Bad Religion: Ezra Furman’s Sonic Tapestry of Judaism and Queer Realness in ‘Transangelic Exodus’

Ezra Furman takes the listener on a journey of biblical proportions with angels and self-discovery. A spin on the classic American road trip, Transangelic Exodus, chronicles Furman’s imaginary journey from conformity to gender and sexual euphoria.

Written by Julianna Riccioli

Photo courtesy of Guy Gooch

With 12 albums and EPs, the soundtrack for Netflix’s show “Sex Education,” and a book analyzing Lou Reed’s subversive album Transformer behind her belt, Ezra Furman is no stranger to writing about sex and gender identity. But, in the 2018 album Transangelic Exodus, Furman evokes the anger and ethereality of religion in a context that she had yet to explore. She battles the complex intersections of her Jewish spirituality with her queer journey by confronting societal and religious expectations and celebrating gender fluidity in tandem with sexual liberation in what she proclaims a “fictionalized memoir.” 

On her musical journey, Furman consistently explored the self through sexual and gender freedom as a trans and bisexual artist, but it is in this album that listeners connect on a new level with her — a religious one. She once tweeted that she’s been, “in love with Orthodox Judaism since [she] was a teenager.” Through this album she reveals how these sides of herself combine to curate such a sonically rich and meaningful record. 

Transangelic Exodus, as the title alludes, paints the story of an angel on the run for liberation with Furman. In a raw mix of queer love and Jewish spirituality, the album paints the story of a mythological, forbidden romance between an angel and a human discovering freedom in a society that does not accept them.. In one interview with Consequence, Furman explained the album narrative as her being “in love with an angel, and a government is after us … the term transangelic refers to the fact that people become angels because they grow wings … it causes panic because some people think it's contagious, or it should just be outlawed.” She creates an analogy from the angels sprouting wings to the homophobia and transphobia that permeates in society today. The second half of the title refers to one of Judaism’s foundational texts, Exodus, and its modern interpretation of liberation. From the title alone, Furman serves to defy cultural and religious norms by asserting her Jewishness along with her queer identity, rather than choosing one over the other as both society and traditional Orthodox Judaism would dictate. In the same tweet Furman wrote protecting her love of Judaism, she also pointed out “the denomination’s insistence on its own queerphobia,” showcasing her reality as a queer, trans woman and Jewish. She imbues the album’s striking tone in the title, and highlights a few key facets of the queer experience — being cast out of community, seeking liberation and protection — within a religious context. 

Furman’s identity as a queer Jewish artist challenges Orthodox Judaism’s historical ties to traditional roles in sexuality and gender. Her intersectionality in her identity, as a queer, trans woman who embraces Judaism, challenges the traditional religious beliefs that can greatly marginalize and stigmatize LGBTQ+ individuals. In her work, she promotes the inclusivity of queer identities in a largely strict religion, details her own personal experiences as a religious and queer individual, and demonstrates that it is possible to reconcile one’s sexual and gender orientation with their faith. 

The album’s opener, “Suck the Blood from My Wound,” a gritty, almost vengeful track, celebrates the escape of the lovers. Furman sings, “We’re off the grid, we’re off our meds / We’re finally out on our own … Angel don’t fight it / To them you know we’ll always be freaks,” and establishes herself and the angel as social pariahs, of their own accord. The angel and Furman go on their own exodus, and through the overlapping cadence of instrumentals, beeps, and a bill-counting machine, Furman viciously chants the closing lines of the song, “A plague on both your houses,” in reference to Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet.” The romance between Furman and her love seem to become destined for failure, in this connection to one of the most iconic tragies of all time, in which two lovers are fated to be kept apart, or die trying to remain together. She continues to allude to the world’s attempts to keep her and the angel apart in the third track on the album, “God Lifts Up the Lowly,” but it’s her religion that provides comfort when facing a society that discriminates against her. 

With a haunting cello backing Furman’s vocals, she sings, “We’ll never make it out on the main streets / They’ll force us back into the alley ways… but I know God lifts up the lowly.” She conjures an image of an LGBTQ+ couple being pushed into the shadows of an unaccepting society, eerily mirroring the public perception of queer couples throughout history, all while presenting the divine entity of God protecting them. Furman contrasts the idea that religion can be a source of discrimination and hate, with the assertion that it can also be a source of comfort and support for the individual. In the same vein, this concept illustrates that it may not be the religious text or belief that causes such strife and shame within the religious community, but queerphobic sects and ideals spread among followers of organized religion — not just Judaism. The musicality is notably more somber than the first track, without the vicious clashing of instruments backing her vocals, but this shift further illustrates the grace of religion that Furman so carefully trusts, and it is one that protects rather than shuns. The challenges of queerness in religion are illuminated throughout the album, but through the use of the cello in the track, from the shift of the sharp pizzicato of the plucking of the strings in the verses, to the long dragging of the bow against the sound of sharp staccato, there’s a clear contrast to be made of the musicality to the lyrical interpretation. The change in the cello style mirrors the deeper intricacies of finding true inclusivity through a personal connection with God, even in the context of a controlling religious external environment. With this track, the album sonically shifts to further represent the somber protection of God with the chaotic clash of outside forces. Furman concludes the song by reciting a Hebrew morning prayer, reiterating the reassuring image of this couple being together — and alive — the next morning, with God protecting them.

Photo courtesy of Andrew Benge

In the second half of the album, the track “Maraschino-Red Dress $8.99 at Goodwill” marks the ultimate intersection of faith and queerness in the album, in addition to being one of the clearest narrative tales, in which Furman is uneasy in a Goodwill about buying a dress while still outwardly presenting as a man, and in her breakdown, worries about being late or missing synagogue. Excited — and anxious — guitar and drums begin the song, and as Furman sings, “I don’t think I’ll be showing up / At synagogue at quarter past seven,” her gender euphoria of buying a dress clashes against her fear of missing synagogue and the societal shame of dressing feminine. But it’s the combination of sensations that paints the true idea of her identity, rather than just the joy or shame. She continues, “Sometimes you go through Hell and you never get to Heaven … But I thank God / Who gives strength to the weary,” and highlights that it is not despite the anxieties of all the aforementioned sensations that God still provides her strength, it is because of these conflicting experiences that she can use religion as a guide and source of protection.

“I Lost My Innocence” finishes off the album in celebration of the queer experience and defiance of society, by portraying acceptance of Furman’s gender and sexual identity in conjunction with her religion. It begins with sharp exhales, a consistent electric piano beat, and a deep, clear bass line, in which she proclaims, “I lost my innocence / To a boy named Vincent / Box of Girl Scout Thin Mints / And a pack of Winstons.” In complete contrast to the previous tracks that called back to her past queer experiences, she sings proudly and with the accompaniment of equally excited musicality about what is possibly one of the most personal experiences someone can have, regardless of sexual identity — losing one’s virginity. In rising joy, with the help of horns and a guitar solo, Furman sings, “I’m a little creature and they can’t catch me,” labeling herself with the proud title of a “little creature,” rather than begetting the oppressive forces to do it for her, in a callback to how she identified herself as a “freak” in the first track before society could do it for her. She continues, “I found my angel on the motorcycle / I’m a queer for life, outlaw, outsider … In a single instance / I joined the true resistance,” and illuminates the joy the queer experience can exude.

In Transangelic Exodus, Ezra Furman weaves a sonically fascinating tapestry of harsh truths and personal experiences. She paints a narrative of two lovers escaping a controlling society, but can find peace in each other and the presence of God. Her references to personal anecdotes and commonly shared LGBTQ+ experiences invites listeners into a complex, introspective illumination of queer love and Judaism.