The Brian Jonestown Massacre – Fire Doesn’t Grow On Trees | Album Review

I’m a firm believer in not engaging with art until the time is right. I didn’t see Goodfellas until I was twenty-three; the movie had somehow fallen through the cracks for me, but once I felt like an embarrassing amount of time had passed, I finally gave it a watch, and it changed my life. Sure, if I had seen it earlier in my life, it still might have left a sizable impact on me, but I don’t think I would have appreciated it to the level I did at twenty-three. There’s something cosmically gratifying in allowing yourself to engage with a piece of art when the time is right. 

This approach also goes for things that don’t click right away. Sometimes I will listen to a band and find something interesting in their music, but we just aren’t syncing together. It’s like when you’re listening to the radio in your car and you spin the dial just a bit off the station–you can still hear the song, but there’s this fuzzy distortion that prevents you from fully experiencing it.

For years, this was my relationship with The Brian Jonestown Massacre. In hindsight, I judged the band without really knowing much about them. What I knew about the group was that they made spacey garage rock that rested in the middle of a Venn diagram containing 60s psychedelia and shoegaze. Music like this is very much my kinda thing, but in a stroke of sophomoric arrogance, I thought, “I have My Bloody Valentine and Spiritualized; what do I need this band for?” I lived in this ignorance for over a decade until earlier this year when a friend gave me an extra ticket to their show at The Fillmore in San Francisco.

I’m not one to turn down a free ticket, plus the show was on 4/20, so I figured it was a sign from above. Stoned, I packed into the back of the crowd with my friend and his buddies and proceeded to have one of the most entertaining live experiences ever. Having little frame of reference for Brian Jonestown Massacre, I was tickled by frontman Anton Newcombe’s primadonna behavior as he complained to the sound tech that his vocals sounded too much like opener Mercury Rev’s, scolded the drummer for not playing the parts correctly, and argued with the keyboardist about whether or not he was being too much of a dick to the band. To some, this might have been off-putting, but I found it hilarious and even charming because, despite all of the potentially staged antics, the band sounded great. I left the show a convert.

The following day I waded deep into the internet as I tried to learn as much as possible about The Brian Jonestown Massacre. I watched videos containing literal fights on stage and an appearance Newcombe made on Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown, but when it came time to dive into the actual music, I found myself overwhelmed. This band embodies what it means to be prolific, having released nineteen albums, not counting compilations, live albums, EPs, and singles. There’s just so much. Should I start from the beginning, or would I be better off listening to landmark albums that stand as pillars in their discography? I still don’t know the right answer.

My path toward unraveling the group’s history has been fittingly tumultuous. I tried variations of these methods which left my brain in knots, but then I was given a promo of their nineteenth album, Fire Doesn’t Grow On Trees, to review. To say that this album unlocked what BJM is all about for me is wrong, but I feel like it grounded me as I listened to it day in and day out for almost a month. 

The album opens with “The Real,” which sets the tone for the next thirty-eight minutes with its trancelike guitars and drums that repeat without relent. Like any intense high, Fire Doesn’t Grow On Trees is riddled with euphoria, paranoia, and melancholy. “It’s About Being Free Really” is a blissful psychpop ditty soaked in warm fuzz and upbeat rhythms. Disguised as an infectious, warm worm, “Silenced” sees ​​Newcombe almost rapping as he rapidly rattles off thoughts about hearing gossip and feelings of isolation. The low and hazy lullaby, “Before And Afterland,” appears halfway through the album, climaxing with a glimpse of clarity as Newcombe sings, “I was born in this world to lose / My destiny’s not for you to choose” before slipping back into its stupor. The remaining songs are well-constructed garage rock fare that maintain the feeling of stoned relaxation rather than continue the wild excitement of the first half. Ultimately, Fire Doesn’t Grow On Trees goes down smooth as the record’s constant buzzing of distortion locks you into a singular headspace. You’ll get close to a full panic, but in the end, that feeling subsides in favor of tranquility.

After emerging from my den, I began to hopscotch through BJM’s discography. I checked out a few albums that preceded Fire Doesn’t Grow On Trees to see if maybe they spoke to one another. Maybe they did, but who can really say? It’s certainly far removed from the shoegaze of their debut Methodrone. I guess that’s where the beauty lies when an artist is genuinely prolific. When scrutinized under a microscope, you can see the individual strokes and discern the differences, but when you take a few steps back, you begin to see how it all blends together, creating a cohesive body of work.

If I could see into the future, I would be able to tell you if my relationship with The Brian Jonestown Massacre deepens and flourishes to the point that I become a real head, but I can’t. It’s not about that; it’s about appreciating the music for what it is when it’s clicking. And right now, I'm deep in the groove.

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Connor lives in Emeryville with his partner and their cat and dog, Toni and Hachi. Connor is a student at San Francisco State University and is working toward becoming a community college professor. When he isn’t listening to music or writing about killer riffs, Connor is obsessing over coffee and sandwiches.

Follow him on Twitter.

Bartees Strange – Farm to Table | Album Review

I’ve never been as excited to see the opener for one of my favorite bands as I was when I saw Bartees Strange supporting Car Seat Headrest. I showed up early enough to hear the blaring horns of “Heavy Heart” during soundcheck, the explosiveness of Farm To Table’s fiery, brass-backed lead single palpable even through Brooklyn Steel’s cinder block walls. I loved “Heavy Heart” just as much then, but now having heard it in the context of his sophomore album, it’s proven to be the perfect opener for a record that begs the question: once our blessings finally come, how should we receive them? 

The couplet that opens the song (and the album itself)-- “there’s reasons for heavy hearts/this past year I thought I was broken” –lets us in on the often destabilizing feeling of getting a long-awaited win after a series of losses. Though Strange takes pride in his accomplishments, he’s wary that such acclaim could compromise his values or make him lose sight of what’s been motivating him in the first place:

I never want to miss you this bad
I never want to run out like that
Sometimes I feel just like my dad, rushing around
I never saw the God in that
Why work so hard if you can’t fall back?
Then I remember I rely too much upon my heavy heart

Strange’s path to success has been a long and unconventional one, to say the least. Born Bartees Cox Jr. in Ipswich, England, the eldest son of an Air Force engineer father and an opera singer mother, he had a transient, international childhood before settling in Mustang, Oklahoma at age 12. Much of his early musical education came in the form of church choir performances and piano and vocal lessons from his mom. During high school and his first year of college, he played football and had hopes of making it to the NFL, but soon realized that it wasn’t a viable enough option, and that the exploitation and lack of support he experienced as a Black student-athlete weren’t worth the risk. After transferring schools and getting his degree from Oklahoma University, he moved to Washington DC to work as an FCC press secretary under the Obama administration. Following this position, he bounced between DC and Brooklyn, producing for various artists, playing in the post-hardcore band Stay Inside, and releasing two solo EPs– a 2017 collection of folk songs titled Magic Boy under the name Bartees & the Strange Fruit, and 2020’s Say Goodbye To Pretty Boy in which he covered five songs by The National, a band he cites as one of his biggest influences (and who he’ll be supporting on an upcoming tour). Just months after releasing SGTBP, he dropped his breakout debut album, Live Forever, a transformative anti-genre behemoth that skyrocketed him to indie fame. 

Flash forward to late 2021, and it seemed like all the big-name indie rock artists were lining up to take Strange on tour. He sounded almost timid introducing himself to the crowd when I saw him open for Car Seat Headrest at their 3-night Brooklyn Steel run in March, but when he launched into a rousing performance of “Mustang,” it was as though a switch had flipped. Whatever shyness I’d seen moments earlier melted away entirely as he tore into the Live Forever single with the force of the titular horses that gallop through the track’s second verse– “I just wait for my horses now.” It’s been a slow climb, and he’s been patient, but Strange isn’t waiting anymore. Everything he’s been working toward is here for the taking. As brilliant as he was as a first act, and as deserving as he is of all the exposure he’s gotten from supporting more established artists, I saw someone who’d outgrown his indie rock opener status. His sound felt too big. His name was worthy of stadium marquees and the largest font on festival flyers. I have very little doubt that the next time I see Strange, he’ll be the one headlining. He’s more than ready for it, and Farm To Table proves that a million times over. 

It’s an album that feels present in every sense of the word, despite its watchful eye on the past. Many of these songs see Strange reflecting on his upbringing, his current perspective both illuminated and disrupted by physical and temporal distance from childhood. On the quiet, acoustic closer “Hennessy,” he examines the racist stereotypes that he was inundated with during his formative years in Mustang, Oklahoma, a city whose near-90% white population often made Strange– a Black kid who’d spent his early years living all over the world –feel like an outsider. The line “sometimes I don’t feel like I’m the man” is both a humble admission of self-doubt and a solemn contrast from the opening bars of his 2020 breakout single “Boomer,” in which he boasts, “aye bruh, aye bruh, aye bruh/look I’m the man.” Before launching into a dissolving, multilayered outro, Strange attempts to find solace through love and community: “Hold you in my arms, remind you that you’re gold/Can’t feel the pain if I’m holding onto you.” He doesn’t sound entirely sure of himself but nonetheless clings to whatever semblance of hope he has left.

“Black Gold” and “Tours” also focus on Strange’s childhood memories. On the former, he alternates from a gravelly baritone to a shimmering falsetto as he attempts to reconcile past mistakes with current wisdom:

I was way too rough with how I left my town
Now it’s big city lights for a country mouse
I can recall waiting for you
I feel you now, with every move

The lyrics are interspersed with what sounds like audio from a home video, fuzzy recordings of people singing and chattering over a delicate string arrangement that evokes the flickering of fireflies on a summer evening.

On “Tours,” Strange draws thematic parallels between the demands of his father’s military job and those of his current-day career as a touring musician. Much like in “Heavy Heart,” he finds himself considering the toll his father’s distance took on his family and suggesting that his own tours might have similar effects on his loved ones in the present day. Throughout this reckoning, he maintains a deep sense of gratitude toward both of his parents, which comes in the form of memory preservation. The nature of memory is fragmented in and of itself, and like many of us, Strange feels obligated to retain as much as he can so as not to lose crucial chapters of his– and his family’s –personal history. He becomes his parents’ archivist, weaving their shared experiences into a musical narrative to overcome the risk of losing these precious stories. Even the ones that are painful to look back on are worth holding on to:

Wipe the tears from her face
Mom would break down once a day
Looking back, I know that she tried so hard
When I’d hide from thunder, scared that I’d wake my mother
If I were my father I’d wonder who’s checking for monsters

The childlike confusion and melancholia of “Tours” leads beautifully into “Hold The Line,” the album’s third single, dedicated to Gianna Floyd. In a statement released along with the single, Strange said that the song was inspired by “watching George Floyd’s daughter talk about the death of her father and thinking wow– what a sad introduction to Black American life for this young person.” Then-six-year-old Gianna not only experienced the unimaginable loss of her father but was also forced to grieve for an international audience. You’d see photos of her visiting the White House and video footage of her testifying for her father and think, she shouldn’t have to do this. It’s unfathomable to think of how a child might even begin to make sense of such horrendous violence– violence that, sadly, is nothing out of the ordinary. Having explored his own firsthand experiences with anti-Black racism through songwriting, Strange mourns for the Black kids whose childhoods are tainted with the same hatred. He eulogizes George Floyd– “the man with that big ol’ smile” –with grief for those that he alone cannot protect. 

Strange has an innate ability to tap into the surreal powerlessness that can make being alive right now feel so paralyzing. Alt-country banger “Escape This Circus” opens with a reference to Gil Scott-Heron’s 1970 spoken-word poem “Whitey’s On The Moon”-- just as relevant now as it was then, if not more. One percent of Americans own nearly a third of the nation’s wealth, and instead of using it to feed and house those living in poverty, they’re building cars that spontaneously combust– we call this progress. Few lyrics this year have sounded quite as timely as, “I’m in a fancy place/paid too much for the room/The clerk he says to buy some crypto/he’s got holes in his shoes.” Capitalism’s a sick game that we’re all forced to play, and almost no one wins. You can hear the exhaustion in Strange’s voice as he sings, “we’re all part of this circus/we’re all on our own horses''-- once again calling to mind the horses in 2020’s “Mustang.” He’d tossed the line “I hate America” into that track with a similar sense of resignation, beaten down by a neverending dystopian carnival whose games are rigged by design. “Escape This Circus”’s true catharsis comes in its erratic, reverb-drenched outro, with Strange wailing, “that’s why I really can’t fuck with y’all,” in a desperate attempt to pull the carousel’s emergency brake and free himself.

Back in April when Strange announced that he’d signed to 4AD for his sophomore album, he made his grand entrance to the historic London record label with “Cosigns,” a sleek and celebratory trap-rock banger in which he exercises his well-earned bragging rights. In his cleverest and cockiest bars, he shouts out the big dogs that he’s playing with, including 2/3s of Boygenius, idiosyncratic Australian rocker Courtney Barnett, Bon Iver’s Justin Vernon, new labelmates Big Thief, and 4AD founder Martin Mill:

I’m in LA, I’m with Phoebe, I’m a genius, damn
I’m in Chi-Town, I’m with Lucy, I just got the stamp
Hit up Courtney, that’s my Aussie, I already stan
I’m on FaceTime, I’m with Justin, we already friends
We already friends, we already friends
I’m on FaceTime, I’m with Justin, we already friends
I’m a thief when things get big, look Imma steal your fans
I’m with Martin in the mill, we grindin’, makin’ bread

The stunning music video directed by Pooneh Ghana shows Strange at the head of a stylishly set outdoor table (seemingly not far from the farm). As his impeccably dressed guests tear savagely into their meals at the song’s bridge, Strange takes off running and hides in a mystical, flower-covered cave. The braggadociousness that characterized the first half of the track is contrasted with an ambivalence about his newfound fame, and his ambition is once again at odds with the precariousness of success: “How to be full, it’s the hardest to know/I keep consuming, I can’t give it up/Hungry as ever, it’s never enough.” 

Listening to Farm To Table feels like watching an artist self-actualize in real-time. When Strange sings, “I was trying to be something wretched/Something I saw on TV,” on the album’s fourth and final single, “Wretched,” we see him fulfilling his own potential, becoming a version of himself that he both feared and aspired to. It’s yet another track in which he artfully folds these contradictions into catchy, danceable hooks. He’s cautious of the blessings he receives, wanting to celebrate them but still wondering if there’s a catch. 

Much like it was on Live Forever, his art is a struggle against mortality, a fleeting chance to create something that will transcend and outlive him. On “Mulholland Dr.”— a track rife with influence from longtime Strange favorites The National and TV On The Radio —he grapples with the ephemerality of both the sweet and the bitter, and of life itself, striving to make good use of the time he has:

I don’t believe in the bullshit
Of wondering when we die
I’ve seen the ending
It’s all in your face and your eyes
I’ve seen how we die
I know how to lose

If Live Forever earned Bartees Strange a seat at the titular table, Farm to Table not only sees him sitting at its head, but telling the story of how he got there. In the end, it’s Strange’s gratitude that keeps him– and his art –grounded. Everything he creates is imbued with a deep respect for his craft and for  those who’ve supported him. Even through the fear and anguish and regret, he shows his appreciation every step of the way. The (strange) fruits of his labor are served, and the rest of us are lucky enough to enjoy the bountiful harvest he’s provided. So say thanks, because it’s time to eat. 

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Grace Robins-Somerville is a writer from Brooklyn, New York. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter at @grace_roso.

Long Neck – Gardener | Single Review

What happens when you find the light at the end of the tunnel, but instead of allowing you to see things more clearly, it just ends up hurting your eyes? When hardships that are supposed to make you more resilient end up making you feel even weaker? When you become so comfortable with the familiarity of darkness that it feels like a safer option than heading into the unknown of the morning? On “Gardener,” the latest release from Jersey City DIY project Long Neck, singer/songwriter/Long Neck band founder Lily Mastrodimos draws the listener a portrait of this in-between state; of the slow, often reluctant emergence from a depressive haze. 

It starts with just an acoustic guitar, delicate and melodic, as Mastrodimos begins relaying a series of dark, foreboding dreams she’s been having the past couple of nights. Her voice sways between conversational and storybook– though never too flowery. It almost feels as though she’s just waking up from these dreams, like echoes of these strange visions are still lingering in her mind as she transitions from night to day:

Nothing in the sky
No planes passing by
When the sun emerges
I am baffled by its glare
Gold dust in the air
Mornings are unbearable
I said to no one

The build of this first verse is accompanied by a lush swell of strings, joining the stripped-back instrumental as the sun rises. As backing vocalist R.N. Taylor begins to harmonize with Mastrodimos, we can almost feel the two of them blinking back at the oppressive brightness of those first rays of sunshine. 

“Gardener” is the lead single off of Long Neck’s forthcoming LP Soft Animal, the band’s first record since before the pandemic. It’s a gradual awakening from a hibernation of sorts. As COVID-era precautions are rolled back and the rhetoric of “bouncing back” surrounds us, our current transitional era often feels as though we’re being force-fed normalcy at a rate that’s incongruous with the ongoing crisis. Instead of filling in the gaps that caused the pandemic to wreak the kind of havoc that it did (and continues to do), we’ve been rushed into a sorry approximation of pre-pandemic social conditions that are no longer viable (and, in many circumstances, were never viable to being with). It’s hard to celebrate the pandemic being over when it’s, well, not. Instead of actual relief, we’re forced to continue carrying the burden of a poorly handled public health catastrophe while pretending that it’s all behind us.

On “Gardener,” Mastrodimos grapples with a similar pressure (albeit on a more personal level) to make a quick and easy recovery from past struggles, but can’t do so without processing what she’s been through. She finds herself worn down by the heaviness of her heart rather than strengthened by it, sighing, “everything I’ve felt this week has bent me like a spine/vertebrae unlined/cracking more with time.” Her voice carries an uneasiness and uncertainty. There’s a sense that, though the worst of it may be over, what comes next is still unclear. After all, how can one get “back to normal” when the standard for “normal” has fallen?

The picture of progress we get on “Gardener” isn’t a linear one. We see Mastrodimos give in to the temptation to shut out the world and sleep past noon. Still, her stagnant moments don’t negate her steps forward. The sun is still there even when it’s filtered through her closed curtains. On good days she can “plant gardens with [her] heart,” just don’t expect those flowers to bloom right away.

“Gardener” is out now on all streaming platforms.
Soft Animal releases on June 21st via Plastic Miracles and Specialist Subject, you can pre-order the album on Bandcamp here.

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Grace Robins-Somerville is a writer from Brooklyn, New York. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter at @grace_roso.

Pool Kids – That's Physics, Baby | Single Review

I’ve waited years for this moment, so I’m just going to come right out and say it. There’s a new Pool Kids song.

Whew, that felt good.

For those not in the loop, the Florida math rockers first made waves in the emo scene back in 2018 with the release of their debut album, Music To Have Safe Sex To. Spawning from an initial friendship between singer and multi-instrumentalist Christine Goodwyne and drummer Caden Clinton, the duo booked a short studio session that resulted in a collection of nine proggy, freewheeling rock tracks. With no shortage of goofy song titles, iconic riffs, and references to mathy predecessors like TTNG, these songs immediately placed Pool Kids in a continuum of bands walking the line between overwrought emo and tappy, hyper-technical guitarwork. These elements, combined with endearing brushes with pop-punk greats, quickly signaled that this band was destined for something more than the rigid confines of “emo music.”

In the time since their first album, the group has been rounded out by guitarist Andy Anaya (of fellow Florida greats Dikembe and You Blew It!) along with bassist Nicolette Alvarez. Together, they make four of the most talented musicians ever assembled, as anyone who has seen ever Pool Kids live can attest. While fans were treated to a jokey hardcore one-off for April Fools Day 2019 and an Audiotree session that captured the newly solidified lineup’s full prowess, specific weirdos like me have been eagerly waiting to see what this band would do next because, at times, the possibilities truly seemed endless.

Pool Kids even signaled their return in early 2020, going back to give album highlight “$5 Subtweet” a proper video, but whose grand plans haven’t been disrupted since then?

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Now that you have the background, you can appreciate when I say that the return of Pool Kids is something I’ve been anticipating for years. Years of wondering what this newly minted lineup would result in, countless nights spent swaddled in my Pool Kids hoodie listening to Safe Sex, and now we have ourselves a new song. I am happy to report that somehow, some-fucking-how, lead single “That's Physics, Baby” lives up to my insurmountable hype. 

In what feels like a nod to the band’s origin, the track begins with the two people who made up the first iteration of Pool Kids; Clinton and Goodwyne. We hear a drum hit and then are immediately dropped into a shreddy guitar lick. Together, these instruments fuse into an innovative groove that could only have come from the minds of this band. Soon, the bass and a second guitar join the fray, rounding out the riff and pushing the song up into the stratosphere. 

In the music video, we watch a listless Goodwyne struggling with her “Untitled Documentary” as bills pile up on the desk of her cozy wood-paneled office. Set in Washington, we see the band as a motley crew of filmmakers staking out the lush Pacific Northwest wilderness in search of some type of small furry creature. Adorned in the finest early-90s attire and armed with cutting-edge home video technology, the band hams it up, making their way through forests, caves, and mountain tops, all in pursuit of the perfect shot. Things get even more Twin Peaks-ey as this narrative alternates between this communal journey of the band and shots of Goodwyne drinking, smashing mirrors, and struggling to assemble her project.

As the video’s tone bounces back and forth from dark to goofy, the lyrics languish in the painful feeling of a failing relationship. The verses hinge upon a persistent theme of losing time, whether it’s lines about clocks moving backward or just a general sense of wasting away. It’s a slow-sinking quicksand of a feeling that any bad relationship inevitably hits. This pain is punctuated by an immensely catchy chorus of “Telling you what I / Telling you what I need / I’m telling you what I / Telling you what I need.” As much as I can’t wait to sing along to this live, within the song’s narrative, these lines are delivered with a sense of frustration, Goodwyne practically pleading for the person on the receiving end to listen to what she is saying.

The video ends with an over-the-top slapstick moment as Caden cracks open a soda, the can exploding in his face and knocking him backward off his chair. As the rest of the band doubles over with laughter, the chorus plays out one last time, and the camera resolves on a close-up of Goodwyne staring off into the distance… Is she catching a glimpse of the animal they’ve been searching for the whole video? Is she experiencing a moment of clarity? As we hear “Telling you what I / Telling you what I need” one final time, the lyrics become re-contextualized. I choose to interpret this shot as a realization that, despite the arduous journey, emotional strife, and financial difficulties, this group of friends, and maybe even that one laugh, was the thing Goodwyne was truly in search of all along.

Pool Kids’ self-titled album is out on Skeletal Lightning 7/22. Pre-order here.

Lou Roy – Pure Chaos | Album Review

Chaos. It’s one of those words that the internet has seemingly become obsessed with in recent years. It’s a descriptor that’s attributed to a wide range of content, often used similarly (but not analogously) to terms like “cursed” or “unhinged.” Just look at one of the many “Tiktoks That Radiate Chaotic Energy” compilations. It’s become a catch-all for anything we deem unconventional or unexpected– a video of a possum eating Froot Loops, fanart of Sonic smoking weed with Spongebob, a woman duck-facing in a supermarket aisle with a bag of chips balanced on her head. One might wonder if we’ve reached market saturation, if the word has lost its meaning from overuse. After all, if everything is chaotic, then nothing is. 

I’d credit this overexposure in part to the popularity of Dungeons & Dragons alignment charts, which became a stock meme format in the 2010s and have since persisted due to how easily the 3x3 set-up lends itself to various means of categorization. This fairly simple formula situates chaos as the antithesis of lawfulness, yin-and-yang equal opposites with the same relationship to one another as good and evil. If we take chaos to mean the absence or disregard of lawful behavior and expectations, then it makes plenty of sense that Lou Roy would choose to set her debut album Pure Chaos against the backdrop of the seemingly lawless landscape of Las Vegas. Roy has said that the city’s hedonism and larger-than-life tackiness served as the inspiration behind the record. Through the excess and artifice, she manages to tap into an earnestness, metaphorically hot-gluing rhinestones to thoughtfully crafted pop songs. “Scroll” sees her offering a metacommentary on (in)authenticity in the digital age, singing, “I stare at my phone all day/What a nasty way to engage with the world/What an unfair way to play/I could play guitar and sing.” When Roy chooses to go for something bright and flashy, it’s because she’s already got something of substance to draw attention to.

A self-described “anti-genre singer-songwriter who has never done anything weird or wrong,” Lou Roy pulls from a variety of sonic influences, consistently proving her jack-of-all-trades crossover appeal. She breezily floats from the quirky alt-country of vocalists like Faye Webster and Laura Stevenson to the sunny, sardonic pop-rock of Caroline Rose and Pure Chaos co-producer Sarah Tudzin’s band, illuminati hotties. At times she even manages to capture the singalong earworminess of an early-to-mid-2010s Taylor Swift hit. Lead single “Uppercut” in particular occupies an energy not unlike “22,” albeit with a more present awareness of one’s mortality. Not that Roy would let something as silly as the looming eventuality of death get in the way of a good time– the infectious hook laughs in the very face of such surrender: “I swear to you babe we’ll always have our fun/even when we’re grinded into cosmic dust/even when we’re back on earth as pond scum.” 

Whether she’s unabashedly admitting to being a New Year’s Eve Hater or celebrating life’s small joys– a french fry grease-soaked night with friends at a 24-hour diner, waking up with her dog’s “fat face” on her shoulder –Roy hits us with simple truths about the good and the bad that life throws at us, and she takes both in stride. Even in the midst of “plenty of horror stories/plenty of bad days,” her commitment to having fun is never shaken. In the music video for this peppy song-of-the-summer contender, Roy struts unbothered through suburban streets with a small army of puppies leashed to her belt like charms dangling from a charm bracelet. The aforementioned Sarah Tudzin even makes a cameo appearance as an onlooker, perplexed by (and in awe of) Roy’s magnetic energy and unshakeable confidence.

Pure Chaos does not necessarily feel like an album that sets out to be chaotic, but rather a collection of songs about eschewing rigid expectations and embracing the inevitability of chaos. Opener “Valkyrie” serves as a thesis statement for the “fuck it” philosophy that drives the album. The song begins with minimalist percussion from the tapping of a plastic bottle, as Roy explains that she was “forced to breathe on purpose.” From the get-go, she admits her powerlessness to the whims of a random, lawless universe: “Chaos reigns/all is permitted.” The song’s title is a reference to spirits in Norse mythology responsible for guiding fallen soldiers into the afterlife. Roy implores these mythological beings to ride with her into the unknown. Over the moody synths of “Down Since ‘07,” she reaffirms that she’s “down for whatever,” with a casual coolness that dissolves into a moment of quiet vulnerability at the track’s outro. “You’re the only one pulling me out of the corner to dance,” she sings, her voice hushed and breezy. The jagged, jangly percussion and layered harmonies of  “Big Anvil” place it in a sweet spot somewhere between Fiona Apple and HAIM, as Roy asserts her relentless optimism in the face of uncertainty. The future is a source of simultaneous hope and fear for her, as it is for many of us, and Roy clings to aspirations that are small but life-affirming– “One day I’m gonna take that girl to dinner/One day I’ll get the band back together.”

On softer, more introspective ballads like “Bull Ride” and “If We Were Strangers,” Roy’s vocals take center stage, pouring warmly through Golden Hour-era Kacey Musgraves production like sunlight through a window. Both feel like “what-if” songs, with Roy taking on a nostalgic, daydreamy tone as she envisions alternate timelines in which her reality might’ve been different from the one she’s currently living. It’s a subtle but welcome contrast in an album that– especially in its more high-energy tracks –sees Roy radically accepting whatever craziness life sends her way. To get these moments in which she quietly indulges fantasies instead of embracing what’s right in front of her gives the album a refreshing sense of thematic tension. 

The album closes with the grand, sweeping finale of “Dream,” a country ballad fit for the closing credits sequence of a big-budget Western film. It’s not just the references to leopard prints and press-on nails that give the song a gaudy-glam drugstore cowgirl feel– on what is perhaps Roy’s strongest and most compelling vocal performance, she takes her voice to its most show-stopping emotional heights, evoking the sultry charm of Nancy Sinatra and Angel Olsen alike. While most of the album seems to look toward the precariousness of the future, the closer takes on a wistful, reflective tone, with an eye towards the past. As with many other Pure Chaos cuts, “Dream” reminds us that what is beautiful is often also fleeting. The throughline of Roy’s debut album seems to be its message of acceptance– learning to let go of control and enjoy going along for the ride. But as she croons, “dream, baby it’s different in real life,” we see that when it comes to facing what’s real, imagination just might be her greatest superpower.

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Grace Robins-Somerville is a writer from Brooklyn, New York. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter @grace_roso.