Another critic turned down this assignment because they just can’t stand him, but alas, Father John Misty is my own Roman Empire, crowding my thoughts with the music of civilization’s hubristic decline. The mood swings are wilder, the logic more tangential; the songwriting might be the best it’s ever been. It’s called Mahashmashana, an anglicization of mahāśmaśāna, the Sanskrit word for cremation ground: the burning wasteland before the next life. Even playing the spiritual tourist, Misty’s compelled to point out we’re all headed to the same place. I get to call it a “career-spanning album”; he watches his life flash in front of his eyes.