Paramore – This Is Why | Album Review

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Atlantic Records

When frontwoman Hayley Williams, guitarist Taylor York, and drummer Zac Farro decided to start writing music again as Paramore in 2021, the first thing they created was “Thick Skull,” the final track on their new album, This Is Why. It answers a question I’ve been asking for a long time, and something I think more people frankly should have been asking too: what if my bloody valentine, but with a good singer? It’s my favorite song on the album, and I think it’s perfect: the brooding guitar builds underneath Hayley’s verses like a storm, breaking around the 3-minute mark right as she jumps up an octave for the final incendiary chorus. I’ve seen people call it “Paramore’s shoegaze song,” and it’s true, but “Thick Skull” is also urgent in a way that most shoegaze isn’t. It’s the feeling of the three bandmates surrendering, perhaps for the first time in decades, to the inevitable draw of writing rock music together.

For many fans, Hayley could sing the phone book, and they’d eat it up, but that’s never been good enough for Paramore. With This Is Why, they pay their rent with change to spare: each of the ten songs has something to say, with style statements in equal measure to substance. The band draws from Bloc Party, British post-punk, and the “indie sleaze” dance-punk of the late 2010s to augment their signature melodic rock sound. They are making music on their own time and on their own terms, and the assuredness comes through. Paramore are right where they are supposed to be. 

The album’s lead single and title track reintroduces the band in the only way that’s fitting: as a trio. Guitarist Taylor York and drummer Zac Farro have said they worked more collaboratively on the album’s instrumentation than they’ve ever done in the past, and nowhere on the album is that alchemy more obvious than on “This Is Why.” York’s guitar crashes in on the choruses, pounding along with Farro’s kit like an extra snare. Williams’ voice builds and breaks on the bridge, formatting the three friends’ treatise on agoraphobia with the explosive vocals the world has always craved from her.  

Not every moment on This Is Why is perfect, but all of it adds to the Paramore extended universe, and it will be interesting to see what sticks. There’s something I like to call the “Ain’t It Fun” Effect: the Paramore songs that genre-bend to a bit of a ham-fisted extent often end up beloved. Plus, the band’s curveball songs—often dismissed by critics—have historically been the ones that reach a new corner of music fans. Many Black Paramore listeners cite “Ain’t It Fun” as an important touchstone in their fandom. 

There’s such a vital spot in the Paramore ecosystem for the tryhard songs—I mean, have you listened to them? They’ve been not-exactly-subtle for going on two decades now. In that light, “The News” and “C’est Comme Ça”—two of the album’s three singles, and the songs with the heaviest post-punk touch—may overreach a bit. But I say let ‘em cook. 

The second half of the album, though, plunges relentlessly into the strongest writing the band has ever done. “You First” kicks off the run with a punky bite reminiscent of Riot! or Brand New Eyes. Williams plays out an internal battle, where she wrestles with the energetic cost of resentment on her inner peace. Ultimatley, her spite wins out on this one, landing her at the vindictive conclusion that, “Karma's gonna come for all of us, and I hope she comes for you first.” Then “Figure 8” starts off like the start of a roller coaster, rushing into the first moment of the album that gave me real chills: Hayley’s howling harmonies over the pre-chorus, confessing “I don’t know how to stop / I don’t know how to stop.” 

Track eight, “Liar,” isn’t just a good song; it’s a momentous one. As much as Williams has historically evaded media conversation about her dating life, it’s always been a center of gravity for Paramore: her romantic endeavors have been the source material for much of their best music. The vulnerability of “Liar” is as hard-won as it is sacred. The track plays out as the guarded singer (she’s a Capricorn) serenades guitarist York, her partner of a few years. As longtime Paramore fans know, York was a founding member of the band (he, Farro, and Williams have been friends since middle school) and, according to interviews, supported Hayley through the darkest time of her life in the mid-2010s. The addition of this song to Paramore’s canon is a gift, and its lovely guitars and wistful vocals underscore its quiet significance.

What the band has to say on the final two songs, “Crave” and “Thick Skull,” feels like two sides of the same coin. Life is long, much longer than we’d imagined when we were stealing boyfriends in high school, and the time starts to play out in patterns when we tread through enough of it. Layers of Hayley’s power vocals (some of the prettiest of her career) and unresolved seventh-chords drench “Crave” in longing: she tries and often fails to live in the present, but the honesty in her efforts tethers her to life’s sweetness either way. The dark mantras of “Thick Skull” usher in the opposite side of the years’ unraveling: 

Thick skull never did
Nothin' for me
Same lesson again
Come on, give it to me

The foil to “Crave’s” soaring harmonies, Williams’ musings on “Thick Skull” are just as impressive vocally, but play with a more sinister tone. It’s an album closer that denies us resolution, reminding us that yang belongs just as much as yin and that the angst that fueled us as teens might still have a thing or two to teach us. This song exemplifies the kind of delicate depths that decades-long bandmate relationships give you the sanctuary to explore.

This Is Why triumphs in its confessions, in its breadth, in its generosity. In the first Paramore album with the same lineup as its last, Williams, York, and Farro’s hard-won love for one another and their fans lets them carve creative new paths into post-punk, shoegaze, and dance rock. For a band that so easily could have gotten stuck in the past, Paramore shows us that no matter how dark the world feels, we can always find our way back to each other.

Katie Wojciechowski is a music writer and karaoke superstar in Austin, Texas. She is from there, but between 2010 and now, also lived in Lubbock, TX, Portland, OR, and a camper. Her life is a movie in which her bearded dragon Pancake is the star. You can check out her Substack here, and some of her other writing here. She’s writing a book about growing up alongside her favorite band, Paramore. 

Growing Pains – Thought I Heard Your Car | EP Review

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SELF-Released

Slowcore, shoegaze, and indie rock are genres rich with tradition. Prospective new heads all look back to the chords, pedalboards, and vocal chops of the revered forebears such as My Bloody Valentine, Ride, or the Drop Nineteens, seeking to emulate the cult successes of a past era– but much of the appeal of these mythic albums comes from nostalgic warmth created by tape hiss and squealing feedback. When these young musicians speak of their influences, they mention things about the marks of time on them. Melted tape legends and woozy pitch-bent loops are products of the early-90s experimental attitude towards music making and production. In today’s digital frontier, very few bands choose to actually capture the spirit of the ancient texts. There’s some debate as to whether it can even be done, but that debate can be put to rest. By leaning into past and future traditions of shimmering pop-rock, Portland’s Growing Pains have brought us Thought I Heard Your Car. 

This fuckin’ EP is unreal. From the moment you press play on lead single “What Are the Odds?” you’re greeted with a classic Duster-style slowcore arpeggio. The muted drumbeat and dreamy synths float by, calling to mind hits like “Topical Solution” or “Bedside Table” before exploding into a sonically rich 3/4 groove. The tight guitar tones, which appear across the record, find a foothold with the rhythm section in a hard-edged move not commonly found among the band’s contemporaries. Kaila Storer’s vocal approach, ever ethereal, presides over shifting dynamics and moving sections from a comfortable place in the center of the mix as she sings: “Crush me in the dark / Fill my head with stars.” While I’m sure this prose conjures images of the horde of slacker-rock wannabes, the group takes great pains not to repeat the fatal mistake of sonic sameness that plagues lesser songsmiths. Layered into the vocal tracks are touches of Auto-Tuned warbling, a distinctly modern texture, and the guitar tone feels stiffened with compression. An off-kilter tremolo guitar plays a scratchy lead line as the dynamics duck and weave to make space. Though easily missed by the casual listener, these modern production touches take elements of dream pop and shoegaze sonics and blow them up into modern pop choruses. 

The energy continues down the tracklist– “In Effigy” boasts a drum part that indieheads will recognize as classic Grandaddy, shuffling along as Jack Havrila and Carl Taylor’s spindly guitars buzz by one of Storer’s most memorable hooks. Catchy melodies are buried under layers of noise, every instrument prompting you to sing along to its repetitive and zany riff as chords contextualize these phrases into hopeful and melancholy passages in equal measure. “Lemon Lime,” another standout, boasts Great Grandpa-like fuzz as pounding drums evoke classics by Ride and even the Smashing Pumpkins before shifting into a twee-pop vibe that calls forward the sonic image of the Elephant 6 collective or Plumtree. The production takes a front seat on this track, with distorted vocal overdubs and squealing feedback samples rhythmically injecting themselves throughout its back half and only continues to shine in “Pretend to Sleep,” a high-energy pop-rocker with the most radio hit potential on the album. Blending long, distorted reverb trails with tight pop harmony and clockwork instrumentals, the fusion of old shoegaze legend with the present indie-pop movement’s urgency and hooks turn what might have been a derivative slog into an inventive and eventful masterwork. Closing track, “Memory from Last Year,” is equal parts Modest Mouse, Portishead, and Feeble Little Horse– its uptempo trip-hop beat breezes by as guitars gnarl and tangle through snippets of audio and swelling reverb trails. These songs are deceptively deep– though at first glance, they’re an appealing pop-rock package just waiting to be devoured by arty college scenes.

Lyrically, the songs are indecisive and weird– neither in the pejorative sense. Everything is stuck or sticking, detailing staircase wit, stained walls, and menthol cigarettes. The sleepy imagery on “Memory from Last Year” recalls the faded and decayed way experiences often float back to the front of one’s mind, and the refusal of "In Effigy" to grasp for a subject sends listeners into a confused mess of pronouns and images. It’s a highly personal affair, but an abstract one– you kind of get the sense that the band, in their lyrical process, have boiled away excess phrases to leave only the gnarled core of the experience rattling around your mind as a listener. Storer’s indistinct and placid delivery, however, relegates the poetics to the liner notes. It all snugly fits into place under the masterful production, which makes the lyrics blow by in the most compelling way.

Growing Pains seem to have an innate artistic understanding of how to make this particular style of nu-shoegaze more than just the sum of its parts. Beyond just a crisp mix and master, the production feels as much of an instrument in many of these songs as the bass or guitar. Adept little shifts– a drop in volume, a tone change, a panning movement– all contribute to the songs in ways that look back on the storied history of the genre. Much like how the production techniques of past shoegaze bands led to the musician’s chase for the perfect recorded tone through effects pedals and studio tricks, Thought I Heard Your Car plays in their digital audio workstation like it’s 1996 and the technology is still new. 

THE COFFEE CORNER

I listen to all my albums in the living room of my cramped Pittsburgh apartment. My roommate, Nick, enjoys eavesdropping on my sessions. Nick is six-foot, with close-cropped blond hair and bright blue eyes. He is an avid Phish fan currently wandering around in a pair of ball shorts and a garish tie-dyed T-shirt smoking a joint. He contributes that "these guitars sound like vacuum cleaners" and asked me "if Phil Spector had anything to do with this."

Mikey Montoni is a nonfiction writing student at the University of Pittsburgh, originally hailing from New York. When she's not writing, she's bruising herself attempting skateboard tricks, playing with her punk rock band, digging through bookstores for '70s pulp sci-fi paperbacks, and wandering Pittsburgh in search of good coffee.

Narrow Head – Moments of Clarity | Album Review

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Run For Cover Records

Growing up, I was raised in a pretty conservative home, and more “extreme” forms of art were often tricky to explore. I often had to find bands that toed the line with songs I could play without frightening my parents while still scratching that heavy itch. The most effective route for this was ensuring the bands I wanted to listen to were Christian, or at least marketed as such. You see, the lack of a parental advisory sticker wasn’t enough. Linkin Park didn’t cuss on a proper album until Minutes to Midnight, well after my tastes had changed, but even still, I was not allowed to listen to them because their lyrics were deemed “too depressing.” Fair enough, I guess, but the point stands. I had to do the work to find music that I enjoyed and was permissible.

There’s been somewhat of a resurgence of bands settling into massive riffs and hazy, spacey vocals. The reunion albums of Quicksand and Hum, in addition to more recent efforts by bands like Fleshwater and Soul Blind, have been stirring up waves of wistful, reflective nostalgia within me. It's been comforting if a bit tough to nail down. I hadn’t been able to pinpoint exactly what about that sound had been affecting me so much until a passage on Narrow Head’s latest LP, Moments of Clarity, where the feeling became palpable. 

After eight tracks of driving shoegaze riffs (with plenty of 90’s alt and pop sensibility thrown in for good measure), the one-two punch of “Gearhead” and “Flesh & Solitude” kicked in, and I realized that this is exactly what my thirteen-year-old self loved and sought out. This kind of stuff is how I got to where I am today in both the music I create and consume.

From the opening strums of the loose strings on the grungy (and then pummeling) “Gearhead” to the harsh vocals and the chaotic last minute of “Flesh & Solitude,” the album becomes a different beast. A beast that I greatly appreciate as it allowed me to connect to a self I don’t consciously spend much time with. This isn’t the first instance of heaviness like this, though. The moody and crushing “Trepanation,” while not in the exact same vain, darkens things up in the first half of the record before shifting to the stoner’s pace of “Breakup Song,” a track that evokes the openness of a classic Doug Martsch cut mixed with the Pixies. 

The darkness permeates throughout even the less intense tracks. The thematic opener, “The Real,” feels both biting and earnest, with the chorus asking, “How good does it feel? / To be you / To be real” It brings to mind the aforementioned Hum reunion album Inlet in the best ways. Through infectious songs like the title track and “Caroline” or the palate-cleansing “The Comedown,” Narrow Head have crafted a cohesive collection of songs that really move with intention and weave a portrait that is reflective yet uninterested in dwelling. It certainly has highlights but is best digested as a whole. Sonny DiPerri’s (NIN, Protomartyr, My Bloody Valentine) production is stellar, and taking the record in from start to finish truly allows it to reveal itself, especially on repeated listens. There’s a lot to admire.

It’s often funny to recognize the steps you’ve taken to end up wherever you are. It’s comical that I consider P.O.D. to be the band that got me into heavy music, but it’s true. Their album Brown was instrumental in getting me into bands like Blindside, who led me to Underoath, who led me to Norma Jean, and so on and so forth. Hell, Brown honestly still holds up today. Tell me this track doesn’t fit perfectly in the current state of heavy music. A little bit of now, a little bit of then. Everything’s connected. As a kid, my search for exciting yet parentally palatable music led me to scour lyrics sheets and connect the dots of like-minded bands. While I’m no longer concerned if an album is considered depressing or if they say “fuck,” I’m mindful of the intention and the piece as a whole due to the necessity of paying attention to all the details. 

The sonic territory in which Moments of Clarity exists is familiar but fresh in the melding and execution. This is one of those stepping-stone albums that allows the depths of heavier music to be explored without pushing the listener too far out. It’s both catchy and introspective while also not shying away from being aggressive with walloping clarity. Narrow Head is part of an ilk that looks to the past, both externally and internally, in order to forge ahead and craft a future they wish to live in, and the results they’re yielding make it a pleasure to be along for the ride. 

Christian Perez is a member of the band Clot and a rabid record collector.

Andy Shauf – Norm | Album Review

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ANTI‐

The power of discovering music in a record store is still as relevant today as it was before the turn of the millennium. Walking into your favorite local shop, hearing the staff picks on the speakers, and then buying the album on the spot. It’s something that just can’t be recreated by sharing a streaming link. That’s where my fandom of Andy Shauf began in 2020.

Masked up and existentially confused, the soothing tones of his release that year, The Neon Skyline, immediately stuck out to me. Sitting somewhere between the Scottish twee of Belle And Sebastian and the cabaret croons of the Burt Bacharach catalog, Shauf really showcased a singer-songwriter style I felt like I’d missed for many years. It was a heavy spin for me in the back half of the year, as was his 2021 follow-up Wilds that continued the story. Consider it the Mallrats to its predecessor’s Clerks; the same characters followed from different perspectives while introducing new ones.

Norm is Shauf’s eighth proper LP and is a wonderful way to kick off the year in music. From the beginning of the opener,  “Wasted On You,” longtime fans will be pleased that Andy is not deviating from his signature style; he continues to be one of the most recognizable voices Canadian indie rock has to offer lately. If you heard Father John Misty’s last album, Chloe And The Next 20th Century, and thought, “what would it be like if these songs were good?” Norm delivers that reality. It creates a soft-spoken world using elements of the orchestral pop and easy-listening landscapes of our grandparents’ generation. To appease all ages, those same elements shine under the ultra-clean production of the modern indie era.

The falsetto opening of “Telephone” comes in so strong I was certain he was bringing in a guest vocalist for a duet. Which, given the style of this record, would probably fit quite well. In turn, this is just Andy using his range as a strength, like Adrienne Lenker would on some of her most intimate material. Andy’s vocals are once again a standout throughout the LP, but it’s the way he uses them on top of the sparse, relaxed instrumentation that makes all his records captivating. Swooning through passionate lines such as “I would live on the telephone if I was listening to you talk about your day.”

“Norm,” the title track, is the perfect centerpiece. Calling the lead character by name for only the second time so far (the first being a subtle mention in the very last line of “You Didn’t See”), we learn he “lays on his side with heavy eyelids” and hears the voice of the narrator “lead[ing him] to the promised land.” If one thing is clear throughout the album, our hero Norm is straight up not having a good time.

On “Halloween Store,” Shauf delivers maybe his strongest stanza of the record. In describing Norm’s feelings on meeting one of the many persons of interest encountered, he “wondered if I locked the house, walked back and found that I hadn’t. But now my keys were in the car.” / “Pulled the handle, and it snapped back. At least I’d locked one door.” It’s clear the small victories for Norm are enough in some cases. Shauf’s almost talk-sing delivery makes it hard to fully take it in if you’re not listening with a close ear. It’s an intoxicating moment of insecurity.

If Norm invokes one thing, it’s tenderness. Like many of Shauf’s releases, his ability to effortlessly bring you into his orbit and immediately feel comfortable is continually impressive. For example, take the opening salvo of “Sunset” and “Daylight Dreaming,” a pair of songs whose sonic qualities live up to their titles. Shauf wields his words perfectly: “Just watching the sunset, and I’m letting you know just how long I’ve loved you for,” he pleads. On the latter, he sings, “All my daylight dreaming can’t get you on the phone, so send me strength to God Almighty.” The presence of a higher power is considered throughout the album, but maybe never accepted.

So the story ends as it begins, the 102-second closer “All Of My Love” taking its name from the chorus of track one. It gives the impression that the legend of Norm is endless, or maybe that the titular Norm’s romantic journey is. Shauf’s smart decision here to not only tie the last song to the first, in addition to making it brief, invites the listener to start it again. Flip the record back over. Hit the album repeat button on streaming. Imagine King Gizzard’s Nonagon Infinity, an album on a seemingly constant loop, albeit more French café than outer space in this instance.

I can also understand Shauf’s gift of quiet tone setting being a crutch for some listeners. If you’re not willing to be right there, ears to the words, you could miss the details. Norm is patience demanding but wildly fulfilling. If you enjoy the similar quirk of Jens Lekman, the character-driven library of The Mountain Goats, or the heartfelt delivery of late fellow Canadian legend Gord Downie, Andy Shauf’s Norm should be considered for your 2023 new release rotation.

Logan Archer Mounts once almost got kicked out of Warped Tour for doing the Disturbed scream during a band’s acoustic set. He currently lives in Rolling Meadows, IL, but tells everyone he lives in Palatine.

Twitter: @VERTICALCOFFIN
Instagram: @sleeps.with.angels

Palette Knife – New Game+ | Album Review

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Take This to Heart Records

Palette Knife are an emo trio from Columbus, Ohio. If you don’t know what you’re getting into from that descriptor alone, there’s no better place to start than "Jelly Boi," the lead single off the band’s latest record. In one of the song's more open-hearted moments, lead singer Alec Licata belts out, “I don’t have sex anymore, I don’t feel sad anymore" at a near-scream. The lyrics shamelessly beacon out to emo/pop-punk fans sulking around corners of the internet and indicate the exact kind of confessional earnestness to expect from Palette Knife’s sophomore LP. The group draws clear influence from scene faithfuls such as Origami Angel, Commander Salamander, The Wonder Years, and Modern Baseball. The bits and pieces of these bands that Palette Knife used to craft New Game+ make for an extremely fun 35 minutes with seldom a boring moment.

While it may seem like the “I’m not sad anymore” era of pop-punk came and went with The Wonder Years’ conquering run in the scene, Palette Knife unearths this trope to kick off the LP in the previously mentioned track. The song slowly builds into a twinkle-led breakdown while detailing the need for Pabst Blue Ribbon and margaritas amidst a quarantine-fueled daze. The lyricism on New Game+ is quite straightforward, at times tongue-in-cheek, but works well within the context of the songs. The undemanding lyrics parallel the intricacies of Licata’s guitar playing, which knows exactly when to stand out in the mix. 

One of the most impressive aspects of the songwriting on this LP is the consistent shifting of song structures. Track three, “Avatar the Last Cakebender,” hesitates to jump into the chorus until almost two minutes into the track, which is pretty remarkable restraint compared to the average emo band. Details like these keep the listener invested in each segment of the album, with the whole thing being broken up by three short interludes, “Death Screen,” “Pause Screen,” and “Fog Gate.” Some of those tracks lean into the video game theme of the release with 16-bit soundscapes, while others experiment with spoken word. 

The songs following “Pause Screen” are some of the strongest on the album, “Weekend at Tony’s” starts with an extremely catchy and nostalgic intro riff followed by lyrics about cutting your hair in the summer and hating yourself. “Letters from Mom Town” features endearing guest vocals from Ceci Clark of Left Out, which provide a more mellow track at the midpoint of the album. “Damn, Son, Dim Sum” is the highlight of the album, and if there’s anything to take away from New Game+, it might be this track. Opening with tasteful and intricate guitar leads, the song uses D&D-themed lyrics to depict a friendship gone sour and had me coming back for more every listen. The track breaks down into a skramz-tinged apex towards the end of the song, capping off the powerful mid-section of the album. 

“Fog Gate” leads the final stretch of songs in which Licata strays from the overt lyricism found on the rest of the album. In this spoken word track, he gives listeners the least amount of context yet encapsulates the theme of New Game+ when he says, “…I sat in my car while I was trying to cry for reasons unknown to me. God damn, I have everything I wanted and more…” These wistful sentiments crescendo into the final act of the LP, as frustration over trivial things such as D&D and fundamental particles put what’s really important into perspective. The final songs mostly blend together, with the exception of the last track, “...And That’s a Rock Fact,” which squeezes in tribute to the Cartoon Network cult classic, Over the Garden Wall. Additionally, it caps the album off with triumphant instrumentation paired with playful lyricism about Adderall and velociraptor sweaters.

New Game+ touches on everything one could possibly want or expect from an emo album in 2023—sound bites, weed edibles, nerdy gamer shit, PBR, anime, Adderall, and regrettable decisions, all with twinkle breakdowns in between. Palette Knife marvelously crafts an emo album for emo fans by emo fans. They know never to take themselves too seriously while playing to their strengths, offering up enough noodles to keep Midwest emo fans plugged-in and plenty of catchy choruses to keep pop-punk fans not sad anymore.

Brandon Cortez is a writer/musician residing in El Paso, Texas, with his girlfriend and two cats. When not playing in shitty local emo bands, you can find him grinding Elden Ring on his second cup of cold brew. Hit him up on Twitter @numetalrev.