Listening to John Keenan’s “Wreckage of the Past” feels like being handed the audio diary of a ghost who is not yet dead. This is an 18-song excavation of a psyche at war, made all the more intense by the knowledge that Keenan is the sole architect—producer, writer, mixer, and tormented protagonist. The whole project has the hermetically sealed, slightly feverish quality of a...

Before the curtain rises, there is already a contract in place. The room has paid for magic, the performer has learned how to make exhaustion look like sparkle, and every seat carries its own appetite. The front row is the most dangerous place in that exchange because it mistakes closeness for knowledge. It sees the shine on the costume, the mouth forming a smile, the...