Ezra Furman learns to lose control in ‘Goodbye Small Head’
Ezra Furman’s Goodbye Small Head opens in a blur of fevered insight, and from there, it doesn’t let go. Across twelve tracks, Furman pulls us through the haze of mysticism, breakdown, heartbreak, and divine glimpses, each song a reckoning with the edge of control, and the ecstasy of surrendering to it. Goodbye Small Head is messy, radical, spiritual—and full of hope.
The album opens with “Grand Mal,” a lush and dizzying entry point, full of strings, jazz percussion, and jittery vocal samples that mimic the disorientation it evokes. Furman sings, “I believe in the shiver that comes in and takes over/I don’t wait ‘til it’s over/I bathe in its waves,” setting the tone for the album’s thesis: not just enduring madness, but dancing in it. This track, and the following one, “Sudden Storm,” were both written “in one hypomanic sitting,” Furman said, after a conversation with a friend about the mystic intensity of epileptic seizures. “Sudden Storm” leans into 60s psychedelia with Beatles-esque harmonies, but the lyrics spiral in a stream-of-consciousness deluge: “And the EMT is yelling and the story's just a story/And the city's overflowing with the Lord's warm glory.” It’s spiritual and chaotic, like witnessing a rapture while trapped in traffic.
“Jump Out” follows, anchored by buoyant strings and synths that explode into a moment of desperate catharsis. Furman pleads for escape—“Stop the car!”—to no avail. It's exhilarating and terrifying. The cello-led arrangement echoes the emotional textures of her earlier hit “Love You So Bad,” but there’s a darker weight here, more urgent and unrelenting. It’s one of the album’s clear standouts.
Where “Jump Out” spirals, “Power of the Moon” floats. It's deceptively serene, twangy guitar curling around lyrics like “What’s my problem? I think I see a promise from God/In a rainbow on an oil spill.” Like many moments on Goodbye Small Head, it feels like an instant classic.
The middle of the album pulls us deeper into personal and societal reckoning. “Submission” slows things down, all tension and prowl, as Furman sings: “This insurgent life is verging on the sadomasochistic/And the mystic in me mistook it for freedom.” It’s a line that could summarize the entire record: yearning mistaken for liberation, chaos mistaken for clarity.
The quieter “Veil Song” showcases the gentler shades of Furman’s voice—soft, unsure, and bruised. It's about the unease of commitment, the lingering fear that control always slips away. Then comes “Slow Burn,” which channels theatrical grandeur—like a show tune from an off-Broadway tragedy, all drama: “Doomed and determined, I wait in the wings/I shout to the sky when the telephone rings.”
By the time we reach “A World of Love and Care,” the album offers a radical tenderness. “Love and dignity was supposed to be a priority for us,” Furman sings, her voice firm. It’s a power ballad that doubles as a call-to-arms. The “us” is queer, trans, neurodivergent, vulnerable and unwavering. “Dream better, dream bigger, with me!” she beckons.
And finally, “I Need the Angel” crashes in like a confessional. It’s cathartic and breathless, Furman howling, “Tell me baby, whatever happened?/Whatever happened to those twenty-something dreams?” Her voice cracks from effort—no affectation, just release.
In Goodbye Small Head, Ezra Furman does what few songwriters can: she turns personal disintegration into a communal ritual. Even as the songs spiral out, they’re tethered to a core of hope—not blind optimism, but belief in beauty after breakdown. Loss of control, here, isn’t an ending. It’s a door opening, a signal flare in the dark.