The first time I hear the band Daddy Issues is in the late autumn of 2018.

Well—hear of them.

It’s an evening in November—the kind Southern Californians will swear to you is chilly while the rest of the country rolls its eyes—and I’ve finally made it to the San Diego date of The Menzingers’ Fall Tour. It’s a show I have been ravenously anticipating since I first heard the dates announced. I am twenty-five, and clawing my way out of a depressive spiral triggered by the dissolution of an ill-fated, half-year situationship with an ex-member of my favorite band. Surviving the ordeal meant fleeing the soot-lined tunnels of a major East Coast metropolitan hub—not to mention the dreary backdrop of my own suffocating shame—to the safety of my parent's sun-drenched home in the suburbs. It took months to even begin to clear away the psychological grime; but, ironically, it’s music that has helped me through—The Menzingers’ music, largely. This will be my first time seeing them; hence the hunger for a good show.

Here’s the thing, though: I am running late.

Maybe because I just got off work, or because I took too long getting ready. Probably because I am barely a year back in this city, and still having to remind myself to calculate for the vast fluctuations in traffic anyone south of Santa Barbara will naturally take into account—not to mention the nightmare of parking downtown on a weekend. But, hey—no sweat; the goal was to make it to the main act, and for that I am blessedly on-track. I wind through some wayward pedestrians and slide into the venue just in time to catch the closing riffs of the opening band’s set.

That band is Daddy Issues.

So, yeah.

Heard of them.

Immediately, I’m a little disappointed to have missed them, despite my earlier cavalier approach to time-management. A cursory Spotify search reveals that the band can be ranked among other female indie-rock favorites of mine: Soccer Mommy, Waxahatchee, Kississippi... This though, I have to admit, is supplemental to the primary source of my intrigue. It’s really the Freudian appeal of the name that’s hooked me.

Plus, they come with the stamp of approval from my big brother, who—having beat me to the show—comes to greet me at the edge of the crowd.

"They're pretty good!" He affirms, and I make a mental note to check out their latest release, Deep Dream, sometime after the show. I follow him into the crowd—giddy with pre-show excitement—temporarily oblivious to just how much said album will surpass my expectations, and mark me for the rest of my life.

Formed in 2014, Daddy Issues is (was) a trio fronted by Jenna Moynihan (guitarist & singer); and flanked by Emily Maxwell (drummer) and Jenna Mitchell (bassist). Hailing from Nashville, Tennessee, their sound is nevertheless defined by a mix of California surf-rock and Pacific Northwest grunge. Their first album, Can We Still Hang?, is more true to the sound of the aforementioned ‘90s subculture; specifically that of the Riot Grrrl movement. Songs like "Veronica" and "Unicorns & Rainbows (Boyfriend)" recall the bratty, irreverent chaos and sapphic flirtations of the third-wave feminist-youth zeitgeist. Like watermelon Pop Rocks washed down with a shot of whiskey, Daddy Issues’ songs are startling—even jarring—to the senses; demanding that one parse through a meld of youthful hedonism and bitter, precocious introspection approximating the uniquely perplexing flavor of girlhood.

To be sure, their second album, Deep Dream, retains elements of this throughout its music and lyrics; though carrying it into the downier world of ‘80s synthpop and hippie beach-rock. Think Best Coast’s coastal charm, but with a grittier flair— angrier; more despondent. There’s something eternally nostalgic about this type of sound, and yet Daddy Issues pairs this expertly with lyrics that feel inescapably contemporary—bold in their shrewd examinations of modern dating culture; paired with the pervasive sense of future-pessimism that inevitably characterizes the average late-Millennial-through-Gen-Alpha mentality.

For all of this: the band is little-known, and the album difficult to find.

It’s probably an exaggeration to say that I’m surprised that this album continues to fly under the radar, considering that it’s a small, indie-rock endeavor from a group that sadly disbanded sometime during the early 2020s. It just seems a shame, given the resurgence of nostalgia surrounding anywhere from ‘60s to y2k culture; not to mention the current, divisive state of online discourse— particularly gender discourse.

There’s a real place in the culture for a band like Daddy Issues; an album like Deep Dream.

Recently, I placed an order directly with Infinity Cat Recordings for a vinyl and CD copy of said album. When it arrived, it came with a printed—I mean, literally, pixelated from a computer printer—picture of the band, and an invoice bearing a little hand-drawn character declaring: “Long live Daddy Issues !”

You know what? I thought to myself, You’re right.

I never really thought of Deep Dream as a concept album. Certainly, it felt deeply relevant to me on an intuitive level at 25-years old, when I first had it on heavy-rotation; recognizing the voice of a trusted friend or older sibling guiding me through my tumultuous late-twenties. But it wasn’t until after many playthroughs—drifting back to the album every so often over the years—that I began to hear a greater cohesive concept. I realize that the reasons artists choose to develop and arrange a record are multivariate—a combination of creative vision & industry demands; but there’s an undeniable narrative flow to Deep Dream’s particular arrangement. It’s a story that feels deeply individual to the subject of the lyrics; and yet, simultaneously generalizable to a common experience of modern girlhood, which is somehow demanded to flourish into womanhood in a culture of patriarchal dominance.

What follows will be my love letter to Deep Dream; an album that should be more widely known and appreciated; by girls, women, the people that love them; the people who once were them or were “meant” to be them; the people who never knew they were them but now realize that they are and always have been. An album that will live forever in my soul as the soundtrack to my messy, glorious, heartbroken, prolonged-teenage twenties.

I hope you’ll listen along and feel your story held, heard, and seen within it, too.

Mosquito Bite

The album opens with "Mosquito Bite"; a fast, noisy, power-punk moment that sets the thematic tone for the rest of the album without giving away the stylistic breadth of its songs to come. The lyrics, retrospective in nature, foreshadow a story told in flashbacks. The first-person narrator looks back on a younger self, lamenting the time and energy (measured in tears) she devoted to a lover who was obviously not worth the grief. In the tongue-in-cheek fashion iconic of the band’s lyrical voice, the speaker muses:

"Oh why did I cry / When it was just a mosquito bite? / Oh, I'm on rewind / And why'd you waste my time?"

This is someone who has reached a stage of hard-won clarity; even self-righteous acceptance. Small hints within the lyrics add fragments of personal specificity—“Your mouth, your friends, the milk / It’s all a blur”—which color sentiments that could otherwise be easily imprinted upon; by anyone who has ever been wronged in love, I imagine.

Which sets up the fundamental dialectic of our lyrical heroine, and indeed, of the album as a whole. This is the story of one girl who found herself in a bad relationship; and yet, it could also be the story of any girl, given that—due to cultural circumstances—it is difficult for every girl to not find herself in such a situation at least once.

In Your Head

If I could only choose one song to encapsulate the band, this would be it. Here, we get to the thematic meat of Deep Dream as an album, and indeed, the band’s quintessential Riot Grrl sensibilities. “In Your Head” is fun, fast, cheeky; and—much like the band itself—it is also a manifesto.

Admittedly, it follows much in the vein of the previous track. The differences here are subtle: the tempo is slightly-slowed, the lyrics less jubilant and more ruminative. The narrator elaborates on the relationship introduced in “Mosquito Bite”; not through memories, as we might expect, but by imagining her ex-lover’s probable frame of mind post-breakup.

“You’re delusional / You’re a pet fish / Assume I tell myself / That chick with you’s an ugly bitch / Imagining me sad, broken in half / Makes the bowl a little bigger.

Well I don’t need a babysitter/ Get to bed without you / But oh, in your head / I wear your shirt to bed with my new boyfriend / And it’s never that good when we’re having sex / You think I miss your moves / And I’m forever dark blue / Oh, yeah, in your head I can’t get over you.”

Her speculations carry a level of certainty; either she’s heard of his projections through some mutual avenue, or she’s experienced enough of his character to predict his bilious assumptions. Either way, her mentalization of his narcissistic despair gives us insight into her experience as a whole. This relationship was not simply a case of a bad ex-boyfriend; but an exercise in hegemonic misogyny, perpetuated on the intimate level. The speaker knows herself to exist in her ex’s mind not as her real, lived-self; but instead as a caricature of “The Ex-Girlfriend”— jealous, catty, obsessive, evermore resentful and pining for the proverbial “one that got away”.

To be sure, the speaker is resentful, if the tone of the song is any indication; though not for any of the litany of self-aggrandizing reasons her ex fabricates. Instead, the speaker’s frustration seems to be directed towards her objectified state within her former partner’s mind. This is an all-too-common experience within burgeoning womanhood. The simmering injustice of knowing yourself to be a well-rounded, dynamic individual­—with a personal narrative and tastes all your own, which you fought to develop—easily written off as tangential to, or the product of, a guiding male influence. The cruelty of girlhood is felt in the depth of its prisoners’ inner worlds, shallowly appraised by their surrounding cultural environments.

Lemon

Sonically, a lot of Deep Dream’s songs evoke the feeling of being stoned in your bedroom; or in the back of a vintage live-in Volkswagen van. Either way, it’s usually nighttime, you’re somewhere coastal, and you’ve got a record turning on a player of dubious quality. Sometimes, as in the case of “In Your Head” and its preceding track, it’s an angry smoke-session.

In the case of the third track, “Lemon”, we’re really in more of a depressive-day-fade situation. Listening to the lyrics, it’s hard not to imagine the weight of an agendaless afternoon bloated with questionably-recreational substance abuse; baking in the eclipsing heat of the California sun. The song is less a continuation of the album’s overarching narrative saga, and more a character-study to add color to our narrator’s mentality. The steadily relentless tempo reflects a constant internal thrum of anxiety, while the erratic lyrics reveal an ambivalence towards intimacy:

“If I had a head, I’d rest it on your shoulder / Yeah, I would come over / But I think I have pneumonia / Yeah, I really wanna / Don’t come any closer /… / If I could take a deep breath / I’d tell you that we’re still friends / I hate that it’s your birthday / 'Cause I think I’m staying in again Yeah, I really wanna / Maybe when I’m better.”

How are we to interpret these verses—is this our narrator’s own thoughts; or the words of her inconstant lover? Is she reading through the last texts he’s sent; stringing her hopeful, naive heart along again and again? Or are these words she, herself, has said to a (be)loved one—now berating herself for her own fickle behavior? There’s a listless self-hatred here that’s hard to parse out; the undercurrent of dread inherent to a feeling of shamed youth meandering into adulthood:

“Will I come back from feeling self-centered? / Am I a lemon? / I’ve been sucking my thumb and I think I’m sour.”

I won’t say it’s a ubiquitous experience, but a lot of us have probably been there; and our capacity for self-reflection does not, unfortunately, always develop with us as we age. Certainly, this can make it difficult to understand where one person’s relational toxicity ends, and another’s begins.

Who bears the responsibility of maturity? And what happens when the person who perhaps should bear that responsibility cannot, or will not?

High St

If I could pick a song that would be the most widely-appealing to a varied audience, it would have to be this unassuming gem buried four-tracks into the album. Far more melodic and radio-friendly than much of Daddy Issues’ repertoire, it would probably make for a catfish of a single. Nevertheless, it maintains much of the same vibey, sour-candy-melancholia characteristic of the band’s music and lyrics; Moynihan’s contrasting, consistently-sweet croon threading “High St” into its more-abrasive siblings. Most of Deep Dream’s tracks are about the resentment and rage of being a girl dealing with a guy, who is just another guy that treats her like just another girl. “High St” is, in a way, a respite from that, in that it’s about the exhaustion that comes after that anger; the sound of emotional, relational burnout.

And the imagery of this one is particularly evocative: I see a girl—mid-to-late twenties—in her teenage bedroom or bathroom; nighttime, memorabilia-strewn, potted-plant-lined; illuminated shades of blues, pinks, and purples by some decorative neon signage. She’s in her own world, on the quilt-covered bed, or in a milky bath. She’s definitely lit a joint. Her favorite record (or playlist) is on. Maybe she’s got a movie simultaneously going in the background. Maybe it’s even Howl’s Moving Castle (although the song itself is really more Lost in Translation.) She’s texting her friend about the guy she’s done with for the 15th time. This is the hazy, forlorn semi-sweetness of post-Millennial self-care; a desperate attempt to recalibrate from a world that is an increasing assault on our emotional systems. It really only momentarily diffuses the ennui.

Put on this track, look up Robin Eisenberg’s artwork. Maybe get a little high. I think you’ll kind of get what I mean.

Dog Years

With Deep Dream’s fifth track, we’re back to anger; and we’re back with heavy, visceral distortion. This is arguably the darkest track off the album; all the exhaustion of the preceding one with none of the heady romanticization. The speaker of the lyrics is rock-bottom in her relationship; so choked-up with resentment and hopelessness that she’s ideating suicidally and homicidally.

“There you are in the rearview / Faking landings on the moon / Here we are in the driveway / I’m deciding which tree to run us into.”

This song hurts, not only because of the chords that screech and reverberate through your body; but because, in all its violent imagery, the speaker communicates the deep pain of a relationship that creates emotional wounds so powerful they evoke physical ones.

“If you could be anything / You would be the worst thing / A dry patch when you’re sledding / And waking up with my lip bleeding.”

It’s unclear whether the (arguably) abusive nature of the relationship has bridged into the tangible world, as well; but the disorganized, mutually-destructive chaos of the music and lyrics certainly suggest the fragmentation of a mind and heart pushed past its limits.

The title is also noteworthy. Until now, there has been little, if any, allusion to the age of the speaker’s lover; and certainly, the assertion: “In dog years you’re dead” is not conclusively indicative of an age-gap relationship. It really could mean anything, although a cursory Google search tells me that the average life expectancy of a dog is about equivalent to a middle-aged person. Given the all-too-common experience of young girls being treated as prized objects of lust for aging men, it’s worth mentioning as a possible element of our narrator’s experience.

This track is a favorite of my brother’s, but it’s not quite mine. It’s a little too painful.

Boring Girls

Given that we’re now six songs in, you might be surprised to find that this is the song that inspired my love for this album so strongly that I would eventually feel compelled to write a retrospective. It wasn’t just the relatability of the speaker’s corroded self-esteem—the kind that comes from hours upon weeks upon months of being treated as interchangeable; disposable—evidenced in the self-deprecating comparisons of herself to both her lover and to the assembly line of paramours he openly has ready to replace her. It was also the familiarity of this creep; the feeling that we all know a guy—or multiple guys—like him.

Years ago, when I was on Tinder, I used to hear various repetitions of the sentiment: “You’re not like other girls—” (They were right, but not for this reason.) “—You’re smart/interesting.” This always struck me as odd. When I’d done a little digging, I’d always gotten some explanation along the lines of: “Other girls don’t talk about anything interesting. The conversation isn’t good.”

I thought about this a lot at the time. Because the reality was, at that point in my life, I spent very little time with men. Almost all my closest friends were women; I had spent most of my working life in pink-collar jobs. When I had a choice of clinician or service provider, I typically picked women. So I was invariably surrounded by women, and I felt that very few of the ones I met could qualify as boring or uninteresting; even if they were not particularly “intellectual”. It was rare that I couldn’t have a good conversation on something, and often I was pleasantly surprised by the depth of conversations I could have with even the most casual of my female acquaintances; even if on more-mundane topics.

I’m not saying there aren’t any boring or uninteresting women (or girls) out there; but how could it be that all these men had met so remarkably many, and I, so few?

“Maybe,” I would always suggest: “You’re not giving them any reason to be smart or interesting.” With some of these men, the first five to fifteen minutes of a conversation were usually like pulling teeth. I began to feel like the bigger fool for even trying.

And I knew, intimately, what it meant to be trapped in a hopeless situation(ship) with a man who had thrice my talent, twice my age; and who couldn’t care less if I dropped dead in between the scarce periods when he was inside me. Who seemed to have chosen me for the early charm of my wit and cleverness; and then proceeded to be completely disinterested in basically any topic of depth I tried to bring up once he’d started fucking me. My natural curiosity became superfluous; a parlor-trick at best. A nuisance at worst.

Blow-up dolls don’t even come with pull-strings on their backs.

I don’t really know that I view men and women as “polar” as they are purported to be in common discourse. Being nonbinary, in my experience, allows one a more-nuanced perspective. Often, when men and women complain about each other, they both tend to be somewhat accurate and somewhat overgeneralizing. Depending on the subject matter, one group can land more on one side of that spectrum than the other. Usually the hurt feelings underneath are justified in some way; whether or not they are always pointing those feelings at the right problem-source.

We do, however, inarguably live in a culture of hegemonic misogyny. To this day, I can’t help but think that most of us do know at least one guy who thinks every girl he’s ever met is too stupid, too untalented, too uncreative, too unworthy of his time; as he runs through countless and goes looking for more.

I used to say that men don’t really like “smart”. They just like fucking it.

I’m not saying, at 32, that I actually still think it’s true.

But I am saying it seems important that at 25, it felt true.

And at the time? I wished desperately that I could have told my boring man’s next pretty thing not to hurt herself, too.

Locked Out

“Locked Out” is the mellowest out of its sister tracks, maintaining the tidal reverberations we can now understand as integral to Deep Dream’s aural signature. It’s tempting to say that it’s a reprieve; the proverbial “calm after the storm.” But the lyrics reveal this track as more of a hangover; the inevitable emotional crash we are desperately trying to outrun when in the midst of an all-encompassing, doomed-from-the-start relationship. The speaker of “Dog Years” and “Boring Girls” is struggling against her place in the pantheon of used and inescapably discarded women who color the storied life of her egocentric lover. These preceding tracks are less a declaration that this time she will be different, and more a furious indignation towards the creeping reality that she can’t be.

By “Locked Out”, our heroine has spiraled into a nihilistic acceptance:

“Guess I’m not a swimmer / I’m the type of girl / You can drag down / Wash away in the morning / … / Turns out I’m a sucker / I’m just your type of girl / … / But it’s unimportant now / Because I’m unimportant now.”

And why not?

There’s freedom in being the self-lampooning fool.

There’s wisdom—and sanctuary—in concession.

I’m Not

Despite not being the final nor penultimate track on Deep Dream, it’s possible for “I’m Not” to mark the the beginning of a series of conclusions presented in the album’s final three tracks—reflecting the reality that closure, often, comes in stages (if at all.)

In the case of “I’m Not”, it’s a quasi-triumphant conclusion. This is my favorite song off the album; its self-annihilating exuberance—marked by the high-decibel pride with which the speaker lays bare her shame—captivating me from the first listen. If “Locked Out” wallows in defeated acceptance, then its subsequent track emerges all the more defiant.

Lyrically, the change is subtle. The speaker is still self-deprecating; ever-comparing herself to the phantoms outside her bedroom door. Musically, it takes us back to the upbeat momentum of the opening tracks; with a poppier jaunt and a more-measured tempo. In this, we can hear sparks of hope. “I’m worthless; I’m pathetic; I’m nothing” becomes: “Okay, so I’m worthless. So I’m nothing; so I’m hopelessly fucked up. … So what?”

Lines like: “I’ve been losing since / I lost my virginity”, “TV and Adderall screwed me up”, and “I feel promiscuous but maybe I’m a prude” could voice more than one generation of contemporary youth struggling to define themselves and their self-worth; caught within the tension of rapidly shifting culture and outdated, contradictory social mores. “I’m Not” is the anthem of any girl throwing off the inherited mantle of shame, acknowledging her flaws—perceived or confirmed—and preparing to march forward.

But first: our heroine puts on her favorite record.

She turns on her neon lights; blocks and deletes his number; sparks up a joint.

Lays back in the gutter to bathe in the stars.

Boys of Summer

Despite being of outside origin, this cover of Don Henley’s Americana classic fits quite naturally among Deep Dream’s original tracks; its more-mellowed tempo slotting it legibly into the falling action of our overarching narrative. Lyrically, too, it’s a perfect semi-conclusion; the wistful nostalgia of a person looking back on a youthful, impassioned fling. It’s bittersweet, but settled; like forgiving a lover who never quite did you right—who you felt you could never quite live up to.

It's worth mentioning, too, that it’s just an incredible cover on its own—the undulating reverberations of its chords perfectly evoking the rays, waves, and sticky heat of a summer now-past. The kind of song that feels like long, coastal afternoon drives and stretching boardwalk-nights.

I can’t say for sure why Daddy Issues chose to cover this song, nor why they chose to include it on this album; wedged second-to-last in the track listing. But I can’t say I disagree with the decision; it feels particularly cinematic, meant to play us out with the credits as we leave the theater.

If you want a happier ending: you can stop listening here.

Dandelion

Part of my bias towards treating “I’m Not” and “Boys of Summer” as partial-“closers” might have to do with—cards on the table—the fact that the actual closing track is my least favorite on the album. This really just comes down to personal taste. “Dandelion” is perhaps the most chaotic moment in the album, with a low distortion, aggressive tempo, and growled-to-yelled vocals; more reminiscent of their first album, and their Riot Grrrl roots. Baby-punk-rocker Alex would probably have loved this track, but what can I say? I’ve mellowed out in my old 30s; I prefer synthpop these days.

Beyond these more-personal considerations, however, I find myself uncertain of the song’s coherence within the canon of the album’s concept. When I say it’s “chaotic”, I don’t just mean fast and noisy. Yes, it borrows from the fast-paced energy of the album’s opening tracks, but without the playful snark. Both the musical and lyrical tone are dark and pessimistic, like the middle tracks; but after the relative catharsis of the ending tracks, one has to wonder: Why are we back here?

The lyrics themselves are… somewhat disturbing, and even more perplexing. Like “Lemon”, they beg the question: is this the same speaker we’ve grown familiar with; or is the wolfish predation present throughout the speaker’s thoughts indicative of a change in perspective? Are we being given a glance into the mind of the heroine’s ex-lover; a look through the sadistic lens through which he chose her? But then how do we place the lyrics: “You’re so wild / I’m just a child / Kneeling / And picking you again”?

Trauma is a tricky, nonlinear thing.

While Deep Dream is not explicitly about an abusive relationship—or perhaps, not beyond the threshold of toxicity we have sadly normalized in modern dating—it’s clear that the relationship described through its story is one that deeply marked its protagonist. Even if we don’t categorize an experience as traumatic, it can often change our perspective on the world and influence our future behavior. At best, we can be left jaded towards future experiences. In some cases, it can lead us to identify with the person who caused us—intentional or unintentional—harm. We might seek out the same dynamic in future relationships—hoping to engender an experience that corrects the original wound. In the worst cases, we might even perpetuate that same harm towards others.

There are many possible meanings here to consider.

If we are being given a glimpse into the mind of the man that harmed our original heroine: are we meant to understand that he, too, is driven by subconscious psychological fractures; twisted into a kind of compulsion that causes him to repetitively seek out and idealize the same kind of girl? A girl who, at the same time, he hates for drawing his attention, his desire, and the unbridled need of which he is ashamed?

Or if, instead, we are still positioned alongside our original speaker: what are we to conclude about her final state of mind? Is she telling us that she is trapped in a wheel of self-destruction; unable to break free from a romantic cycle that undeniably thrills her, but also fills her with self-loathing and humiliation? Or has she hardened her heart—gone on to “play the game” herself?

Perhaps, ultimately, these narratives are blurred; at times apparent and at others inextricable, much like the manifold musical elements and eclectic genres that comprise the rich production of the album.

After that ill-fated, worse-advised relationship with my musician in the city, I remember finding it impossible—at just 24—to wrap my head around the idea that I would never see him again. Despite what felt at first like storybook circumstances, it ended more like a memoir—that is to say: agonizing, disappointing, inconclusive. The way real life often does. Our final conversations happened through text, with stretches of months in between them. His last words to me were harsh and derisive; a reaction to words I had hoped he would accept as a gracious yet final goodbye. I didn’t stop idealizing him for a long time after; my brief but shattering time with him shaping how I would move through the world for years to come. At times I worried I would become like him; detached and self-interested, treating affection—intimacy—as temporary and disposable. I still can’t guarantee I haven’t.

My point here is that while “Dandelion” provides a far more complex, ambivalent, and perhaps dissatisfying ending to the album than the comparatively upbeat and perfunctory “I’m Not”, or the romantic “Boys of Summer”; it’s also far more realistic, and far more mature. So while it might not be my personal favorite, I can’t help but hold a great respect for what it is.

A lot has changed for me, in the time since I first streamed Deep Dream.

I lived through a global pandemic. I started grad school, and eventually dropped out. I realized I was nonbinary, and began to pursue a transmasculizing transition. I outlived my twenties. I got way more into queer pop and electronic music, ditching the genre of rock almost if not entirely.

Despite these changes, this is an album I’ve thought a lot about over the years; its story echoed not only throughout the hollows of my own heart, but also in the stories of friends, coworkers, cousins, neighbors—the kaleidoscope of social (and parasocial) connections that forms the contemporary global community of girlhood’s captives and refugees.

Girlhood is an ephemeral experience, and it isn’t—the limens are porous; ill-defined. Some of us find it easier to move out of than others. Those of us who think we have may still carry it within us—a space of pain, sorrow, joy, and yet-unbridled connection to raw, naive experience; often and easily exploited in recurring ways. It is a place we can always return to—and, by the same stroke, be dragged back—in remembering a part of ourselves; the door made tangible through a memory, a conversation, or a piece of art.

Daddy Issues may be no more, but they are also timeless; made so through Deep Dream, and all their music—an aural gateway to the eternal cloisters of girlhood.