Overthinking songs: "The Old Witch Sleep and the Good Man Grace," The Amazing Devil

I was unaware of The Amazing Devil as a band before I encountered Joey Batey as Jaskier the Bard in Netflix’s The Witcher. And while I fell a little bit in love with Batey in the role, it felt a bit gauche to seek out his band just because I’d enjoyed his performance. I know that’s self-conscious BS, but I didn’t want to be that kind of fan, you know?

But then The Amazing Devil—which is Batey and his bandmate Madeleine Hyland—released a new album in 2021, and my social media, including people whose tastes I know are similar to mine, went nuts for it. So I figured, maybe I ought to get in on this.

That album, Ruin, starts off with a lot of powerful, relatable tracks, including “Drinking Song for the Socially Anxious,” which. You get it. But it was the sixth track, a nearly nine-minute anthem of rage and self-empowerment, that derailed my brain and left me a mess. I had never felt quite so seen in this particular way, and I didn’t really know what to do with that information.

I don’t claim to have the only correct interpretation of “The Old Witch Sleep and the Good Man Grace.” I don’t even claim that my interpretation is correct. And I certainly don’t have any insights into Joey Batey’s personal life and health, mental or otherwise, though things he’s put out there into the world lead me to believe that he knows what it’s like to deal with anxiety. But boy, I’ve taken this particular song deeply to heart, and I’ll defend my own personal takeaways from it, hissing and clawing. Make of that what you will.

Here’s the song. Let’s dive in.

To my mind, this song captures the tightrope walk that I, as a mentally ill person, am constantly managing: between rest and fulfillment, between being responsible for my own needs and asking for accommodations. The two characters of the Old Witch Sleep and the Good Man Grace are, in some ways, each the opposite end of a single axis, and in some ways, each represent their own full spectrum.

The song begins by introducing the Old Witch Sleep as someone whose ideals are to be rejected:

There’s a fire burning
And I’m learning to be
So much more than my tiredness
So much more than that old witch Sleep wishes

Mental illness—depression, anxiety, the simple fact of feeling like you don’t work the way the world thinks you should—is exhausting. And in a society obsessed with productivity, it can be hard to accept your own need for rest, especially when you seem to need more of it than other people do.

Often, the first step for us crazies is to learn that rest is a right, and it’s something we owe ourselves—not for the sake of future productivity, but just because this is the only life we get, and we shouldn’t hurt ourselves to meet arbitrary standards. Learning how to rest, to embrace the Old Witch Sleep, is a crucial skill for recovery.

But the other side to that coin is that it’s possible to stagnate in your exhaustion. You can become so afraid of the effort, the tiredness, that you avoid doing things you truly want to do for yourself. And so it becomes a balancing act: when to rest, and when to push through.

“You don’t have to be brilliant,”
She says as she scrolls through the roles that the millions
Of hollering hollow folk know how to play.
”It’s okay. They’re just shadows searching for light.
They can’t stay.”

But what if I want to be brilliant? What if I already am? On the one hand, learning how to rest and understanding when it’s necessary are important. But on the other, I can do better than artificially low expectations for myself. The Old Witch Sleep’s heart is in the right place—but she won’t acknowledge your full potential. She can’t be allowed to run the show.

The “hollow folk” are everyone else, just trying to live the way they’re expected to. And they’re managing to do it. Why can’t I?

Don’t compare yourself, the Old Witch Sleep says. They aren’t like you. And she’s right; they’re not—but it doesn’t mean they’re worse, or I’m better.

The Old Witch Sleep’s world is comfortable, but ultimately unfulfilling. If I go with her, I won’t face the challenges required to do the things I dream of doing.

Now, we meet someone else:

Somehow now I’m drinking
And I’m lifting my glass to that last good man, Grace
Who has left me, he’s left me at last
And I laugh, and I laugh
Because laughing right now, it’s all, it’s all that I have

“You’re better than this,”
He says as a hand slaps my face and I stand
I say, “No, Good Man Grace, I can’t do this-”
”You can.”
”I can’t do this-”
”You can.”
”I can’t do this.”
”You can.”
”I can’t do this, you don’t understand.”

There are limits to everything. Mental illness, while it’s possible to work with and around it, does pose limitations. Rest, recuperation, and understanding—grace—wouldn’t be necessary in the way that they are, otherwise.

But there are people and institutions for whom that grace only goes so far. They can’t understand why you still need patience, why you still want accommodation. You seemed pretty normal for a good long time, there. Why can’t you just… keep doing that? It must be because you don’t want to. Because you’re lazy.

Insisting in response that you do have limits, that they’re different than other people’s, but that they still don’t make you worthless or incapable—it takes a kind of strength that I definitely don’t always have. It’s so easy to internalize those values, to think that if you pretend to be normal for long enough, somehow you’ll stop being who you are. To stand up in the face of that sort of rejection and continue to love yourself is genuinely revolutionary.

The Good Man Grace has high expectations. He knows what you’re capable of, and he’s willing to extend you a little bit of leeway (or pity) in achieving it. But ultimately, his expectations are unreasonable. For your own sake, you have to keep your boundaries firm, and not be tempted to overextend yourself.

The Good Man Grace’s world is exciting and full, and teases the prospect of finally living up to societal standards, of being able to respect yourself. But it will destroy you.

Sleep now, oh, she pleads
You’re not a coward ‘cause you cower
You’re brave because they broke you
Yet broken, still you breathe

The Old Witch Sleep chimes back in against the Good Man Grace, reminding you that just continuing to exist in the face of these hurdles is an act of defiance. But it’s up to you to decide whether survival is all you want.

Then the hollow folk pour me another shard full of glass
And I toast to their talents, and I forgive them at last

Even the folk who seem to have it easier in this world still struggle, and we each choose to survive in our own way. You can’t compare your way against theirs, because we each have to find the way that works for us. And we do that by balancing rest and ambition, stretching and comfort.

In the chorus, Batey addresses both of his characters, the Old Witch Sleep and the Good Man Grace, together:

You are in the earth of me
You are in the earth of me
My head’s not yours, it’s mine
And I’ll take my fucking time…

I’m all yours, but you’re all mine
Let’s dance together, you and I
’Cause I’m not trapped with you, you see,
You’re the one who’s trapped with me.

Neither Sleep nor Grace is running the show in here. I am. And when the inmate (hah) finally realizes they can take control of the asylum, that’s when things get good.

‘Cause I’ve been here so many times before
Don’t you think I look pretty curled up on this bathroom floor?
Where you see weakness, I see wit
Sometimes I fall to pieces just to see what bits of me don’t fit

‘Cause when I stand, oh, those folks will run
And tell the tales of what I’ve become
They’ll speak of me, oh, in whispered tones
And say my name like it shakes their bones

The song picks up a ton of energy here. At first, with the Old Witch Sleep, it was exhausted—soft and slow. With the Good Man Grace, it gets angry, defiant. But now, there’s sarcasm, confidence… joy.

As it turns out, Batey seems to say, I’ve been tangling with these expectations and disappointments my whole life. I know you, he says to them. I know how to use you for my own ends. You are in the earth of me—there’s no getting rid of you, I don’t even know who I would be without you—but by the same token, you are me. And I get to make what I want of you.

And when I finally let go of trying to be ‘normal,’ I’ll be the best damn thing you’ve ever seen.

There will always be something in me that’s exhausted, and something that wants more. There will always be something in me that resents societal expectations, and something that wants to meet them. Threading a path through all of these somethings is my responsibility and the route to my best life.

It’s a lot to read into a single song, even a nine-minute one. But whether Batey consciously put it there or not, it makes me feel seen, and it gives me the kick in the ass I need to keep finding my own path. I’ll take that.