Perhaps it is a fundamental difference in philosophy, but I came out of reading Anne Frank's diary in a somber mood, truly mourning the conclusion of the story, that sudden end that followed innocent optimism. I knew it well in advance, but after spending a couple of weeks immersed in that domestic environment, eavesdropping into the inner thoughts and anecdotes of a young girl's life amidst one of the darkest periods in history, the impact of such a conclusion was far greater than what I had imagined. Though, at no point did my interest in Anne Frank's thoughts go beyond that, an interest backed by bittersweet, wistful emotion.

As a Jeff Mangum has stated in interviews, the diary was an important point of inspiration for the record, and one which was a source of infatuation and grief. Throughout the writing of the record, the image of Anne Frank was constantly in his head, and therefore the record orbits around her. Whilst the female pronoun "her" continues to shift between Anne Frank, lovers, or just an idea of a woman, there doesn't appear to be any separation between Anne Frank and Jeff Mangum's own sexual desires and personal grief. This is something that becomes ever blurrier as there is a constant feed of references to the diary; recurring imagery of enclosed domestic spaces in tracks like 'Holland, 1945' ("And here's where your mother sleeps..."), hiding and being found ("Know all your enemies...", 'Oh Comely'), departing and escaping ("But now we must pack up...", 'Holland, 1945'), direct references to Anne such as in the title track ("Anna's ghost all around...") and elsewhere. All of which continually map onto Anne Frank rather than generic romantic imagery, causing her to continually be present throughout the record and never separating from his own desires, feelings, and grief.

Yet, there is this weird fetishism present for Anne Frank throughout the record, whilst one mustn't consider all underage people to be perfectly pure creatures, the book itself is not, but she was barely teenage. And here she is used as a vessel for sexual fantasies, religious and political thoughts, and his own tumultuous life, alongside doing some weird divinization-adoration thing akin to Dolce Stil Novo-era literature, used as a sort-of muse for purity and perfection. This refusal to separate her from his own desires causes the record's fixation to drift towards violation rather than tribute. 'Holland, 1945', perhaps the most earnest love-letter-slash-requiem, starts with a literal declaration of love for Anne Frank which turns into musings of death. First of her reincarnation, then stumbling upon a poignant observation of how we look in retrospect to events — romanticizing them and forgetting details — which is disregarded in less than two lines, with far more time being spent on imagery rather than actual nuance. Elsewhere, for instance — 'Two-Headed Boy', has the most obvious example of collision between sexuality and Anne Frank, "And in the dark we will take off our clothes" is a particularly sexual image, and whilst it is attempted to be dissolved by following "..they'll be placing fingers through the notches in your spine", the initial impact of this sexual connotation remains and clearly states sexual desire. Therefore, seeing these tales, this environment, such a person, being used for sexual desire, thin musings on death and decay, utterly ruins any enjoyment I could derive from such an album.

If anything, the record is so adolescent in its thoughts, that it appears to not even notice its morally dubious contents. It is so occupied with imagery: of the sexual, somber, gritty, bittersweet kind, alongside being so infatuated with the character of Anne Frank that judgement doesn't appear to be blurred, as much as entirely absent. 'Oh Comely', for instance, is eight minutes of self-indulgent sexual imagery juxtaposed with musical metaphors in some sort of commentary between intimacy and purity which ultimately doesn't go anywhere, drifting aimlessly between self-loathing, sexual anecdotes in both personal and domestic contexts. All with a cameo to Anne Frank's life placed at the end for no real apparent reason, her death not so much as mourned, but damned, as this deprives Jeff Mangum of having her. Each of the verses working in isolation, as little short flashes, but none of them build into anything, each verse simply starts from scratch and its intensity never reaches a peak, instead cycling like a saw wave. There is little depth to anything here, and its brief flashes of brilliance are short and immediately discarded for the next metaphor and image to be applied.

Pity, really, because, in an absolute bubble, some of these lines — even with their subpar delivery, akin to a high school student reading out a speech — are brilliant. Opener 'The King of Carrot Flowers, Pt. One', in the last line of its first verse, "As we would lay and learn what each other's bodies were for", manages to capture in such a succinct manner the innocent curiosity of adolescent first encounters with sexuality. Throughout the entire album there is a consistent supply of fine moments, that are immensely effective and emotive, perhaps some of the finest within Indie Rock, but ones whose quality is presented in brief moments and seems more incidental than truly deliberate.

In musical terms, it's not brilliant, it doesn't sound very good nor is it consistent in sound quality, but it doesn't need to be. The title track, for instance, transmits its bittersweet emotions within the first strum, slowly building upon this throughout the track. The album's rustic approach to production enhances the transmission of emotions as they aren't obstructed by advanced musical ideas, it simply does rather than think. A majority of these instrumentals are akin to a field of roses, masterfully providing a sea of emotions to the listener, it is unfortunate that they are encumbered and overshadowed by immature writing and poor vocals.

Really, if I could see that this writing was the product of serious pondering, perhaps I'd give it some kudos for its earnestness, even if I couldn't ignore its problematic qualities. If this indulging were made knowingly, at least I'd provide some praise for this self-awareness, but it doesn't. The act, though — sexualizing a dead child — remains despite its naivety. And this unawareness, as it stumbles upon this morally dubious point of view and develops it unknowingly, is its worst sin.