Cyclops Rock: Spite Punk for the Brokenhearted
Heartbreak, grocery stores, and the Son of Poseidon.
Cyclops Rock is the second track on They Might Be Giants’ 2001 album Mink Car. This would normally be a great opportunity for a tangent about the upcoming Christopher Nolan film The Odyssey, because of the obvious cyclops tie-in. Mentioning it would probably net me a few search-engine-optimization points from the internet gods. Unfortunately, the only connection I can find between this song and Homer’s masterpiece is the word “cyclops.”
This is a crank-the-volume song. It’s poppy. It’s punky. Those are not words anyone has ever used in a serious music review, but I’m free-associating here. From the first moment I heard it, Cyclops Rock was a banger. The lyrics tell the story of someone in the middle of a breakup, but references to Chucky from the Child’s Play movies keep it from feeling too heavy. Instead of pure heartbreak, the song lands somewhere closer to light-hearted spite-punk. The tubular bells probably help with that too.
Let’s talk music. Cyclops Rock wastes no time getting to the point. It starts with the loud ringing of three bells before Danny Weinkauf’s bass riff comes in and stomps through the entire song. John Flansburgh’s crunchy electric shoves its chords into your ears as the chorus - and the thesis of the entire song - arrives almost immediately.
Dan Miller’s lead guitar melts across the first verse, and the whole piece is simple, loud, and full of feeling. Later, a guitar solo collides with John Linnell’s bass saxophone, and the bridge features guest vocals from Cerys Matthews. The arrangement is endlessly listenable while tapping into an emotion scores of people know well.
Time to get vulnerable
Here’s the thing though. I first heard this song as a very young parent of a two-year-old, married for roughly the same amount of time. Logically, I understood what the song was saying. But I didn’t truly relate to it until about six months ago.
Long-time readers may remember that while I was writing about songs from John Henry last summer, I suddenly found myself in the throes of an unexpected divorce. New readers will quickly discover that many of these songs are now tangled up with that experience. I can’t help it. It’s where I am in life.
Like Odysseus, I too completed an epic journey; sailing back home after navigating the emotional wreckage of a breakup. Each rung on the grief ladder becoming its own small monster to wrestle with along the way.1
Let me share how this song lands today, starting with the chorus, which I hear posed as a rhetorical question.
I taught you how to cyclops rock, and then you go and turn around and break my heart? And waste my cyclops time? Mess up my cyclops mind?
This is the voice of resentment. When I hear it now, I think about those early weeks after the breakup when it felt like I had poured so much of myself into someone and the life we built together. Thinking we both wanted the same future. Bringing her into the lives of my kids. And then suddenly she was walking away. Was it all for nothing?
Those early breakup days are raw. Spite, resentment, anger. The chorus reminds me of how it felt seeing her looking happy afterward. Sharing good moments with our friends while I felt gutted. I had given part of my world to someone, and they carried it with them on the way out the door.
Gotta find a new place to hang out, ‘cause I'm tired of living in Hell.
Walking into the neighborhood grocery store alone, headphones on and music playing, had always been a mundane routine. But the first time I did it after the divorce, memories flooded in. The two of us doing bits and fake arguing over ingredients.
Every place I liked to shop, eat, or get drinks was anchored in that “two-ness” we had. For a short time I avoided those places just to give myself space to heal.
It was sweet, like lead paint is sweet. But the after-effect left me paralyzed. I just stare, with my one glass eye. Hoping you won't be back again.
“I dare you to go no-contact,” one of my friends said two days after the split. He said it with such confidence that it felt like a challenge he knew I would never accept. But then I did.
Not right away. But quietly, a couple months later, I did. Seeing notifications from the group chat hurt. Instagram stories hurt. Everything hurt. The best way to heal was to stop reopening the wound. Blocking meant I’d have to send a new follow request later, which created a small fail-safe against impulsively undoing it.
My defeated heart keeps beating on
Back then I was feeling everything at once while trying not to show it. In those early days it felt like I had been wrecked. I cried harder than I had in decades. It genuinely felt like part of me was dying. But underneath it all my heart kept beating, and even though I couldn’t see it yet, I was slowly healing.
Until my body tried to actually die. Just after Christmas I suffered a brain bleed and spent ten days in the hospital. By February I was feeling like myself again. Not brain-bleed me. Not divorced me. Just me. It’s a good place.
Today, I am fully healed from both. So, yeah.
When this album came out, I understood what the song meant in my mind. My heart didn't know it.
It sure does now.
You’re reading one of my Mink Car essays. An album full of pop, depression, and high fidelity.
Dive deeper into TMBG lore at TMBW.net (fan-run and fantastic)
I tied it together after all. What, you thought I couldn’t connect The Oddyssey with this song? Give me a break.