BOOTCAMP – Time’s Up | Album Review

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Convulse Records

In conversations with friends about our collective feelings of despair watching compounding historical crises from the imperial core, I've been sharing this quote that Sally Rooney gave the New York Times about how she views her job writing novels in the face of calamities: “I suppose I tell myself that in the midst of all of this, people need not become so incredibly overwhelmed by the enormity of the problems that we’re facing as to feel that life itself is no longer meaningful and that there’s no reason to go on.” I worry I’ve been using it as an excuse to justify inaction and complicity in exchange for the comforts of being an American in the face of the final sunset. 

That is the prevailing question driving Iowa City hardcore band BOOTCAMP on their debut, Time's Up. What are you doing as the world burns? The system is content to burn the world to the ground to maintain control as we do just enough to pat ourselves on the back, saying we did all we could as the flood waters fill our lungs. BOOTCAMP doesn’t believe bent ears are enough. 

Throughout the record, BOOTCAMP points fingers at the petit bourgeois class traitors who enable systems of oppression to continue. On “Email,” vocalist Juliette takes the role of a nude HR drone behind a switched-off Zoom camera, masturbating while denying bereavement leave. On “Endless Commute,” they touch on how communities are purposely divided by urban planning and our reliance on cars. On “Ruins,” they point at city folk like myself who step over people begging in the streets because our need to get lotion from Target overrules our innate empathy. I’m reminded of the time I had to kick someone out of the library because they refused to wear shoes, and I watched them get on their hands and knees to beg. I have never felt more inhuman than in that moment. 

BOOTCAMP understands that while the CEOs set the policies, it is in our daily interactions that we enforce the rules because we can’t imagine giving up the slight comforts this dying system affords us. As Juliette screams, “It’s a choice.” That choice is to live in a fantasy, one where the world isn’t built on violence, one where “painting some quirky signs” is enough to enact change. 

That is not to say BOOTCAMP spares those in power their ire. “CEO” evokes what happened outside the Hilton Midtown on December 4th, 2024, “September 11th” denounces American imperialism, and “Asylum” begs for the relief of open borders. 

At the end of the record, Juliette takes stock of what our collective refusal to change means for the future generations. On closing track “Decision,” they grapple with the idea of bringing a child into a world destined to burn. After a record of pointing fingers begging for change, it is legitimately chilling to hear someone as fearless as Juliette shriek, “Don’t want to bring her into this hell,” as the guitars fume towards the end. 

I was watching The Battle of Algiers, a beautiful ode to the freedom fighters who helped overthrow French imperial rule in Algeria, for the first time the other day, and I couldn’t help but think, “when will we have had enough?” BOOTCAMP want you to see that the time has long since passed and find something liberatory in that. In the face of the end, what is left to try but everything.

Lillian Weber is a fake librarian in NYC. She writes about gender, music, and other inane thoughts on her substack, all my selves aligned. You can follow her on insta @Lilllianmweber.

Greg Freeman – Burnover | Album Review

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Transgressive Records

To pay respect to a record that wastes no time getting right to it, I’ll do the same. Greg Freeman’s Burnover is one of the best projects of the year, and it makes its case in the first five seconds. The initial moments of the first track and lead single “Point and Shoot,” a straight shooting guitar-forward heater that tragicomically evokes the Alec Baldwin disaster, lay out the blueprint that defines the entire record. Freeman’s delivery of the opening lines “Shot down in the shade of cardboard canyons / They cut the scene and saw blood on the Cameraman” lets the listener know exactly what they’re in for. The vocals are idiosyncratic yet immediately iconic. The lyrics are somewhat elusive but evoke vivid imagery rooted in a physical place. Emotionally, there’s a touch of familiar wryness, but his heart is refreshingly on his sleeve. Where many insert a throat-clearing preamble or instrumental intro, Freeman starts with a confident crack and a bang.

Freeman kicks off his sophomore album with an appropriate level of urgency as he tries, and succeeds, to capitalize on the organic ascension he’s experienced since the release of his 2022 self-released debut, I Looked Out. Unlike Burnover, which seems to have built up a bit of a hype train, his first record was released with no label and basically zero marketing. Freeman earned his traction with a once common, now radical formula of involvement in a strong local scene, playing a bunch of kickass live shows, and good old-fashioned word-of-mouth. Now he’s got a record deal, a calendar full of shows opening up for Hamilton Leithauser and Grandaddy, and a Rolling Stone profile. In his words, he’s “not trying to cater to anyone” on this album, but I think it’s safe to say Greg knows he’ll be addressing a larger audience. 

In conjunction with his individual rise to relative stardom, there seems to be a growing appetite for this flavor of indie rock. I imagine anyone reviewing Freeman’s sophomore effort will be playing a version of the “Don’t Mention MJ Lenderman Challenge,” and it’s hard not to see these two as part of the same overarching trend. Though I’m not sure alt-country is the perfect label for Freeman’s music, some of the elements are there, as are the en vogue ‘90s guitar music references spanning the modern music landscape. These influences are connected. The current alt-country boom mirrors a similar explosion in the ‘90s, both of which coincided with a rise in commercialized country music. In a sense, Greg, MJ, and others in this lane are photo negatives of the larger pop country industry, and their respective local scenes are rough and rowdy antidotes to its monolithic polish and sheen. 

In contrast to Lenderman and others who carry this “alt-country” label, Freeman’s style is more freewheeling cowboy than Southern gothic. Greg was nice enough to respond to a few questions I sent over to him, and he was clear that he didn’t have a strict master plan for what his second album was going to sound like. “I let the songs kind of write themselves, and wasn’t too concerned with having them fall into any cohesive sound or style.” That starts to become apparent when the second track, “Salesman,” comes in with its walloping horns and buzzing guitar, then gives way to the plucky piano ballad “Rome, New York.” These two songs flaunt Freeman’s ability to turn his sound on a dime and his trust that the songs “would have some kind of cohesive identity, without putting any rules on [them] sound-wise.” They’re in totally different energetic registers but feel cut from the same cloth.

When I asked him the somewhat cliché “musical influences” question, he indulged my suggestion that Modest Mouse may have imprinted on his sound, and I hear in both artists that lack of concern over sonic cohesion. On some of Modest Mouse’s best projects, like 2000’s landmark The Moon and Antarctica, the band didn’t confine themselves to a particular genre and instead seemed more focused on evoking salient imagery (as exemplified by the album title). Greg seems to take that approach as well. On the brilliant title track, a reference to a region of upstate New York known as a hotbed for 19th-century religious fervor, he sings of a blue frozen morning, smoke on the horizon, a fire station barroom, psychic highways, and glacial lakes. It loosely tells the story of a firefighter’s strike, but the narrative is incomplete and secondary to the pictures the song projects onto my brain. It’s all set to a backdrop of acoustic guitar, piano, and harmonica that would sound right at home on a ‘70s Dylan record.

These folk rock arrangements are one of the most obvious ways in which Freeman’s second album progresses from his debut. His band of talented musicians from the local Burlington scene flesh out the album’s “live in the studio” sound, making every track feel as if it’s being brought to life just as it enters your ears. On an Instagram post earlier this summer accompanying the release of the single “Curtain,” Freeman recalled joyful laughter in the studio as his piano player laid down the track’s “honky tonk” riff that was simply “so perfect that it’s kind of funny.” That magic certainly translates to the studio recording. The band’s chemistry is audible as they jam along so effortlessly for seven minutes that I wished it would go on for seventy.

I’ve spent months with Burnover at this point, and it’s still slowly revealing itself to me. Greg and I agreed that the album wasn’t necessarily “accessible,” but it does offer several handholds and entry points in the form of highly memorable melodies, riffs, and lines. The guitar riff on the pop-punkish “Gulch” and the “rusty metal throne” line from “Curtain” are just a couple of tidbits that have stuck with me for weeks now, and I suspect I’ll continue digging up new golden nuggets as I keep listening along with the rest of the world. The album just dropped on streaming as I’m writing this, and it feels like the celebration around Burnover has only just begun. I asked Greg about the future of the industry, specifically in the context of the recent Spotify reckoning and his complicated feelings towards the platform as a sort of necessary, but possibly transient, evil. He left me with his hope that “the freakier the future gets, the stronger our communities and independent movements will become.” He’s certainly doing his part.

Parker White lives and works in Atlanta where he moonlights as a music writer. When not attending local shows or digging for new tunes, he’s hosting movie nights, hiking/running, or hanging out with his beloved cat, Reba McEntire. You can find him on Twitter and Instagram @parkerdoubleyoo, and you can read other stuff he’s written over on his Substack.

Jobber – Jobber To The Stars | Album Review

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Exploding In Sound Records

For every generational talent that the world of professional wrestling has produced, there are dozens of other lesser-known wrestlers that have slipped through the cracks. For every “Stone Cold” Steve Austin, The Rock, or John Cena, there is an unsung titan like the Brooklyn Brawler, The Oddities, or the comedic parody firestorm that was Gillberg. For these lesser-known performers, their role was often losing matches to the bigger-name wrestlers, propping them up as the superstars they were meant to be. Within the art form, these designated losers are known as “jobbers,” and even though they are looked down upon by millions of fans tuning in, there’s a certain beauty in sacrificing yourself for the 1… 2… 3… pin. It’s a selfless act to put others before yourself for the greater good of the spectacle, all to benefit another wrestler in hopes of elevating your own career down the road. 

Kate Meizner, Michael Falcone, Michael Julius, and Miles Toth, the wrestling super fans that they are, appreciate the plight of the underdog. Entering the squared circle by way of Brooklyn, New York, a sludge-pop band by the name of Jobber was born in the early 2020s. The group’s first offering was an EP titled Hell In A Cell, named after the devilish steel cage match that’s been a fixture of WWE since the late ‘90s. Throughout that five-song collection, Jobber displayed a potent combo of both hooky pop songs and power guitar riffs, sounding as if a tag team was formed between The Breeders and Helmet.

Jobber To The Stars, Jobber’s full-length debut, finds the band joyfully elbow-dropping into the alternative rock era of the past that still resonates with so many people today. The opening track “Raw Is War” is named after the longest-running weekly episodic television show of all time, which WWE commentator Michael Cole routinely reminds the viewing audience every Monday, by threat of a cattle prod by the higher-up executives if he refuses. The song is a steel chair shot over the head from the opening bell, complete with gnarly riffs intertwined with bubbly sweet melodies. Meizner has all kinds of mental imagery running throughout her writing, from a snake eating its tail to lines like “hanging on by the skin of your own teeth.” Just when you think the track has run its course, there’s a killer guitar outro that sounds downright apocalyptic.

Wrestling is a fascinating spectacle where the performers depend on connection with the audience in order to rise through the ranks in a company. Great wrestlers have larger-than-life personas that develop cult followings that are everlasting, even decades after they hang up the spandex. Professional wrestler Brian Pillman, known for having a chaotic typhoon of a personality, lived a tragic life – he had to constantly live up to the character he had built himself up to be, not only on the screen, but in real life as well. “Pillman’s Got A Gun” is a slow-burning track dedicated to the ‘90s wrestler, accompanied by vicious guitar riffs that are executed with precision. It’s Jobber’s version of a ballad, coming out of the gate at a slower pace, but gradually ratcheting up the tempo as the song progresses. Meizner’s silky smooth vocals singing, “It just takes one shot to kill me,” is in reference to the moment when Brian Pillman, in-character, tried to shoot “Stone Cold” Steve Austin for breaking into his house. Yes, ‘90s wrestling television was as wild as it sounds.

For all the commitment Jobber made to the wrestling aesthetic, it’s worth mentioning that listeners don’t need to be a mark to enjoy this album. You don’t have to know what a Lou Thesz Press is or know the importance of Bret “The Hitman” Hart; wrestling itself is being used as a device for the band to discuss real-life problems that we all have encountered. Take the grungy cut “Summerslam” for example, in which Meizner compares a guy manipulating women to an arachnid “Spin webs and calculating, spider waiting, catching its prey.” A couple of tracks later, “Million Dollar Man” is bursting with enough energy to fuel a three-mile run; the topic at hand is not Ted DiBiase, but about dating someone who is like a failed summer blockbuster flop.

Outside of these interpersonal takedowns, Jobber also write about how the corporate world is hell on earth. On the jangly power pop single “Nightmare,” Meizner sings about full-of-shit CEOs, the colossal weight of being an overworked/underpaid employee, and getting talked over by switched-on bros. Her lyrics are an accurate depiction of what everyday people suffer through on a daily basis, forced to work for companies whose primary objective, nine times out of ten, is corporate greed. Waking up at the crack of dawn every morning, clocking in for a passionless job, all the while knowing that the company you’re breaking your back for couldn’t care less about you, is a type of Sisyphean hell relatable to everyone from professional wrestlers to the person reading this. 

Penultimate track “HHH” is named after the legendary wrestler in charge of WWE, and is a cerebral display of perfectly paced riffs that hammer home into a sludge-filled guitar solo that is one of the best on the whole record. Each song consistently has big guitar hero riffs on display with sweet honeycomb melodies that stick in your mind like double mint gum. Jobber created a throwback alt-rock vibe that strives for each song to belong on the A Block of MTV’s Alternative Nation.

The way Jobber uses wrestling as a guise to delve into larger issues is executed in such a clever way that it makes me want to keep hitting repeat to see what other themes I can pick up on. When you peel back the curtain, there are detailed layers not only behind the powerful production, but also within the lyrics being sung. Through thoughtfully smart songwriting and powerful alt-focused ‘90s riffs, Jobber makes a memorable debut from the opening bell to the closing pin.

David is a content mercenary based in Chicago. He's also a freelance writer specializing in music, movies, and culture. His hidden talents are his mid-range jump shot and the ability to always be able to tell when someone is uncomfortable at a party. You can find him scrolling away on Instagram @davidmwill89, Twitter @Cobretti24, or Medium @davidmwms.

Kerosene Heights – Blame It On The Weather | Album Review

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SideOneDummy Records

I miss everything about last summer. In transition from a long-time retail job to a responsible grown-up job, I found myself feeling ecstatic and optimistic about the future. There’s a sort of head-rushing excitement that comes when you make a leap-of-faith type decision in an otherwise mundane existence. Things in my life, at that time, felt hopeful – like I had managed to figure this thing out just a bit for once. For that summer, I was taking the win and relishing in it. Despite a promising outcome of that career change, life doesn’t always play out the way that we hope. In the end, we’ll leave it at, “I guess some things are just worth forgetting.”

That declaration stands true for Asheville punks Kerosene Heights on their sophomore LP, Blame It On The Weather. The aptly titled album draws inspiration from the devastating cyclone Hurricane Helene, which inflicted considerable damage throughout the southeastern United States, particularly in the band’s home state of North Carolina. Vocalist and guitarist Chance Smith wastes little time injecting the aforementioned mantra into the group’s newest release, as track one, “Sunsetting,” sets a somber, contemplative tone from the start. Anyone familiar with Kerosene Heights’ catalog knows there is seldom a dull track throughout; the emo-punk group is known for punchy, in-your-face songwriting, so for “Sunsetting” to start the record on such a pensive note is significant, clearly telegraphing the state in which the band members find themselves this time around. 

Approaching the first anniversary of Helene’s damage to NC, we can certainly sympathize with the band’s desire to move on from the destruction and loss left in its wake. A similar message rings throughout the following track, “Forget It,” the crux of which revolves around the line, “Oh just forget it / I wouldn’t be able to say it right now / Just know that I still think about you / All the time / Everytime.” Whether the track is aimed at a love interest, existence-altering natural disasters, or just life in general, one truism remains: the things we try to forget the most often end up sticking to us like glue. 

Even with consistently propulsive pop-punk energy, the band’s songwriting is steeped in the pessimistic and self-loathing style of emo that the genre was built on. Kerosene Heights don’t stray far from this approach on their second album, but know well enough to temper that downtrodden lyricism with absurdly catchy melodies and immensely satisfying riffage. The album’s first single, “Waste of Time,” is the poster child for this method, as Smith beckons, “It takes one to know one / but I feel like I’m a no one” sung amidst erratic guitar riffs and double-time drum rhythms. On the topic of catchy and replayable, the second single, “New Tattoo,” was a fan favorite on release, and for good reason; the track is a hopeless romantic’s anthem at its core. Smith’s commentary in this track is that of a new relationship feeling much like that of a new tattoo– thrilling, painful, spontaneous, uncomfortable at times, but ultimately, a commitment to who you are now and who you aim to be. This idea, paired with an Earth-shattering breakdown to close out, makes for a true-blue banger emo track.  

The latter half of the album magnifies its themes, particularly the struggle with adapting to change. A fair observation, considering we are living in a world that is evolving much too fast for us to genuinely adapt to healthily. Whether you’re talking about rapidly accelerating technology, an overwhelming torrent of horrible news, or disasters that threaten to displace you and everything you know, change is happening one way or another. This is a theme that I waxed poetic about in my review for Charmer’s Downpour just a few months ago. My stance on that record’s message is that we often look elsewhere to ease our frustrations and failures in life: the weather, our hometown, the government, before looking at ourselves as the culprit. Kerosene Heights takes a more direct route on this idea and is straight up with the fact that it’s their fault. While they can easily blame it on the weather, in the end, we’re responsible for how we react to it. 

Standout track, “Ghosts,” toys with this idea of how evolving as a person feels like shedding the old you and becoming something completely new. Smith yearns throughout the track, “I’m not who I used to be before, and I think it shows.” A fucked up idea to cope with– struggling with a world that’s consistently changing, forcing changes onto you, and feeling like no matter what, you’re not adapting to anything. Even as these changes lead to new forms, there’s still a constant struggle to feel comfortable in your new skin.

Blame It On The Weather has no frills and is messy at times, but is cathartic and impossible to forget– just like the summer that sparked its inspiration. A concoction of influences are apparent in Kerosene Heights’ songwriting, particularly bands like You Blew It! and Joyce Manor, but the Asheville punks put their own stamp on this sound, resulting in a distinct style of southeast emo. 

There’s a line from the penultimate track, “Love Spelled Backwards Is Love,” that rounds out the album appropriately. In it, Smith sings, “Told myself I would grow up but I didn’t / and I don’t care,” articulating a philosophical stance we could all lean into, especially after the events of last summer. The “I don’t wanna grow up” thematics in emo evoke a tantrum-like quality that is hard to shake without leaving a bad taste in your mouth. That is, until you begin to experience those tribulations of growing up, or growing in general, much like I did last summer. While Kerosene Heights probably want to forget about that summer (I do, too), it’s best not to forget what we learned from it. 

Brandon Cortez is a sometimes-writer/musician and a frequent emo-enjoyer nestled in the West Texas city of El Paso with his fiancée and two cats. In a futile effort to escape EP’s blistering heat, you can find him perpetually adjusting his fantasy football lineups and smothering his shortcomings in homemade Americanos. Find him on Twitter @numetalrev.

Pile – Sunshine and Balance Beams | Album Review

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Sooper Records

Content Warning: This article discusses religious trauma, sexual abuse, and cults.

I dug my fists into my thighs as my eyes stung with tears. I was once again the center of attention in our tiny church, congregants looking askance at me as one of them muttered, “Women should be seen and not heard.” I knew he wanted me to hear, wanted me to cry. I had spoken up during the sermon, feeling brave enough to answer a question posed to the audience. It was not the first time I had done so, nor was it the first time I had received frowns. 

But it felt different this time. 

From then on, I was silent. I rarely spoke to anyone in church after that, preferring to stand quietly in groups, shoulder blades pressed against the cool safety of the sepulchral white walls. I began to dress in longer, baggier clothes, willing myself to disappear as I navigated each week in what I would later understand to be a religious cult. I was suffocating, controlled by viciously patriarchal leadership. This was unfortunately nothing new to me, having been the victim of sexual abuse by church leadership when I was seven and subjected to abusive power dynamics, bullying, and exclusion in the name of religion throughout the rest of my youth.

My family left the cult when I was freshly eighteen. As horrible as my existence within it was, it was also all I knew - so my world crumbled to dust as I frantically grasped with trembling hands to take what I could from the past several years. Though there was little to save, I was able to heal and rebuild. Doing so has taken well over a decade, and truthfully, my healing is still ongoing. 

A massive aspect of my healing has been diving intensely into music exploration. Though I studied music through the graduate level, it wasn’t until after I completed my M.A. that I began to really dig into the underground scene. I discovered bands and artists that spoke of the things I had endured and made music that I not only found beautiful, but that I also related to. Pile has always been such a group to me, holding the title of my favorite band for years now. I’ve cried to “Fidget,” repeated “Thanks.” until every millisecond of the song was burned into my brain, and eagerly gushed about “Mr. Fish” during a radio hour. I had the privilege of seeing the band in concert during their 2023 tour, and it remains one of my favorite shows to this day. 

Each album of Pile’s is unique and equally beautiful, addressing various aspects of the human experience. The band’s sound defies categorization, never quite fitting into any one genre, scene, or descriptor. Albums can shift from brittle, belligerent noise rock to warm and melodic folk guitar, often within the space of one track. Other releases lean ambient, such as the mesmerizing and haunting Songs Known Together, Alone (2021), or in a more noisy direction, like Green and Gray (2019). I treasure the variety of their releases, captivated by frontman Rick Maguire’s knack for experimental arrangements and style. No matter what Pile attempts, it is executed with grace and the bizarre charm for which they are renowned.

Photo by Britta Joseph

When Sooper Records graciously sent Sunshine and Balance Beams over in April of this year, you can imagine the overwhelming joy I felt the moment I hit play. I sat on the floor of my office with the lights off, hands squeezing my headphones into my ears, eyes closed as Rick’s familiar voice rang through my skull like some kind of gritty prophet. I was captivated. Pulling my knees to my chest, I felt the familiar sensation of my shoulder blades digging into the wall behind me as the lyrics began racing through my head. Rick spoke of futile sacrifices, seemingly endless endeavors, and blind faith, painting on the walls of my mind palace like the Sistine Chapel. 

In the second track of the album (and first on streaming), “An Opening,” Maguire urgently delivers the lyrics “Held between a ceiling of teeth / Above and a floor of the same beneath / A hydraulic rescue tool answering prayers / Once we’re out of the woods we can get some air.” This is one of my favorite moments on Sunshine, with Rick’s voice rising to a fevered shriek on specific words, adding further impact to the already gutting lyricism. I was reminded of the deep fear I experienced in the cult - always striving to achieve some idealized version of myself, yet perpetually falling short, my adolescent body breaking as it was held to an ever-higher standard. I have lived between teeth and have the scars to prove it. 

I felt a thickness in my throat as the album continued to spin through my ears. Each song hung like a vivid and ominous tapestry as the lyrics wove a beautifully sinister picture of hope and despair. The viciously tight instrumentals snapped and raged, driven by Kris Kuss’ brilliant drumming and fully realized by guitarist Matt Connery and bassist Alex Molini. I’ve always been drawn to the group’s affinity for pentatonic melodies and the use of a particular secondary dominant chord (V/vi), so I was delighted to hear both stylistic hallmarks throughout Sunshine. String arrangements are also woven into multiple tracks, with the band citing influences like Chopin, Herrmann, and Vaughn Williams. Pile brought on cellist Eden Rayz to bring their artistic vision to life. As a classical music aficionado, I savored the melancholically ethereal atmosphere that the strings created, reminded of works like Barber’s “Adagio for Strings” or Respighi’s “Ancient Airs and Dances.” 

A heavy aspect of this album is the overt references to nature, both in the lyricism and in details such as the field recordings in the closing track “Carrion Song.” The juxtaposition of natural beauty against cruelly wielded power was not lost on me - the theme of Man versus Nature is one of several conflict types observed in literature. Even the title of the album is an allusion to this concept - “Sunshine” being a clear reference to nature, and “Balance Beams” representing the delicate and often-challenging work of existing on the path that society has deemed correct for humanity. In the song “Deep Clay,” Rick sings, “Labor is bound by growth / The vines slowly crawl up the walls / A monument to be swallowed whole.” No matter the effort, no matter the scale, nature will lay claim to human endeavors. This thought is continued in “Meanwhile Outside” where the lyrics lay out, “Death comes / in all shapes / You get dissolved / In space / And finally you can relate.” This leaves the listener with this question: Is it worth it? What will truly become of my labor? Has this all been for naught? Pile forces us to look capitalism and the cult of corporate greed in its snarling, violent maw and answer that question honestly. 

The promise kept of a home built with my hands
Nobody lives there, but that’s where I store plans
And all my will
And all my hope
But what was it you had in mind?
So what was it you had of mine?

Now four tracks into the record, I hadn’t opened my eyes at all since I started listening. But as track five began to hum through my headphones, I felt tears burning in the infinite void of my eyelids, my skin prickling with an emotion I couldn’t identify. As achingly dissonant strings and Rick’s earnest vocals layered over urgent drumming and driving guitars, I felt as though I was standing beneath Niagara Falls, mouth open for a drop, but instead choking on the entire waterfall. Hot tears streamed into my lap as my head bent under the weight of the words: 

Is it giving up
Or my right to refuse?
Perfectly obstructed from view
Thought no one lived there, but maybe I do

I built that house with only bones
Shelters those dreams for which I’ve atoned
A balcony to bask in the glow
And furnished with things I control

I used to stay up late into the night as a teenager, sitting cross-legged on my bed, my sole companions a cheap CD player and assorted recordings that were considered “approved listening.” I would listen over and over to Daniel Barenboim’s interpretation of Chopin’s nocturnes (still my favorite recording of them, by the way), dreaming of when I was old enough to strike out on my own and create a life for myself. I imagined my future home, filled with music and golden light, a safe haven for my battered and broken heart. Édith Piaf soundtracked these daydreams too, along with Yo-Yo Ma and a compilation of various Pixar songs. I was terribly lonely, but I found solace in these artists. I felt that same sense of comfort in this track, transporting me back to those solitary evenings in my room. When I finally opened my bleary, tear-filled eyes, I learned that the song was called “Bouncing in Blue.” It healed a small part of me and cemented my opinion that it is one of the greatest songs Pile has ever written. 

The album continues its haunting and beautiful journey with the unsettling track “Born at Night.” I hold the view that it is the sequel to “Making Eyes,” a song from Pile’s 2017 release A Hairshirt of Purpose. “Making Eyes” describes an albatross that is circling the speaker’s home, though no one else can see it: “They seem to see the sky just fine / But the bird and I are making eyes.” An albatross is historically symbolic of bad fortune, as notably illustrated in “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. In “Born at Night,” Pile has once again drawn a literary throughline, exploring the theme of Man versus Nature as Rick describes a bird with eyes “bouncing off the moon / Says if there’s no room for cowards now / Then who the fuck are you?” I like to think that this is the same albatross from “Making Eyes,” an ever-watchful omen that acts as both a warning and a companion.

An eerie black and white music video released alongside the track drives the cult metaphor home, starring a sinister gathering of cloaked individuals hell-bent on accomplishing evil at any cost. The gentle riff opening the song quickly accelerates, driving it into a heightened frenzy until the chaos suddenly stops and the riff returns, only to build again through the end. 

As the lead single of Sunshine and Balance Beams, “Born at Night” brilliantly portrays the driving theme of the album, leaving the listener wondering about the open-ended lyrics and the similarly open-ended final scene of the music video. This, I believe, was intentional - the way we react to the systems of power we are under dictates our futures. We may be crushed by a velvet-gloved fist, but we can escape its weight.

I’ve forgiven my past and the people in it now. Though I wish that I had had a childhood that I wanted to mostly remember instead of mostly forget, I know that I am resilient, compassionate, and gentle because of it. I am incredibly grateful for bands like Pile who impact the lives of their listeners so profoundly, and I will forever champion music that heals, music that moves, and music that confronts those in power.

With eyes closed and arms open to the sun, I will let my soul rush forward into the blue as years crash around me. I am out of the woods, lifting my chin to the sky as I run towards a future that promises its only constant shall be change. But I welcome it: I am free. I am free. I am free. I am free. I am free.

Britta Joseph is a musician and visual artist based in northern California. When she isn’t listening to records or deep-diving emo archives on the internet, she enjoys writing poetry, reading existential literature, and a good iced matcha. You can find her on Instagram and Bluesky @brittajoes.