Some things truly cannot be remedied, especially not on ‘The Subway’. This is something Chappell Roan mourns in her newest single, noting the only escape may be moving to Saskatchewan.

Despite being released at the tail end of July, this song has been a fan favourite for so, so much longer, having been performed for months before releasing it. When I first heard the live version, I felt the same thing as when I heard ‘Silver Springs (Live)’ for the first time. It’s that deep and noticeable feeling that settles between your ribs, that this song was written from the same place you’re feeling it.

With ‘The Subway,’ I think this is truer than most cases, proven only by the deep-seated sadness of the studio version, versus the desperation of the live.

The live version paints a picture of the once-upon-a-time person, still pinning over them –  in some iterations – still desperate to reach toward them. The studio version reinvents this into simple sadness. The longing to reach out still exists, but there’s an acceptance that this can never happen. There’s no overt desperation or pining, just the information, and so, so much sadness.

Both are familiar, relatable griefs that differ ever so slightly. It’s Roan’s vocal talent that allows her to move so seamlessly between these evocative iterations - like changing to the next platform. The vocal flips are stunning, and she soars over the high notes like it’s breathing. This is to be expected – even in the live version, her vocal prowess is outstanding. The ease with which she confronts such a vocally demanding song allows for her highly-expressed sadness to seep through each word. For each time she says “over,” in the chorus, there is a consistent renewal of her sadness, another knife to the gut.

The production suits this overtone, although I recommend listening to a live version to gather the breadth of emotions this song can incur. Desperation is a cornerstone here; in the studio version, it is understated, in the live version… it outshines even Roan’s sparking stage presence. The production has been smoothed over in the studio version, which I don’t mind at all for general listening purposes, but for a true-to-form mental breakdown, the live version is the way to go. As live production should be, it is the amplified reinvention of the studio, wherein the drumming is softened, she melodically opts for the lower harmony, and strings form an instrumental backdrop. There is nothing left desired in the live version, but the studio version’s production asks for you to take more, as a listener.

They’re incomparable listening experiences, really. It’s a song of contradictions, so I think that makes sense. “It’s just another day,” she settles, “but it’s not over.” It truly manifests the way heartbreak holds on so tightly to its victims, arms around the ribs, forcing you to confront the baggage it leaves behind.

This baggage weaves into and swirls around a heart-shattered Roan in the music video. I’d be remiss to not mention the symbolic beauty of these visuals in particular: her long, Rapunzel hair is such an issue. Memories in the form of New York junk gets trapped in it, immovable, she is dragged along the ground as the memories confound her and she is unable to even see around her with any true clarity. And you’d think the escape here is to just cut it off! But no - these memories swirl around her and the fresh bob (LOVE it, even if I’m a little biased) and trap her in an equally immovable state. How a broken heart can never truly be escaped, whether by train or moving to Saskatchewan, is manifested and damned.

And all this after seeing some “green hair.” This song is a warning of the harsh emotional underbelly of public transport, often left untouched. Stay safe out there. Clearly Myki inspectors aren’t the only risk on the train.

“Staring out the window of the train as it rains and pretending you’re in a depressing music video” music is back - now with a distressing vengeance.