There’s no real sense of up or down or right or left or what’s real and what’s all make believe.
We get some more shots of Hemmings sitting on top of the car, only now he has his band mates sitting with him. While they’ve always been there hoping he’d call out to them, they’ve now officially joined him at his side. The war isn’t won; it’s not even anywhere near over. But it’s a step forward, and a family made whole once more.
His position in the car is notable once more. I talked about the difference between sitting in the backseat vs. the drivers seat in the first verse. Here, with his close friends, he’s removed himself from the path of destruction completely. He’s no longer confined to the box that may or may not get obliterated depending on his actions (or inaction). Here, he’s free, and he’s willingly accepted the help of those who’ve remained with him.
The singularly beautiful aspect of this video is how the music connects each of the men in the band. It’s like a unique language between them; the music moves through and around them, it links them in times of tragedy, it’s their way of understanding one another, and at the end, it’s the medium they use to break through the fog as a united front. The lyrics keep the men connected with Hemmings’ pain even when they’re apart, the performance on the stage gives them a home in which to grow as a family and as individuals, and most importantly, they give Hemmings the space he needs to process his feelings.
And thankfully, by the end of this, we get to say ‘fuck you’ to that fucking car. That prison of self-loathing and nauseating pain is blown to smithereens, and now there’s nowhere to go but up.
I don’t know how else to communicate this…the story we just watched unfold illustrates that of a broken man. Don’t misunderstand me—I’m not saying any or all members of 5SOS are broken. But at least one of them was for a time, and I’d put my money on Hemmings.
In the band’s “On The Record” interview on Apple Music, Hemmings himself vaguely alluded to writing the record in a very dark time in his life. I don’t have to know anything else about their personal lives or their music to feel absolutely destroyed by this track. I imagine not many of us need any more context. There’s a reason we call ourselves emo. There’s a reason we cry ourselves to sleep listening to Pierce The Veil or My Chemical Romance or BMTH or fucking 5SOS. We can hear it in their music—the fact that our experiences aren’t that different. They’ve felt what we’ve felt. We’ve heard what they’ve heard. All of us fucking hurt, and when we hurt, we do so with such gusto that our hearts damn near beat their way out of our chests, and the effort and pain associated with breathing just doesn’t seem worth it.
At the end of the day, we don’t need to know these guys’ lives to know who they are. We don’t need meet & greets or interviews or social media. All we need are some headphones.
