Queen of Jeans – All Again | Album Review

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Memory Music

In my head, there are only two possible outcomes in a relationship: marriage or a devastating breakup. Some (my therapist) might call that black-and-white thinking, but it feels real to me. That worry is enough to keep some people from ever forming a deep connection with someone. But is that something that should even be considered? Is that thought process just dooming the relationship before it even gets started? Breakups often taint any good memories shared between a couple, leaving a bad taste in at least one party’s mouth when they look back at everything. Are the relationship’s good times erased because of the last moments? Were the butterflies and giddiness worth the devastation of the end result? I guess it all depends. 

Photo by Brooke Marsh

Philadelphia’s Queen of Jeans tackles these thought spirals on All Again, their first full-length LP since 2019. On the record, Miriam Devora and Mattie Glass recall memories of a lost love, looking back at all the tumults of a modern love story with both rose-tinted nostalgia and near-insurmountable regret. The memories are chronologically scattered but immersive and moving nonetheless, covering everything from the fatal attraction of the hook-up stage to not being able to cut off communication after a breakup. All those gritty in-betweens are dissected in a way that leans into emotion while propelling the story of the album (and the relationship) forward. The erratic storytelling throughout All Again mirrors how memories of turbulent relationships often come back to you: a few good, most bad, but all leaving you with an unsettling feeling deep in your gut.

The record has a song for just about every emotional state you could find yourself in throughout a whirlwind romance, offering a little bit of everything in terms of genre, tone, and instrumentation. Producer Will Yip worked with Devora and Glass to create massive sounds with a more experimental lean which included bringing in Patrick Wall on drums and Andrew Nitz on bass. This results in an LP that utilizes everything from blown-out post-rock to twangy indie folk to build out the pieced-together world of this tumultuous relationship. 

All Again opens with “All My Friends,” an unexpectedly heartbreaking track that drips in good old-fashioned longing. It comes through as a jolt of reality, with the hook “All my friends around / but I’m not home,” emphasizing the type of loneliness that permeates all facets of your life after a breakup. The whole thing has a boygenius-esque sad rock spin (very “True Blue”) with chorused instrumentals that add a consuming intensity. Devora’s vocals cascade through the windy synth textures and warbling guitars, depicting the heartbreak that lingers for the rest of the record. With this first track, it’s clear that All Again begins at the end, tipping their hand and letting the listener know where this relationship ends before even giving you a chance to root for it. The certainty of heartbreak adds context to the songs that follow. It’s like a reminder to listeners: ‘Don’t let any of the following songs fool you, this all ended badly.’

“Horny Hangover” immediately throws us back to the true beginning of the romance, speaking from a voice of anger and regret, like looking back and kicking yourself for not noticing all the red flags. The song has a grungy pop lean (like Veruca Salt’s anger mixed with Linda Ronstadt’s heartbreak) that gives Devora space to show off her wailing vocals, as if yelling at her past self. Yet no matter how many times the line “I don’t want you and I can’t stand you” is repeated, there’s something in the delivery that hints these words aren’t as emotionally detached as they may seem. 

The album continues in this ping-pong format, adding a frenetic energy of never knowing exactly where the next song will lead you. Sonically, “Karaoke” gives off all of those sweet feelings of new love until you realize we jumped forward in the relationship timeline again with lines like “The cart’s lighter at the grocery store / I can’t deal with people anymore,” and the idea of being so lost in your own heartbreak that you forget where you are and what you’re doing. It’s a ripper of a track that leans into the post-breakup crazies of trying to move forward without the person you thought would always be there. The shattering line “I’m a stranger to myself” is a gut punch, emphasizing just how much was given to this failed relationship. 

Mid-album cut “Neighbors” is a devastating look at insecurities and a need for reassurance that wasn’t being met. The lyrics “I want it clear / You still feel like we’re okay / That there’s no change” depict an image of someone sheepishly asking their partner if they still love them. Devora highlights a desperate need to be seen and validated that is not being met, yet one song later on “Let Me Forget,” we see her swiftly giving that assurance to her partner after a betrayal. This track paints a picture of someone willing to forgive their partner for just about anything because they’re scared to be alone. Strings, twangy acoustics, and haunting vocals make this one of the most excruciating yet beautiful tracks on the record and left me speechless, mouth agape at the amount of emotion put to one song.

“Bitter Pill” provides a rocking emotional release of all the pent-up anger caused by the relationship’s torment. There’s a clear power imbalance at play that has come to a head. Lines like “I don’t wanna bend my mind to anybody’s will / I don’t need you to know what’s real” make it clear that Devora has separated herself from the relationship’s toxicity, something that can only be done with the healing powers of time. It’s a hard rocker with an explosive guitar solo from Glass that complements the angst and vengeance in the vocals. Not to mention, the hook is catchier than catchy: “I don’t want that bitter, bitter, bitter pill,” which I can already envision helping others release themselves from the grip of an unhealthy relationship.

Closer “Do It All Again” mirrors the opening melodies of “All My Friends,” highlighting the powerful cycles these memories hold and our inclination to repeat these unhealthy relationship patterns. The hummed melody of “All My Friends” is even more haunting on “Do It All Again,” sounding like it’s playing through a radio that adds distance and creates even more of a dream-like note to end the album on. The song’s sole lyric, “If I got to do it all again / I’d find you there like I did back then,” shows that even in hindsight, love and desire squash any anguish from the certainty of heartbreak. Maybe it was all worth it in some twisted way? We might have to cycle through the memories all over again to find out.

Cassidy is a music writer and cultural researcher currently based in Brooklyn. She loves many things, including but not limited to rabbit holes, Caroline Polachek, blueberry pancakes, her cat Seamus, and adding to her record collection. She is on Twitter @cassidynicolee_, and you can check out more of her writing on Medium. 

Lip Critic – Hex Dealer | Album Review

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Partisan Records

> It is a Friday afternoon in May of 2024. Summer has yet to begin officially, yet the sun is punishingly bright as it tries to burst through the shuttered blinds of my home. I have attempted to counteract the blistering heat that awaits outside by running the a/c unit of my apartment into overdrive, yet it does not seem to be working: my insides are cooking. I am approximately eight minutes and twelve seconds into the thirty-one-minute runtime of Lip Critic’s debut LP Hex Dealer, and something is happening. 
> My heartbeat has gradually increased as each minute ticks by. I first noticed this reaction precisely four minutes and twenty-three seconds into this listening session, around the closing point of the opening track “It’s The Magic,” when I began to experience shortness of breath and a slight blurring in my vision. There is something living in this album. 

There is something simultaneously familiar and refreshingly new to a record like this, always the surest sign a band has at least the potential to become interesting if they are not right out of the gate. Lip Critic need not worry about the potential of being interesting; they sprinted right past potential quite a while ago with a series of EPs and singles dating back to 2019. Hex Dealer is, in many ways, the ideal form of a debut LP: it is a record that’s overflowing with ideas both musically and lyrically, the unmistakable sign of a band that’s spent years experimenting as they build up the anticipation for what a fully realized album by them could sound like. Now, Hex Dealer is here, ready to punish all who dare delve into Lip Critic’s world. 

> By the third song, my nose has started to bleed. It’s a slight drip, like an old faucet that won’t stop. I can feel my brain pulsating against my skull. It is trying to escape. There is no escape.

All that time I waited
Just to find out I’m from hell
I burn right through
My mortal shell

> It appears I blacked out shortly after my last audio log. The nose bleeding has intensified. Some minor cuts and scrapes have developed on my scalp. I can’t feel them, but I know they are there. I am going to attempt to continue from where I passed out before. 

What to say about a track like “Bork Pelly”? This is the first of two tracks on the record to feature guest verses from other vocalists (in this case, those guests would be GHÖSH and ID.Sus) and also the sort of track that is going to grab the inevitable, and frankly lazy, comparison to Death Grips. Why is it any time a punk band that draws just as much from hip-hop and dance music must always be compared to those titans of trolling? They certainly weren’t the first group to marry that cadre of sounds together. Is it just that they were the first to quote-unquote “breakthrough” to the mainstream? The first band of this ilk to get Pitchfork coverage and major festival slots? Probably. Almost certainly. But there is such a slice-of-life playfulness, not just to a track like “Bork Pelly,” but to all of the output from Lip Critic up until this point, that their sonic forebearers have seriously lacked. Sure, this album is populated with grimy, intense, breakneck-paced songs, but it is also a truly funny and engaging album. 

> There is a warbling synth embedded in the track “Spirit Bomber” that has shifted my pre-existing nausea into full-on illness. The way the notes gurgle has sent my brain into convulsions, though my body is completely still, paralyzed in fact. I am lying here on the floor of my bathroom, incapable of vomiting, but at this moment, for the first time in my life, there is nothing I would love to be able to do nothing more right now than just that. I can feel my organs shifting inside me.
> 47 seconds into “Death Lurking, one of the cuts on the back of my scalp has developed into a larger wound, though it does not hurt in the slightest. In fact, it feels nice to touch. 

> The high-pitched, scraping synth on “I’m Alive” feels akin to white noise, but if it physically hurt to listen to. I have pulled a small (about 3” in length and thin in diameter) bit of what appears to be wire out of the large unfeeling wound on the back of my head. It is covered in a viscous black goo that smells and tastes of nothing.

> The death metal-adjacent growl of “My Wife and the Goblin” feels like a moment of relief from the abuse my brain and body have endured until this point. The bleeding from my nose has stopped. I have continued to pull more frayed bits of wire of varying lengths from my headwound. 

> I have lost a tooth. My body feels like static. The pulse of album closer “Toxin Dodger” has given me the sweet release of vomit purging from my body. It is similar to the black goo that coated the bit of wire I pulled from my head wound. I can now feel bits of wire protruding through the skin on my palms and fingers. There is little of me left how I was before. My body and mind are not what they were. I pick at the wound on my head. It has gotten significantly larger. I can fit almost my whole hand in there. My entire body tingles with static as I pry and feel around gently. 

> There it is. The wire from where all of these bits I have pulled seemed to have originated from. It’s hefty feeling and causes my legs to spasm and pulsate when I grasp on it. I pull on the large wire that appears to be stuck to my brainstem. I tug at it ever so slightly as more and more unspools from the wound in my head. It feels good…
> It feels good. 

Jack Nelson is a writer, bartender, and former stand-up comedian (don’t hold that last part against him) based in Wilmington, NC. He can be found on Instagram and Letterboxd as @itsjackiekeyes. You will soon be able to see him in the upcoming mockumentary Soda Pop Spencer Storms Atlanta. All updates on that and future film projects can be found on the IG for the production company @punisher_skull.jpg.

Sailor Down – vacation (forgive me evan) | Single Review

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Relief Map Records

Summer has never been my favorite season, which is ironic considering that I live in a state known for its endless beaches and near-eternal summer. I much prefer the cool embrace of our four days of fall, but instead, I’m stuck dealing with California’s five hundred days of summer heat. There are a few redeeming aspects of this season, though – one huge benefit is the opportunity to take day trips to the Bay Area and cooler northern coast. To me, one of the fun parts of these little road trips is curating the perfect playlist to set the mood for the drive. Luckily, up-and-comers Sailor Down have just the song to add: “vacation (forgive me evan).” 

Hailing from the East Coast, where summer is shorter and slightly more forgiving, Sailor Down is a four-piece ensemble headed by frontperson Chloe Deeley. Their music is described by Relief Map Records as “Kinsella-inspired,” mellow, folksy, and emo. “vacation (forgive me evan)” is the first single off Sailor Down’s upcoming EP Maybe We Should Call It A Night, and it’s the perfect song for hazy, cricket-scored summer evenings. With an album and an EP under their belt, Sailor Down has already begun to establish their sound. Tracks like “Bat Signal” and “Skip the Line” are warm and beautiful, decorated with charming synth melodies and guitar riffs.

On “vacation (forgive me evan),” Deeley’s soft and gentle voice, supported by cozy guitars and pleasantly buzzy drums, creates an atmosphere of wistful emotion. “Moon in the mirror orange as a citrus / Rain on the windshield following sound / We spent vacation overanalyzing / No one’s letting anyone down.” Poignant visuals like these are threaded beautifully through the song, creating a watercolor world for the listener to explore. Deeley continues to paint a picture as variations of these lyrics return throughout the track, telling a story of two people navigating the new emotions of a shifting relationship. 

Tell me how you picture time
If it’s linear, then I won’t mind
I’ve got something to say, and I’ll keep it
Until I’m back to the future tonight

Something is changing, rolling like a storm in
Rain on the windshield following sound
Happy to be here I am only hoping
No one’s letting anyone down

As I loop this track over and over, letting it hum through my headphones, I allow the warmth of this summer evening to embrace me. My mind wanders through a quiet suburb, side by side with the person I love. As the stars appear like little lanterns, I am singing: “Happy to be here, I am only hoping no one’s letting anyone down.” Maybe I’ll like summer a little more this year.

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

Carly Cosgrove – The Cleanest of Houses Are Empty | Album Review

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Wax Bodega

There are many ways a ghost can haunt a house. They could float through a wall unannounced to scare someone investigating a flickering light or stalk around their once-home, watching the current inhabitants but hesitating to appear. Maybe they are more malevolent and are seeking revenge, or perhaps they’re more mischievous and just want to move someone’s jewelry off a dresser and onto a bedside table. Despite various discrepancies in ghostly behavior, one commonality often cited is the appearance of a ghost re-enacting a scene, and not just re-enacting it once, but over and over, like they’re stuck on a loop. In some stories, they’re stuck in the monotony of the day – cooking, entering a room, pacing a hallway – forever. 

I’ve often felt incredibly sympathetic towards those stories, the idea of someone doomed to repeat a moment of their life over and over without any semblance of recognition that they’re trapped. However, there’s also a coldly enticing side to it, a protective force around you blocking the outside and keeping you in. I remember a moment in my life when I was staring at ceilings and watching spiders build webs around me while I ignored the passage of time. I felt like those ghosts too.

Despite how inescapable these loops can be and how tantalizing it can be to haunt your own life, it ultimately isn’t sustainable – Philadelphia’s Carly Cosgrove makes that clear in their sophomore album, The Cleanest of Houses Are Empty. As a band that has always been concerned with fixing the unfixable and obsessively analyzing ways to change, their latest release delves deeper into the abyss of self-reflection than they ever have before. Through 11 songs, the trio brave waves of isolation, frustration, and contemplation with instrumentation that has so much kinetic force it borders on a live recording.

Something immediately apparent in any Carly Cosgrove song is how singer and guitarist Lucas Naylor not only sings but performs his lyrics with the emphatic nature of the instrument he’s holding in his hands. Naylor uses rhyme patterns like chords and creates melodies from otherwise absurd metaphors. The band’s specific lexicon and near-punchline deliveries are trademark signifiers of any Carly Cosgrove song. The album’s first single, “You Old Dog,” offers an immediate example, opening with a promise and question. 

This time, I will turn my life around and do it right
And this time, I will turn my life around and do it. Right?

By establishing this premise and then immediately flipping it on its head with a minor change to the punctuation, the band deploys a lyrical sleight of hand usually reserved for card games. With these lines, Naylor summarizes the major motivations of The Cleanest of Houses Are Empty: breaking a habit with bolt cutters and then regretting that you broke them, all underscored by a twinge of unrecognized hope.

The fourth track, "Here's a Fork," is led by Helen Barsz's heartbeat bassline and kicks the lyricism into overdrive as the words sharpen into an interrogation. The barrage of self-reflection stacks up on itself, eventually toppling over on the final question, "Can I make right on an old light? / Try to be who I said when you met me?” before shifting into a repeated refrain, “I wish I could love the way you test me.” It’s a melancholy admittance and perhaps the answer to the litany of questions aimed at a familiar face or, somberly, the mirror. Naylor reiterates the question again, punctuating the song with a stated, actionable version instead of looking for an answer – “Wanna make right on an old light / Try to be who I said when you met me,” the opposite of the subtle switch found in “You Old Dog.” For a moment, on its final hum, the song breathes again, the music seemingly catching its breath while the lyrics sigh in relief at a glimmer of recovery. 

Past the crowd-surfable “Fluff My Pillow” and the crowd-chantable “Zoloft” is the album’s sudden shift. The introduction of “Random Dancing” is interruptive and declarative; it jolts the album’s narrative into a new setting. Instead of a static reflection relegated to unwashed comforters and pill bottles on counters, the song moves us outside, with lyrics about doing whatever “the dance” entails. Maybe the dance is trying to get to work on time or awkwardly sitting on a barstool while talking to friends who were previously locked out of misery’s trap. The song’s shift to a different setting widens the scope, like when the aspect ratio of a movie suddenly changes, and the sound accompanies it. This track is the biggest Carly Cosgrove has ever sounded, with a chorus made to be chanted and a guitar tone that reminds me why we call the instrument an ax. 

It’s largely understood that hauntings end when a ghost’s “unfinished business” is complete. What’s more applicable here is the idea that the haunting will end after fully breaking out of the loop. The penultimate track, “The Impact of this Exit,” is the snapping point of this constant replay; the self-confrontation needed to stop a previously unstoppable cycle. Musically, this is the most tangibly emo song on the album, weaving melancholy twinkly riffs over rolling percussion with raw honesty placed at the forefront. As the conversational lyrics of the song mount into an argument and begin to boil over, Tyler Kramer’s drumming rolls along, building steadily with the words until Naylor admits, “I don't wanna be your winner.” Kramer then breaks from the established rhythm and drops in with a loud, hollow crack from the drumkit. The haunting is over.

The album ends with “North Star Bar,” a melancholy song punctuated by deep breaths and the sharp cry of a trumpet. The song itself seems to come from beyond as it details a life never lived through a place never visited. It only exists in imagination, or at least hangs from above like a star. It’s quieter than the other songs and implies an opportunity to sing along with an audience who, like a ghost, isn’t there either. Naylor leaves the listener with one final confession, “The world I know is not the one I hoped it was, But it was there.” It’s a pensive conclusion, equal parts disappointed and begrudgingly hopeful. 

Ultimately, it doesn’t matter how many years a ghost had been trapped re-enacting what once was, or how many people watched on as they grimly re-lived their life. What matters is when the loop finally stops, what stopped it, and how it changed them – this is what matters most on The Cleanest of Houses Are Empty too.

Caro Alt’s (she/her) favorite thing in the world is probably collecting CDs. Caro is from New Orleans, Louisiana and spends her time not sorting her CD collection even though she really, really needs to.

Capstan – The Mosaic | Album Review

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Fearless Records

I was quiet growing up… Like, really quiet. It was a regular occurrence for people who didn’t know me to ask if I talked at all, to which I would nod, barely managing a “yeah.” I clung to the wall in social settings, and even among my friends, I was always the shyest of the group. College did a lot to bring me out of my shell, although I’m still very reserved. (I can talk to people now, I swear.) Because of my personality, it’s frequently a surprise to others when they find out I love heavy music. To me, though, it makes perfect sense - this music does the talking for me. 

Capstan is one such band that speaks for me. Their songs fuse emotional lyrics with crushingly heavy breakdowns and moments of devastating beauty. My favorite song of theirs, “Wax Poetic,” is an excellent example of this. One of just five tracks on Capstan’s brilliant 2016 EP Cultural Divide, this song brings the eternal grief inside me to the surface, perfectly captured by the incredibly intense entrance of the band as vocalist Anthony DeMario screams, “I woke up today / And figured I’d burn everything / That made me think of you / And the saddest part is / I was left with nothing by the time that I was through.” Catharsis washes over me like water, freeing the feelings I am ever challenged to express. The song wraps up with a beautifully meandering guitar solo, ending in a wash of bittersweet harmonies. 

Subsequent releases by the band have been just as fraught with emotion: on Capstan’s 2018 album In the Wake of Our Discord, the closing track “Denouement” is an honest examination of existence. Djent chords and intricate, interlocking riffs are the driving force behind screamed vocals until the song seems to end - and then a piano joins the ensemble, adding a sense of softness to the recapitulation. “I will not bow down to this out-of-touch reality / We live lifeless lives / Glorify your mortality / Hold on to every moment / When you’re overwhelmed and brought to tears / So out of touch and hardened / Why is it we can’t grasp these years? / Not the lost hope or sadness / But the burdens we’ve conquered in times of madness.” This song is full of achingly beautiful moments, and their juxtaposition against brittle and dissonant elements makes them even more impactful. 

With their release of The Mosaic, Capstan has continued to build on their incredible discography of heavy-hitting songs and heart-shattering lyricism. The band has been teasing what’s in store with the release of a whopping seven singles over the course of 2023 and 2024. As the title suggests, this album is a scintillating collection of colorful tracks that, up close, seem individual. However, when you take a step back, the songs all melt into a beautiful picture. 

According to the band, the music on their latest record draws heavily from their personal experiences in the last couple of years, such as new parenthood and battles with health issues. This insight into The Mosaic makes it even more compelling as these experiences are intensely human and relatable. It’s refreshing - comforting, even - to hear Capstan share their personal battles with us.

As you would expect from any Capstan record, the majority of the songs are full of weirdly fun metalcore riffs and skull-crushing breakdowns. “Undertow,” which features Finnish noise rock band Throat (yeah, I had to look them up too), perfectly balances a bright, bouncy chorus with a breakdown that features satisfyingly growled screams. “Bȇte Noire” is equally intriguing, with pinch harmonics, a bass line that I can only describe as spooky, and fry screams that sit just under the surface of the mix, haunting the song throughout. The breakdown is brutal, growing heavier and heavier until it cuts off abruptly and a swell of strings pushes the song to a close. And, of course, what would this song be without a blegh thrown in at the end? Something I enjoy about Capstan is that they consistently incorporate moments of softness into their music - the sudden contrast of the change in instrumentation or mood makes the heavy moments that much more impactful. This stylistic choice brings the metaphor of the mosaic up again - the album would lack form without the difference between the light and dark moments, as any piece of art would.

The Mosaic isn’t all brutality, though: tracks like “Arrows,” featuring UK punk rockers Trash Boat, is a song that feels like it bridges both metalcore and pop-punk. It’s a little more wistful and restrained, building to an expansive chorus that shouts, “You showed me things I never thought I'd see / 'Cause I believed there wasn't hope for me / Abandoned love but then your love discovered me.” A beautiful interlude called “Compendium” follows “Arrows” - it’s a warm, gorgeous arrangement of synth strings and orchestral percussion that made my classical-music-loving heart soar. The piece builds into a fever pitch that leads directly into “Bȇte Noire” (again, intense contrast!). Capstan does a great job making this interlude fit into the album by incorporating the same synth strings throughout the other songs.

While this record is a stack of fantastic songs, The Mosaic is punctuated by three key ones: “I. Revolve,” “II. Revise,” and “III. The Mosaic.” The album is split into halves by “Revise” and bookended with “Revolve” and “The Mosaic.” The songs are linked - all three share melodies and build on each other lyrically, weaving a story through the course of the album. (It’s worth noting here that “Compendium” also features this melody.) “Revolve” and “Revise” are introspective, respectively asking, “Is all the sadness that I’ve ever felt / From expectation that I set for myself?” and “Is all this sadness that I’ve ever held / Merely fallout from a world so bereft?” These pensive lyrics are fittingly answered in “The Mosaic:” “Take all the sadness, still never quelled / Dissect the misery, let it meld / With all the traumas past, slow burn them to green glass / Abstract the contrast.” The concept of the album takes shape as the lyrics continue:

Under a lens you may see blood and bone
You’ll see the sorrow blur the edge of the whole
But if you step back slowly, widening your focus
In broken glass you’ll catch a glow
How does anything evolve before it decays?
How do you find the light when you sleep through the days?
How do you pull yourself together when fractured in so many ways?
It starts with learning to love
It starts when death turns to growth
It starts with holding on to life and never letting it go
We’re painted with joy, sculpted by grief
And tragedy can just be a path leading, weaving into beauty unseen.

The metaphor of life as a mosaic - of every experience, every pain, every joy melding into a bigger and more beautiful picture - is captured so incredibly throughout this album, and this final track pulls it all together perfectly. “The Mosaic” resonated with me, especially as I am a survivor of adverse childhood experiences and have been in therapy for the past year or so to address my past. As I heal and grow, the concept of being “painted with joy” and “sculpted with grief” have been life-giving: my experiences do not define me, yet they have made me into the person I am today. The pain and challenges I have faced have made me resilient, and healing has allowed me to see the experiences of my thirty-ish years as a mosaic indeed. The dark bits and pieces give form; without them, the light shards would not shine so brightly. 

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