sweet 16 game

(6) Ben Folds Five, “Brick”
vs
(7) Sade, “No Ordinary Love”

Read the essays, listen to the songs, and vote. Winner is the song/essay with the most votes at the end of the game. If there is a tie, we will play a one-hour overtime (and repeat until we have a winner). Polls close @ 9am Arizona time on 3/19/26.

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How to Break your Own Heart: On Sade’s “No Ordinary Love” by Danielle Cadena Deulen

Sade’s voice is full of the ocean (you can hear the waves beneath her singing) a depth rolled up into a crash of breath. So, it makes perfect sense that in this official video, circa 1992, she’s a mermaid, a siren. And of course she’s singing about love, the most potent of lures.
This is no ordinary love…no ordinary love… our Sade Siren sings, heartbroken but gorgeous—decked in sequins and surrounded by coral—wringing her hands on the ocean floor, clearly thinking of a lost beloved…and now the scene of the lost beloved:
A pretty young man in a striped sailor’s shirt dives into the scene with his vulnerable, air-dependent lungs and she swims up to kiss him, it seems, to save him. They turn underwater, embracing, breathing each other’s breath. She’s nude from the waist up, pressing her breasts against him, the scales of her tail flashing. The camera leans into his hand pressed to her back, pulling her closer. Her luxurious hair swims out to obscure them from our view…
For the rest of the video, we don’t see them kiss. In fact, for the rest of the video we barely see him at all. He’s murky in our minds as we watch our siren ruminate, clearly locked in the memory, turning and turning inside it. She opens a woman’s magazine with a photo of a bride looking up with wonder at her handsome bridegroom. In the next scene our siren begins sewing her own white gown. She rocks and sings at the bottom of the ocean, stitching the sheer fabric into large hoops, building circles inside circles, driven by the memory of a kiss we can no longer see…
When her dress is done, she swims up through the sargasso, but we don’t see her surface. We don’t see how the hot air must have choked her throat as it opened to a city sunset: dusty and filled with exhaust. The first shot on land is of her in her white gown, walking alone in a sandy, littered lot beneath a bridge, tossing rice into the air. No one to witness the splash of dry grains or applaud their falling. Her dress drags. She’s following the iron bend of a train track in slanted light, heavy shadows stretching at the edges of the frame, and behind her, a broken metal fence topped with concertina wire.
Even in devastation, Sade is unearthly beautiful. Good god: her eyes. Her perfect skin. I’m talking of course about the person: the British-Nigerian singer herself, born Helen Folasade Adu…the band named after the singer (a shortening of her middle name, her family nickname) which seems right: could you imagine Sade without Sade? Their siren-song sound is all her. There’s something in the quality of her voice that sounds mythic, dreamy and untouchable, that soulful breathiness that makes the songs sound almost as if they are sung from your own interiority, or from a lover whispering in your ear. Her voice is subtle and soft, so you lean in. You want to hear everything she says…to portray such intimacy in a voice that is meant to reach millions is a difficult feat. I don’t know about you, but I feel tenderly toward her. I wouldn’t imagine I was good enough to love her, but I would hope whoever gets to love her treats her well. So, it’s painful watching her chase after someone who seems not to care at all. Where the hell is that sailor boy? Why leave the ocean, where she’s queen? For whom? For what? She’s unhinged for sure…showing up on land in a wedding dress looking for a groom…Still, she’s so beautiful it’s hard not to watch her. We lean in, rapt at her unraveling…
Frank Guan of Vulture described “No Ordinary Love” as one of Sade’s most “perfect” songs… a love song filled with luxurious “deep-sea synths” and an “accusatory guitar” solo that represents the anger drifting just beneath the surface of the lyrics, but never expressed directly in Sade’s voice, which stays sultry, languid, subtly intoxicating…

I gave you all the love I got
I gave you more than I could give
Gave you love
I gave you all that I had inside
And you took my love you took my love

The critics all describe “No Ordinary Love” as a song about unrequited love, or love betrayed. Our siren sings about the depth of feeling she has for her beloved, about their transcendent connection, which, as anyone in love believes, should have buoyed her heart above the riptides. She admits, by the verbs she uses, it’s all in past tense now, all the giving she gave was never enough to keep him from leaving. He didn’t feel for her what she felt. Whether wholly absent, or half-hearted, or the shadow of love, it’s not the full of what she gave and now she’s alone, waiting for him to return. This lack drives her mad…
In the video, our siren is a wretched spectacle, her long veil whipped by the wind—a lovelorn depiction of thirst. She arrives at a wrought iron door and pushes her way inside, taking her place at the counter of a dive bar filled with midday swillers who are affronted or confused by her presence. The barkeep is a frayed and heavy-set woman who looks at her askance as she wipes down the bar and slides a glass of water her way. Our siren sighs, pouring table salt into the glass. She flashes back to her underwater nest, where, in her mind, she and her beloved are still embracing. Consumed with grief, she bursts out of the bar as her voice belts out over the scene: I keep crying, I keep trying for you…
Our siren runs through a trash-strewn city, past its indifferent citizens waiting for buses, or walking reluctantly toward some obligation, or staring into the middle distance of their lives. They barely look at her as she passes. Her voice declares over the scene and the bitter swell of an electric guitar: There’s nothing like you and I, baby…

This is no ordinary love…

And perhaps she’s right. If the city she’s running through depicts the typical terrestrial existence, and we, typical humans, treading and toiling, barely looking into each other’s faces, then I think we can assume she would be happy to leave our ordinary loves behind and dive back into her own biosphere. She’s not looking for just anyone. She doesn’t grab anyone by his broad shoulders and march him to the altar. She’s racing against time and her own mortality to seek out her beloved…a connection so extraordinary it feels mythic…which brings me to a question: how mythic is it? Like, is it real?
I’m not referring to the cross-species attraction here or the tales of mermaids. I’ve been suspending my disbelief for the pleasure of watching this iconic singer play a literally mythic beauty hurting herself for love…nor am I even referring to the idea of passionate love itself… the way it opens up a small vortex that surrounds the hearts and minds of lovers…creating what feels like a new space in the world… a love so real it feels unreal…or a love so unreal it feels real…like the dream in which you find a new door inside your childhood home, and walk into an astonishing vastness—a whole other house, another city, an ocean you didn’t know was there…
If we follow common thinking about passionate love—that it is a temporary state, and after a while simmers down to something more stable and enduring, or ends—what’s depicted here isn’t exactly passionate love, is it? Because it’s unrequited. He’s not there to build the love-vortex with her, but the idea of loving him is so strong she’s whirled herself into her own vortex. That kind of feeling, I think, aligns itself more with the state of desire, which shares a similar drive to ambition. This is true even beyond metaphor: there is significant overlap in the brain regions and neurochemical pathways involved in both basic desire (wanting) and the more complex, long-term drive of ambition. [i] 
Unrequited love is, ultimately, unrealized emotional ambition. People go mad for the fantasy—believing that if they could just have the object of their desire, they could be fulfilled, even happy. Their sense of self, therefore, relies on external forces to complete them. No doubt you, like me, have encountered dozens if not hundreds of pop psychology articles on why this is wrong-headed. You have to love yourself first—all TV therapists and unlicensed influencers croon at us from the echo chambers of the internet…
Oh, I’m not saying they’re wrong. I’m saying they’re vague, prescribing a cookie-cutter catch-all for ameliorating what is a far more subtle and powerful trap than they recognize…one that is hard-wired into our brains, and not just from the thousands of stories we’ve read and watched, but in the biological makeup of love and attachment itself. A General Theory of Love, by Fari Amini, Richard Lannon, and Thomas Lewis [ii], draws from neuroscience and psychiatry to explain the biochemistry of love attachments—oxytocin, dopamine, and vasopressin—mimic the fundamental mechanisms of parent-infant bonding. When you are in love, you feel vulnerable because you are tapping into your infant self: one whose happiness and sense of safety was entirely reliant on their caretaker. When you fall in love you are quite literally a baby again.
This is easier to understand if we think of love not as happening between two specific people, but as a relational structure. Person A believes they love person B. Person B probably resembles their parent(s) in some vague but undefinable way—too vague and undefinable for Person A to perceive in any conscious way—but is different enough from them to be sexy. With great luck, person B loves person A back with the same fervor and in the same way. Basically, you are both babies again, but both loving each other as you did the parent whom you had to abandon or be abandoned by when you entered adulthood. This may be a scientific explanation for why lovers call each other baby. Your attachment to them feels much stronger and deeper than it does to other people in your life. In fact, it feels like the most important bond, one that has always been there because it has…so romantic love leaps over the time barrier, returns you to a sense of timelessness.
Have you ever loved someone so much that it made you ache to be away from them? You know how a baby cries if her mother leaves the room? Same thing. This is why people are completely bereft when their lover leaves them. For however long they were in the state of love with their beloved, they had returned in a real, biological sense to the chemical state of their primary love bond. Now imagine this: an actual baby is crying for her mother and you turn to her and say, “You need to stop crying and love yourself first.”
Yes, I know: we are all adults here (I assume no babies are reading this) and if the beloved is just a stand-in for the parent then certainly we can use the power of our prefrontal cortexes to substitute someone else—maybe even ourselves!—for the missing parent/beloved. But telling someone to just love yourself is like trying to describe a self-administered surgery by explaining the last step first: and then just stitch yourself up! Omitting that the first part is always slice into yourself—which few people are willing to do, and honestly, I’m not sure taking on such a task will help if what you’re trying to do is heal relational wounds…at the very least, going it alone is sad and dangerous, which is why heartbroken people need to seek out friends, family, and therapists…to let someone else hold them as they cry…because to heal wounds of relationality, you literally need someone else to help you…
But no one is helping our Sade Siren. After her long sojourn through the lovelorn city, she arrives at a shipping port, presumably to continue the search for her beloved. Drawn down by the weight of gravity but still dragging her new feet across the pavement, she sips and sometimes spills a clear plastic water bottle, now crumpled in her grip. I keep wanting to reach into the scene and lead her back into the ocean while she murmurs Didn’t I tell you what I believe? / Did someday say that / A love like that won’t last…
Her voice is the perfect depiction of longing because there’s something mysterious and unreachable in it. Sade wisely held that mysterious line as a figure in music as well: a clear boundary between her as an artist and her music. She once remarked on this necessity for the creation of her songs: “The magic and the mystery is in the music itself. Knowing too much about someone can take away your attention from what they really do. Then people become celebrities rather than artists, and it's easy to step over that boundary and let yourself go.” [iii] She tells us plainly here that as audience to her creations, we should never really get that close to her: the collapsing of that boundary would ruin the work and quite possibly ruin her as well.
So, for all of Sade’s popularity, she’s always kept her personal obscured. If you’re the gossipy type, you’ve likely been disappointed at the lack of Sade dishing. Maybe you had to suffice with the meager rumors that she never substantiated. For example, during the four-year gap between Stronger Than Pride (1988) and love deluxe (1992), the tabloids liked to surmise that she’d locked herself away from music to enter a drug rehab facility or a mental hospital…rumors, no doubt, trying to goad her out into an interview to refute their claims, which she didn’t dignify with a comment until she returned to the publicity grind for her grammy-winning album love deluxe (on which “No Ordinary Love” lives). Then, she addressed the claims by simply stating that after touring for Stronger Than Pride, she was tired and needed to live her life for a while out of public view so she could live enough to write songs again, which seems fair.
Given Sade’s queenly bearing and her own reticence about personal matters, I doubt she would approve of my attempt to theorize whether “No Ordinary Love” was drawn from autobiographical material. However, I’d like to share with you a few unanchored details that keep floating through my mind. The song emerged as the hit single on love deluxe in 1992—three years into her six-year marriage to the Spanish film director Carlos Scola Pliego. The marriage would end in 1995 and many years later, in a rare, emotionally revealing interview, Sade would tell us how she was devastated by the failure of that union and it took her five years to recover from it…which isn’t surprising, given anyone’s feelings about divorce, but she was also a child of divorce herself. Sade’s Nigerian father, Adebisi Adu, and English mother, Anne Hayes, were married in 1955 and separated when she was four years old. That split put a continent between her parents. Sade couldn’t have gone through the thousand cuts of a divorce without abrading that old wound.
Let’s go back to our Sade Siren, sewing herself a wedding dress at the bottom of the ocean, lulled by her own dreamy ideas of love and marriage…Let’s go back to the way she emerges on land alone, walking past the unfriendly faces of other hurt humans, searching for the dream boy who never again emerges into view…this doesn’t seem like the creation of a happy bride only three years into a marriage. It seems like the creation of someone suffering silently inside an idea of a marriage. This might be because she is the one who loved more (as the song tells us), but this also creates another wave of interpretation that isn’t exactly about unrequited love, but something more slippery. What if it’s this: both people loved each other with the same oceanic passion but—because of temperament or trauma or both—they didn’t know how to make each other feel loved. So, instead of recreating the infinite safety of the infant-parent bond, they hurt each other. The hopeful feelings at the start of the marriage malingered past the possibility of reconciliation, and in the end, the only way to survive was to walk away from each other into the wide world alone.
To care for someone so deeply as to love them is a sacred act of vulnerability, and to have the other person meet you in that state feels like a miracle: it brings into focus what is beautiful in yourself, allows you a way to transcend old wounds, and is often the foundation and inspiration for great feats of strength or ingenuity or both. It is a strange, powerful, sometimes painful alchemy that changes you irrevocably. This is why we have the saying better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Love is the catalyst for a transformative human experience that is better to have, so the saying goes, even if it means the inevitable loss of that love. But like all idioms, it accounts only for socially accepted generalities. I believe this song is about something far harder than unrequited love. This is about love depleted.  
There’s a brilliant piece of silence woven into the syntax of the lyrics that catches in my heart. It’s just one beat, an audible ellipsis: “didn’t I give you all that I had to … give baby…?” The first part of the sentence fits twice into the 4-beat rhythmic line, as we expect it to: didn’t I give you / all that I got to… but then the sentence does two things I don’t expect. First, syntactically the line could have ended on all that I got to… a nice colloquial phrasing that would align itself with the cadences of many of Sade’s other songs. But the sentence continues onto the next 4-beat line when it starts anew, and you realize she wasn't done singing before, not quite to the end of her sentence. It gives the illusion of a pause in the middle of her sentence. All that I got to … give baby. The other unexpected silence happens after “baby”: there are two whole beats left in the line that are lyrically empty, though of course the musical accompaniment goes on, notating her exhaustion. It's as if she's come to the end of a sentence barely able to say it…needing a breath midway through. She tells us earlier that she gave this beloved not just all she had, but more than she had to give. Trying to keep this love alive, she burned through her emotional and energetic reserves, then kept burning on a desperate, self-immolating hope even after she thought it possible…
What she’s describing here is a Pyrrhic love. A love that transforms the lovers into enemies, even if they once reached for each other with sincere tenderness. It’s the shadow-side of love. So many unconscious psychological and chemical reactions happen within the exchange of a relationship, and two people can easily slip into patterns in which they are not relating to each other at all. They relate, instead, through the infant mind, the wounded part of themselves, babbling to ghosts. When this happens, there can be no forward movement, no way to get out of the trench of the past. There is nothing to do but leave the union. I call it a Pyrrhic love because it inflicts such a devastating toll on the lovers that it is tantamount to defeat…one that renders them unable to continue fighting, even for themselves…
Heartbreak is so dangerous. The dysregulation it creates in the mind and the body makes a person temporarily insane. Our Sade Siren is ocean aristocracy, but we watch her plodding over the earth like a beggar. It’s no wonder all the people around her ignore her or look at her slantwise: she’s not making sense to them. She’s clearly not even making sense to herself. Think of anyone heartbroken: whether from the end of the first love (that spirited high-dive without even the thought that it might end) or from the obliterating revision of a divorce…doesn’t it always seem like the heartbroken walk around with something missing?
Think of yourself heartbroken. Do you remember how hard it was to think of anything else? To call heartbreak a distraction is so understated that it is abusively wrong. It’s feels more like recovering from a surgery in which an organ was removed…you keep thinking of how something inside you feels lost…your mind leans reflexively toward the emptiness, listening. There was a song there once. You hope it will return. You keep hoping.
The hope of a lover returning is very different from the hope of a lover arriving in the first place. It isn’t the scenario of a love you merely imagined, but one you actually had—a person you held in your hands, whom you loved and were loved by in return. It felt like everything. A miracle. The secret purpose to your life revealed. How could you not still hope for the love to return?
Our Sade Siren never recovers from this hope, so the song is open-ended:

Keep trying for you
Keep crying for you
Keep flying for you
Keep flying, and I'm falling
And I'm falling… 

The last sung notes seem to skim the surface of the music. In the extended version of the song, her notes echo in the synthetic cry of a sea bird, which I imagine circling and circling the wide ocean with nowhere to land. The soft synths and minimalist guitar blend a dream over the anxious backlit tapping of the drums until they all fade away from our hearing, from the scene in which the singer is falling, will always be in the midst of her falling.
What keeps you in a state of falling is not the song of the siren, but the one you imagine she sings. The one that echoes in your mind as you whittle yourself down with wanting. If you could find the source of the song… If you could be close enough to feel it trembling beneath her throat… If she would finally look you full in the face and tell you, one more time, that you are the one she loves, that she will always love, that she will never leave you again…
You can get caught in this kind of circular thinking for years, walking through cityscapes and forests and deserts and the labyrinthine rooms of your mind, but your journey will only end when you arrive at the only clear truth: either they don’t love you anymore, or they don’t love you enough. Either way, your lover won’t return. And this is the tragedy of the song—the long, lonely sadness of it:
You are your own siren.
You have only been singing to yourself.

[i] Azab, Marwa. “The Neuroscience of Wanting and Pleasure,” Psychology Today. Posted February 23, 2017. https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/neuroscience-in-everyday-life/201702/the-neuroscience-wanting-and-pleasure

[ii] A General Theory of Love, by Fari Amini, Richard Lannon, and Thomas Lewis.

[iii] https://www.imdb.com/name/nm0755442/bio/ (Sade IMBD)

Danielle Cadena Deulen is the author of four books, most recently, Desire Museum, which won a 2024 Lambda Literary Award. Her previous publications include Our Emotions Get Carried Away Beyond Us, which won the Barrow Street Book Contest, American Libretto, which won the Sow’s Ear Chapbook Contest; The Riots, which won the AWP Prize in Creative Nonfiction and the GLCA New Writers Award; and Lovely Asunder, which won the Miller Williams Arkansas Poetry Prize and the Utah Book Award. She served as a Jay C. and Ruth Halls Poetry Fellow at the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing. She has been the recipient of an Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Award, an Oregon Literary Fellowship, and a Pushcart Prize. Originally from the Northwest, she now makes her home in Atlanta where she teaches for the graduate creative writing program at Georgia State University. Visit her author website to know more.

Cicily Bennion on Ben Folds Five’s “Brick”

This essay begins in 1999 with my brother on a bike, a twenty-year-old riding straight through the intersection just as the car on his left turned right. I still remember how my mother screamed when she got the call saying he’d been run over. I was six years old and didn’t yet know how to calibrate for her big reactions. Piecing together what I could from her side of the conversation, I thought my brother was dead. But it was only a broken leg. A bad break, though. One that required surgery and a permanent metal rod in the bone. My brother got a payout from the driver, or rather her insurance, just enough money to make a college kid feel rich. With it he bought a brand new first generation iPod and some DJing equipment and played at house parties on the weekends until he graduated and moved to New York City and got a job and, eventually, a new iPod.
It must have been 2005 when he approached me with the old one. He’d kept it a while. I was, by then, in the fifth grade, and though iPods had been around for a few years, no one I knew had one. Not really even any adults. They were an extravagance that didn’t seem to have reached my small town. “I decided not to wipe it,” he said as he handed it over. He’d considered going through and removing the songs with swearing but that would have been too much work. I’d just have to be cool.
And that’s how I went from listening to my one Gavin DeGraw CD on repeat to soaking up what was to me at the time an immense library of songs. Thinking back on it, it seems I got stuck for a while at the B’s: The Beatles, Beck, Ben Folds, Ben Folds Five, Bright Eyes, but I eventually made my way through the rest of the alphabet: Counting Crows, Death Cab For Cutie, Fiona Apple, The Gorillaz, Metric, Nirvana, Outkast, The Police, The Postal Service, Radiohead, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Weezer. Surely there were others. They’re gone now from memory.
It would be difficult to overstate the importance of that iPod’s appearance in my life. It carried me through some very awkward reading years as I went from elementary to middle school. In elementary school, my reading had been intensely incentivized with a point system and leader board. Top readers had their photos displayed in the hall, and my face was always up there. I was ploughing through several books a week. But when I entered sixth grade, the middle school library felt like a wasteland. I didn’t know what I was searching for, but I knew I was too old to read any more about Junie B. Jones, the Boxcar kids, or Beezus and Ramona. I’d never heard of a middle grade novel in my life, and the world of YA literature felt far off. The librarian suggested a few titles, but they all fell flat, and I soon got a vague sense that she didn’t like me much anyway, which mattered very much to me then, just as it would now, and so I became a girl who no longer haunted the stacks.
Without books I felt aimless. I was, at one point, desperate enough for recommendations that while watching Jeopardy with my mother, something about the correct response “Who is Lolita?” caught my attention. There is, of course, an online database of every answer and question ever aired on Jeopardy, and so I can tell you now that the clue must have been this one from January of 2008: “Dolores Haze, all in my brain, is the real name of this title Nabokov girl; ‘scuse her while she kisses that guy!” The category was “Tarts,” and all the other solutions in the column were women and girls whose bodies had been leveraged and displayed—Salome, Lady Godiva, a 1950s stripper by the name of Blaze Starr. The whole thing was distasteful, I know, but I was ignorant to that. To me, it was just disorienting and nonsensical enough that I became intrigued and went searching for the book in question only to discover within a few pages that this was not the girlhood story I’d thought it was. It was my first and so far only attempt at reading Nabokov.
All this to say that there was a void in my life which the music on that iPod came to fill. I went from retiring to my room every evening to read to retiring to my room every evening to listen to my iPod. All that listening played the role that books might have had if I’d continued to read as intensely as I once did. My listening was always lyrics forward. I am still sometimes mystified when someone mentions a song’s bass line or drums. I hear those elements, sure, but it is and always has been the vocals that matter most. It was not, in this way, unlike reading. My listening expanded my vocabulary and taught me life lessons. It was from “At the Bottom of Everything” by Bright Eyes that I learned the word “arduous.” From The Postal Service’s “The District Sleeps Alone Tonight” that I learned the word “gaudy.” And it was Fiona Apple, as much as any novel I’ve ever read, who taught me what it is to both want a man and regret ever having him. I fell in love with “Paper Bag” and listened to it over and over, imitating Fiona’s bluesy vocals until I began to imagine that if I were ever to audition for American Idol, this would be the song with which I’d win over the judges. Today, I can only hope Simon Cowell would have been unnerved rather than wowed to hear me, barely a teenager at the time, croon “Honey, I don’t feel so good, don’t feel justified / Come on put a little love here in my void.” Even after all my years of being one, I still did not know I was a child.
When, in the sixth or seventh grade, a couple friends came over for an afternoon and decided they wanted to make a music video, I sat them down and played Ben Folds Five’s “Underground.” They had never heard of Ben Folds, and they’d wanted to choose something a bit more straightforwardly happy, but already I was becoming a person who was not particularly interested in or good at straightforwardly happy. Somehow, I managed to convince them that this was the song, but we didn’t get very far in our filming that afternoon. We captured only enough footage to cover the intro, a strange beginning in which drummer Darren Jessee declares plaintively, “I was never cool in school,” and then, a few bars later, shouts with bravado, “Hand me my nose ring!” We used one of my mother’s clip-on earrings as a prop for this. With her unpierced ears, the earring was not a toy to her, and she begged us not to lose that little hoop, but I’m quite certain we did.
When I took over my brother’s iPod, Ben Folds was one of the first artists I discovered. He had the distinct advantage of appearing twice in a row when scrolling through, first as “Ben Folds” and then again as “Ben Folds Five.” This doubling up intrigued me, and I began to listen. I soon sussed out what I know to be true today, that he’d made music as both a solo artist and a member of a group called Ben Folds Five. What I didn’t know then was that Ben Folds Five was, in fact, a trio. The group formed in 1993 in Chapel Hill, North Carolina and was made up of Ben Folds (vocals and piano), Robert Sledge (bass), and Darren Jessee (drums). One of the band’s stated aims was to make rock and roll music with no guitar, to show that such a thing was possible. In the ’90s rock scene, this was not a given. In my own listening, though, the lack of guitar was totally lost on me. I was too focused on what was there, namely Folds’s technically impressive, if unruly, piano playing. I had, by then, taken enough piano lessons to both appreciate the difficulty of what he was doing and also know that I would never be able to do it. I never noticed the group’s lack of guitar until I read about it years later.
As a band, Ben Folds Five had a relatively brief but glorious run. When they disbanded the first time in 2000, they’d released three studio albums in seven years. Their second album, Whatever and Ever Amen had sold over a million copies in the US and was certified platinum. Throughout that seven-year run, their songs had charted in the US, Australia, Canada, and the UK. When they split in 2000, they each went on to separate projects, with Folds beginning his successful and ongoing solo career. The band got back together for a brief period in the early 2010s, touring again and putting out a fourth studio album, but it is hard to recapture the magic of a thing long past, and in 2013, they disbanded once more.
By the time I began listening in the mid-2000s, Ben Folds Five had already broken up, not that I really knew or cared. As a fan, I was both pure and static. I had to be. The iPod was a fixed unit, and for as long as I listened to it, my musical world was set and unchanging, as if my taste and listening existed outside of time. I was interested in the way the band’s songs played with emotion. The songs were often not only sorrowful but world-weary. Still, these feelings were never just given straight. There was always some distancing device. In some songs, such as “Alice Childress” or “Boxing” this distance is accomplished by relying upon imagined interlocutors or alternative speakers. But most often, the distancing device is humor. Good examples of this can be found in “Army,” “Battle of Who Could Care Less,” and “Song for the Dumped.” That last one made me laugh out loud the first time I heard it. And it was catchy, too. I still remember singing along while I listened with headphones in my room and being shocked and a little thrilled when, having forgotten to self-censor, I found myself belting out, “Give me my money back / Give me my money back / You bitch!” I stopped, half expecting a parent to burst through the door and take the iPod away as a punishment for foul language, but when I took the headphones out, the house was quiet. My parents were not, despite my fears, in the habit of listening at my door.
I don’t point out the emotional distance of Ben Folds Five’s music to criticize it. In fact, it’s something I admire about Folds’s work, probably because I see something of myself in it, something of my own tendency to laugh at the wrong moment, the wrong thing. To play fast and loose. To unsettle my discontent by minimizing or dramatizing it. These are human tendencies not often reflected in our music. We have enough songs that are clear-eyed and honest. I need music as squirrelly in its feeling as I am.
But Folds’s most successful, most well-known song has none of these traits. “Brick,” released in 1997, is not at all the sort of cheeky, raucous “punk rock for sissies” the band usually put out. It is earnest and sad—sorrowful vocals over a simple piano tune, pared back drums, and cello. It peaked at number six on the US alternative charts and according to songstats.com has been streamed 70.9 million times across different platforms. For a song that came out long before streaming did, that’s a lot of staying power.
“Brick” is a song about the true story of an abortion. It is also a song about two kids in way over their heads, something made plain by the words of the chorus and its talk of “drowning slowly.” In his 2019 memoir, A Dream About Lightning Bugs, Folds writes about that time. He was a senior in high school when his girlfriend got pregnant. Just as it says in the song, he drove her to a clinic on the day after Christmas. Both the pregnancy and its termination were a secret they kept from their parents, but neither of them were equipped to handle such a thing on their own. Folds recounts how in that year, he developed mononucleosis and a case of recurring strep throat, and while he doesn’t claim that this was in any way directly related to the secret he and his girlfriend were keeping, there have been times in my own life where my body has failed due to my mind’s overwhelm, and I’m inclined to think that the same sort of thing may have been happening to him. He was ill so often in his senior year that he missed as much school as he’d been present for and he was falling badly behind. His girlfriend, too, was failing senior year. In the aftermath of the abortion, she was, Folds writes, “having an awful time of it all.” He began to worry that she might kill herself when he was away. He writes of trying in vain to “keep her from cutting her face with razor blades.” One morning, the two of them met in a church parking lot so he could give her some homework he’d done for her—he was trying to help her make it to graduation—and when she climbed into his car and out of the rain, she began to scream and shake uncontrollably. He drove her to the hospital, and a counselor there got their parents involved. Both sets of parents were, Folds writes, “more understanding than [he and his girlfriend] could have imagined.” In his memoir, he recounts, “it was all a great relief… A great weight was lifted. Once the secret was out, we were children again.”
The memoir doesn’t say, but if we take the song’s narrative to be true, the relationship dissolved soon after. There are not many relationships that could survive such trauma. They both graduated high school. Their lives went separate ways. In his book, Folds writes that he spoke with his old girlfriend on the phone in 1997 about the release of “Brick.” She told him then that she “felt better knowing something positive could come from it all.”
If the expectation is that I will now offer some comment on what Folds and his girlfriend lived through, then I am afraid I will have to disappoint. I have never had an abortion, and even if I had, this wouldn’t qualify me now to speak to what somebody else has gone through. The closest thing I’ve ever experienced is a possible miscarriage for which I was easily, unreservedly grateful. I was twenty-one years old and on a sort of extended honeymoon with my husband in Morocco. While eating breakfast on the rooftop terrace, I began to feel ill and excused myself to go back to our hotel room below. There, I saw that I was bleeding, dug through my luggage to find a box of tampons and soaked through one in a matter of minutes. There had never been so much blood before. I put in another, dressed again, then curled up on the canopy bed and let the pain in my belly rock me while I counted back the days on my fingers; I must have been late. My husband found me there and when I explained what was happening, he braced for my grief but there was none. I was on birth control but apparently it was not working. I wanted children, to be a mother, but only someday. I was not ready for, had no desire for, an infant yet.
That day we took a bus that wound us up through the Atlas Mountains. In a dingy rest stop bathroom, I washed blood from my dress in the sink and felt grateful. In photographs from that afternoon, the two of us are high, a valley of peaks below us, and I am, despite being slightly pale, absolutely radiant with relief. Now, looking back on it, I’m less certain what happened. Perhaps it was only a heavy period after starting a new birth control. But at the time I was sure I’d lost a baby, and I was sure I was not grieving.
When I read through online discussions of “Brick,” much of what is being said is ugly. There are, of course, people who object to the song simply because they object to abortion, and in the comment threads, sometimes individuals go head to head, finding themselves arguing about not a song but an issue. I’m not very sympathetic to this approach. I will admit, though, that there are aspects of the song itself that give me pause, though for entirely different reasons. When Folds sings that “she’s a brick” and he’s “drowning slowly,” I can’t help but wonder if the song is being fair, if there is not some way to take more ownership for the events unfolding. And when, in a sudden moment of direct address, Folds sings, “Can’t you see / It’s not me you’re dying for,” I want to ask what right he has to say this when he also, categorically, cannot be the one an unborn child lives for. He’d made a life he could not carry. When you do this, you don’t get to resent someone else for having to set it down. But in Folds’s fuller retelling of these events in his memoir, there is no trace of resentment. It must be that the song’s aim, if it has one, is not to assign blame but rather to recall the experience as it felt when he lived it. I cannot imagine what it would be like to hold with someone a secret that is killing them, to be both alone and together in that way, but it must feel very much like drowning. That Folds felt that way at the time, that he remained willing to say so years later, is not something I fault him for.
I first listened to “Brick,” even came to love “Brick,” outside of all this context. I didn’t look up the song or the band. I didn’t read interviews. I didn’t watch the music video. I just listened over and over again. With “Brick,” I did what I’ve done with many songs that I could not make sense of, which is to glom onto certain lines and phrases and create a story around those bits instead, largely disregarding the pieces that do not fit. When Folds sang, “Up the stairs to her apartment / She is balled up on the couch / Her mom and dad went down to Charlotte / They’re not home to find us out,” it did not occur to me to think he may have been singing about something that had happened years before, when he too was a kid with parents who might have found him out. It was a song sung by a man, and so to me the song was obviously about a man who had fallen for a younger girl. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t make heads or tails of the third verse: “They call her name at 7:30 / I pace around the parking lot / Then I walk down to buy her flowers / And sell some gifts that I got.” I see clearly now that this is the moment in which the abortion takes place and the boy pawns his Christmas gifts to pay for it. But listening on my iPod, I had no context clues to point me toward this and I was mystified. Not understanding, I put it aside. Some things, I figured, weren’t meant to make sense.
If the third verse is removed, the song takes on a new shape and meaning. In verses one and two, a man sings about leaving home early on Christmas morning to drive to an apartment where there is a girl waiting for him. Her parents are away. At the bridge, this girl is “not fine,” and the parents confront the two of them, saying, “it’s time to tell the truth,” and they break down because they are “tired of lying.” Finally, in the fourth verse, on the drive back to her apartment, they are together again for just a moment, and they both seem to realize just how alone they are in this relationship. The song ends with one final repetition of the chorus, one final insistence that this girl is the reason he is drowning.
Having disregarded that third verse, it seemed obvious to me just what the song was about. If my reading still seems far-fetched, it may help to know that by this time, I’d listened to The Police sing “Don’t Stand So Close To Me.” I’d heard Weezer’s “Across The Sea.” I’d seen a sixteen year old Britney Spears dancing in a sexy school-girl outfit in the music video for “…Baby One More Time.” And I’d watched Never Been Kissed, a romcom in which a journalist goes undercover at a local high school. When the cute English teacher with whom she’d had great chemistry learns she is not who she said she was, instead of being relieved to find he doesn’t actually have a crush on an underage girl, he’s mad that she lied. If “Brick” were the song I’d thought it was, it would have been just one more of many cultural artifacts that treat the teenage girl as irresistible, the ultimate siren.
I’d been misreading “Brick” for some time before my life began to resemble the song as I’d understood it. I was fifteen years old when the man at church found me. He was twice my age and married with four kids. Slowly, methodically, he worked at getting closer to me. He seemed willing to listen to most anything I had to say. I told him about things like how I dreaded summer, when I’d go long stretches without seeing anyone. Or the time when I rode my bike past the tennis court and found three friends there playing without me. I was always looking for people to play tennis with and they knew it. “Why wouldn’t you call me?” I’d asked them. “You can’t even play tennis with three people.” They were just idiot boys who couldn’t account for themselves, but I was hurt. I’d become paranoid that some of my friendships were less than genuine, that perhaps some people were less interested in spending time with me than they were in spending time at my parents’ over-the-top house with its extravagant movie room. I quietly stopped inviting people over for movie nights to see how long it would take for someone to invite me over for a change. Weeks and months passed. The man at church understood how upsetting and devastating all of this was to me when I confided in him about it. Occasionally, he confided in me too. He’d once had a problem with porn, he said. And when he’d been my age, he was constantly jerking off. His faith, he said, had helped him through it, and he was all better now. Did I ever do anything like that? The honest answer was that I did not. But it did, I guess, sometimes feel good to touch myself. He wanted to know if I’d ever had an orgasm and I couldn’t say for sure. Still, he was serious and stern about all this. I had, he said, a real problem. He’d help me get better.
By the time I was seventeen, he felt indispensable enough that I did not run when he passed me a note which read, “I think I am falling in love with you.” After I’d read it and blushed, he took the note back. Better that I not keep any evidence around, he said as he tore it up and put it in the trash. Despite his grand declaration, we’d never touched. But he was, he now told me often, completely overwhelmed by me. He wanted me in every way. He told me he’d prayed and God told him we were meant to be together. Never mind the fact that he was already married. He couldn’t say when, but he was sure someday he’d make me his wife. But waiting was so hard. I had to help him. Who else would understand? There was no one else he could turn to. By all of this, I was totally won over. His desperate need for me was such a stark contrast to the boys my own age, whose affections were tepid and fickle, changing on a dime. If nothing else, at least this man was constant. He was, it seemed, eternally tormented, and I convinced myself that I was doing a good thing by helping him. Days after my eighteenth birthday, he kissed me, his eager mouth colder and wetter than mine. It was my first kiss. When it ended, I stood there stunned. Kissing felt nothing like what I’d imagined. I was a senior in high school. I spent the rest of that year feverishly trying to answer his texts in time, juggling my fear of getting caught with my phone out in class with my fear of him when I did not reply quickly enough. Our conversations were a tug of war. I wanted to talk about my day: the calculus test I’d taken, whether he thought anyone would ask me to prom. He wanted to send me long screeds about all the ways and places he dreamed of fucking me. And had I touched myself lately? I would never get better, he scolded, unless I talked about it.
We saw each other at church once or twice a week, but that wasn’t enough, so he texted me every day. On a few occasions, I rode my bike to his work so he could kiss me in a back room. We didn’t have sex, he didn’t rape me, mostly, I suspect, because there was always someone just on the other side of a door or wall. He suggested a few times that we meet elsewhere, but I demurred. So instead, we mostly just texted. Every day, he asked me to send photos of myself. In the pictures I sent, I was always fully clothed and smiling. Here I am looking happy and sleepy after Thanksgiving dinner. Here I am months later in a springy top with freshly trimmed bangs and too much eyeliner. What he wanted, I’m sure, were nudes, though he never asked for such a thing directly. I was naive enough to believe him when he said he wasn’t jerking off to these photos, that he only missed and wanted to see me. And so I didn’t understand why he was so enraged and disgusted when one day, when he asked yet again for a picture of me, I sent an old baby photo. It was one my parents kept displayed at home. In it, I am a few months shy of two years old, wearing a white dress with puffy sleeves and sitting before a purple studio backdrop. I smile at the camera with one arm lifted, my little baby fingers come to rest just behind my ear. It looks a bit like I am striking a pose, but it’s more likely that I was twirling the hair that grew there—I’ve been a hair-twirler, my mother tells me, since forever. But the man from church seemed to find nothing about this photo cute or endearing. “Why would u send me this?” he wanted to know. Why, he demanded, would I think he wanted to see that? I was, at the time, completely dumbfounded by his strong reaction, but it makes me laugh now to think of it, the accusation that photo must have represented to him, how deeply offended he was by it.
Throughout all of this, I was, just as in the song, not fine. At school, I mostly managed to seem normal, but then I’d come home and go straight to bed, wake for dinner, do a bit of homework, then fall asleep again until morning, sometimes with my jeans and shoes and the lights still on. My grades were slipping. When it came time to apply for college, I dragged my feet and began to talk about not wanting to go at all. All of this alarmed my parents, but they talked me into applying to a few universities. The man from church, too, was encouraging me to go. Though he didn’t say so at the time, I’m sure he was eager to see me leave. It had been months and still, I was not putting out.
It was not 6am the day after Christmas when he finally asked to come over while my parents were out. Instead, it was a Sunday morning in June. I was still in bed, awake and on my phone. He’d been telling me again about all the ways he wanted to touch me. He could do it now, he said. My parents were gone already to church. They’d not be back again for hours and he knew it. I hesitated. The things he described sounded nice, or at least intriguing. I wanted to try them, but I’d never really gotten over my feeling that all of this was wrong. By now, his hold on me was beginning to weaken. The initial thrill of being wanted was wearing off. Lately, when I thought of him, I mostly felt trapped and burdened. I believed I loved him, but I also did not want to entangle myself further. I wrote back and said no, then got out of bed to make sure all the doors were locked.
After that, things changed. He stopped talking about how he hoped to someday marry me and began to talk about how we’d have to let each other go. I got the sense he wanted to let me down easy. He couldn’t risk leaving me scorned for fear I might tell his wife what he’d done. He’d spent so much time telling me just how it would devastate him, how it would destroy his life if she ever found out, and I felt a tremendous amount of pressure to never slip up, to never reveal that there was anything between us. Slowly, ever so slowly, he eased away. A few months after I left for college, he texted me out of the blue to tell me he’d gotten a new job. He was going to move thousands of miles away with his wife and kids. The message came through while I was in class, and when I did not reply immediately, he sent a whole slurry of texts. It was the first time I’d heard from him in weeks, but he still felt entitled to quick replies from me. When I got out of class, I saw the messages and sent a curt acknowledgment. He replied, “r u mad at me?” I thought for a moment and wrote back, “I just wish I’d never met you.” It is the last thing I ever said to him. I should have been meaner.
When I listen now to “Brick,” it is as if I am hearing two songs at once: the song as it is—unambiguous and set in its meaning—and the song I once imagined it to be, the anthem of a secret, dying affair between a man and a girl. There is much that might be considered troubling about the song as I’d first interpreted it, but since I’ve begun writing this essay, what disturbs me most about my misreading of “Brick” is how the song prefigured my later teen years, how listening to it, I’d effectively seen or dreamed my future. It’s enough to make me wonder if my early reading of “Brick” might not reveal a hidden, longstanding desire for that kind of romance. One that made me, at best, vulnerable when a predator came along or, at worst, guilty of some sort of weird seduction. This is, essentially, a question of my innocence or guilt, something with which I was extremely preoccupied in the months and years after the relationship dissolved. Away from the man at church, I had enough perspective to see how sick the relationship had been. But not understanding anything yet about abusers and their tactics of entrapment, I thought the sickness was a thing that resided in me as well as him. That I had ever been involved with a married man made me, I believed, unworthy of anyone’s love or affection in the future. I believed this so thoroughly that I was, for a time, desperately suicidal. It was only when I went to therapy that I began to get a more clear, complete picture of what happened to me. It felt like the decoding of a previously impenetrable third verse, how that changes the meaning of everything.
Most of the time, the fact that I was abused remains clear and unequivocal to me. But occasionally the vision slips, and that old self-loathing comes back up to the surface again. Listening to “Brick” and remembering what the song meant to me before I’d ever met that man at church, had me, for a few days, doubting myself again. In an earlier draft of this essay, I wrote about having wanted to “consume someone just as much as I wanted to be consumed.” I went on to explain that in a world where girls are constantly fetishized and sexualized, sometimes the only power they can dream up for themselves is this: to be someone’s brick. To overwhelm. To be the source of an infatuation wretched enough to leave a man wrecked and wasted, off the coast and heading nowhere. It was the sort of thing that felt profound when I wrote it. I was, I believed, complicating the narrative, showing my willingness to be flawed. The reader, I knew, doesn’t need to love me. I could be honest about where my shortcomings lie.
And then, I came up for air and remembered every time I tried to tell him no. How I told him to never text me again after he did it the first time. How I’d called him disgusting and meant it when he first said he liked to think of me in the shower. How, before he ever touched me or said he loved me, I’d begun to sense his encroachment and mustered all my courage to look him in the face and say, “I am not a homewrecker,” a term I wouldn’t use now, but at the time, it was the clearest language I had for my refusal. I was trying to draw boundaries, but none of that mattered. He was relentless. He spent years breaking down my defenses, until eventually, when he told me he needed me, I felt helpless to hear it. He was drowning, he said. I wanted to help him. If it’s true that sexualized girls can sometimes only imagine being powerful by being sexual, it’s also true that I felt powerless. I concede that the younger version of me found being desired a heady, irresistible thing, but I never wanted to leave anyone wrecked and wasted. I have never wanted to be the reason anyone was drowning. Even when I lived in complete conviction of my love for the man at church and of his love for me, even when I clung desperately to the lies he spun about the two of us being fated to marry one day—even then, I never once asked him to leave his wife. I’d seen his beautiful family sitting together on a pew at church. He told me he loved them, and so I’d wanted him to have that. I wanted him to have everything. If the idea of “Brick” was romantic to me, it was only because I was operating under a naive misconception that real love, true love would kill a person. It was all some Romeo and Juliet fever dream to me. I had no concept yet of love as a reason to live deeper and better. Love was, to me, an end. Never a means, never a beginning.
But just because I see it all clearly now does not mean others always do. My experience does not, from some vantage points, look so clearly like abuse. So many of the people I’ve shared this story with have heard, seemingly, a different song. One boyfriend said, “Oh, that’s not so bad. I thought you were going to say you’d been raped.” He said it gently, and he was an otherwise sophisticated and seemingly sensitive person, so I thought there must have been something true about his assessment, that something about what I’d gone through was inadequately traumatic, that I’d missed the threshold. He is one of a handful of people who have gotten hung up on the fact that there was no actual sex, no rape, involved. What are a few saucy texts from a married man? So he kissed me. Big deal.
But even if that is a big deal, there remains the trouble of my age. I was young and inexperienced and still in high school, but I was also eighteen before we kissed, which made me legally, if not functionally, an adult. Shouldn’t I bear more responsibility, then? But regardless of my age, what I’d found myself in was undeniably an abusive relationship. I was so afraid of him, of displeasing him, of accidentally betraying him that I once left class and threw up on the grass over a handful of angry texts. When I told him what had happened, he made me apologize even for that. Still now, so many years later, when I watch older men abuse teenaged girls on the screen or stage, it sometimes leaves me weeping and trembling, so physically depleted that I feel limp after the fact. Not to mention that dating like a normal person was impossible after the thing between us ended. I was the one who broke it off with “at least you weren’t raped” guy but later, I felt sure I’d made a mistake. When he wouldn’t take me back, I was crushed. I thought at the time that my devastation was because I missed him, but I can see now that it was really the sense of rejection I could not handle. I could not bear to be left again. But if I’d learned anything from the man at church, it was how to be sorry, so I tried that, begging and groveling for weeks to no avail.
None of this was what I’d been fantasizing about as a young girl listening to “Brick.” I was dreaming of something else entirely: of being a girl so intelligent and sophisticated that she could leave her girlhood behind simply by willing it. That she could transcend her own youth to attract someone much older than her. The fact that the song included a depiction of such a relationship’s inevitable failure, of the disapproving and prying parents, was, it seemed to me, only fair. That would be how such a thing would turn out in real life. I knew that already. But such a doomed romance was still romantic to me. If I am guilty of anything, it is of having believed myself to be like the girl in that dream: beautiful and smart enough to be different. To be a creature to whom the rules did not always apply. In a perfect world, it would be safe for girls to imagine that they are grown. In reality there are far too many men willing to swoop in and devour that girl not because she is, as she’s dreamed, sophisticated and womanly, but because she is, despite everything she believes, still a young, girlish thing. I am grateful for that last verse of “Brick,” for those lines in which Folds laments, “For the moment we’re alone / She’s alone, and I’m alone / And now I know it.” I could listen to the song and imagine a story of star-crossed lovers, a relationship which must overcome parents and other tragic circumstances, but so long as I heard those last lines and identified with them, there must have been some part of me that knew this relationship wasn’t fated but, in fact, doomed and lonely. I kept that knowledge in a place often just out of reach, but still, I kept it, and this was, most likely, the reason I did not get sucked in any deeper than I did.
And yet, other times, that knowledge was not out of reach. Other times, it came rearing up—angry and undeniable. It happened once while we were texting. He’d grown tired of always being the one to write all the dirty messages. He wanted me to do it this time. Imagine us, he said. Write it for me, and so, reluctantly, I did. What came out began much like all the vulgar, pornographic scenes he’d rendered for me. But then everything took a turn, and I could feel the oppressive weight of him atop me, hear myself asking him to stop, hear the request going unanswered. I could see how he’d finish, rise, and tuck himself back into his pants while I lay there bleeding and crying. And I knew he’d tell me to dress myself and go; the charade of loving me would be over with the act; he’d be done with me forever. I wrote this all out and sent it. He said I was crazy to think that way, but the scene did not feel as if I’d thought it at all. It felt like a thing given to me, not an imagined scenario but a vision of a possible future.
I won’t say I should have known better. To do so would be unfair to the reality that I was just a girl and that he was a man I trusted. But there are things I should have and could have done differently. I know that. And so, if I am not blameless, I might have to settle for being forgiven. So, I do. I forgive the girl that I was. I forgive her for having the audacity to believe a man who said she was special and that he loved her. I forgive her for trying to save him and please him. I forgive her for feeling intoxicated by the sense that she was, for the first time in her life, really and truly wanted. And I forgive her for not knowing where to turn even after she’d realized that this was not where she wanted to be. She wasn’t a brick, but she was drowning slowly. And still, by some miracle, she got us both to shore.

Cicily Bennion is a writer and essayist. Her favorite Ben Folds song is probably actually “Phone In A Pool.” Find a more informative bio at cicilybennion.com.