Cryogeyser – Cryogeyser | Album Review

Self-Released

Millennial culture is back like it never left. The kids of the late 90s and early 2000s–now considered the Y2K era–are all grown up with jobs, bills, and the stresses of adulthood. I’ll raise my hand for all three of those, and we all cope in different ways. Regardless of your age or what generation you may find yourself in, there’s something undeniably alluring about revisiting shows that take you back to a time when it was just you and your friends watching your favorite TV shows without a care in the world. This is what I like to call entertainment comfort food. 

When we watch reruns of shows that activate our inner child, everything from the theme songs to the needle drops instantly inject peak nostalgia into our veins, transporting us back to a past version of ourselves. This brings me to Cryogeyser’s self-titled sophomore album, which is sure to scratch any nostalgic itch you may have for the vibes of yesteryear. I’d be willing to bet a lump sum of money (preferably not my money, but someone's money) that vocalist/guitarist Shawn Marom is a big fan of shows like Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Dark Angel, or Charmed. 

In 2019, Cryogeyser’s first album, Glitch, was a solid debut from the group. Their music was painted on a canvas dream-pop throughout, but behind those lush textures, the lyrics hid an impending doom. This is most notable on the song “Waiting,” which reminds me of the final scene from the first Terminator film where Sarah Connor finds herself driving from a sun-soaked desert into the eye of an imminent thunderstorm.

Cryogeyser’s self-titled record is more interesting, pushing their sonic scope to new heights far past those found on their debut. Whether this change is coming through the newly refreshed and solidified lineup or just the natural process of getting older, their maturation is evident. The addition of Zach Capitti Fenton on drums and bassist Samson Klitsner has cranked up the dial full-blast with colossal riffs track after track. If Glitch is like driving down the sunlit California coast in a flashy convertible with the top down, Cryogeyser is like being in the same sports car, only this time, you made a wrong turn and have found yourself flying at breakneck speed past abandoned buildings, run-down impound lots, and seedy-looking characters. 

Album opener, “Sorry,” is a sonic knockout punch that would even leave Rocky Balboa woozy. The song is a fusion of grunge, shoegaze, and dream-pop rolled into one ball of awesome. Marom’s melodies instantly captivate, making it one of their best and an easy choice for the album’s lead single. Marom said about the track, “Sorry is the song that plays at the pool party your ex is at.” I hope my exes aren’t listening to music this high quality. 

Mid-album highlight “Mountain” is a tag team effort from Marom and Karly Hartzman of Wednesday, harmonizing in tandem about the after-effects of a broken relationship. Both singers sound at home over the distorted arrangement of guitars. This got me thinking that there should be more team-ups in the indie music community. We got a stellar one last year with Waxahatchee and MJ Lenderman, and that was one of the best songs of the year! Now, I’m not asking for every artist to have a Wu-Tang-like feature list on albums because that would devalue the point, but if done in moderation, the songs get elevated to feel more special, like with “Mountain.”

Maybe it’s just because they’ve toured together (multiple times), but Cryogeyser reminds me of a West Coast version of Wednesday. Both bands excel at turning their versions of shoegaze into a grimy, dirty, distorted trademark sound. Instead of the alt-country allure of Down South that Wednesday is now known for, Cryogeyser lean into the sonic landscape of their sunny, vibrant home in Los Angeles. Regional music is finally making a comeback!

Cryogeyser are also purveyors of 90s culture with their cascading waves of grungy distortion. “Cupid” (a song aptly titled for the record’s Valentine’s Day release) has an authentic alternative-rock fuzz that would make Dinosaur Jr. proud. Between the melodic chorus and scuzzy guitars, “Blew It” left a lasting impression on me, making it a compelling late-album peak. With a Lance Bangs-directed music video, there’s no doubt in my mind that “Stargirl” would have been a massive hit on MTV’s Alternative Nation. It’s a song that takes you on a journey about the isolating damage that grief does to one’s body. Marom sings, “I’m eating it fast and eating it well / My stomach feels full, and I’m going through hell.” Things progress to a fiery conclusion with cascading waves of grungy guitar distortion that will leave you slack-jawed. 

“Fortress” has a timeless classic rock-fueled pop edge. Marom’s intoxicating vocal harmonies remind me of Celebrity Skin-era Courtney Love. A couple of tracks later, “Blue Light” has a retro television show theme music quality with lyrics about self-discovery and a tidal wave of dreamy pumped guitars. It feels like I’m watching a lost episode of One Tree Hill or, for the real heads out there, The O.C. 

Throughout their self-titled record, Cryogeyser encapsulate a brooding yet blissful ambiance, setting the tone with a dreamy type of grunge sonic structure on “Sorry” all the way to the tear-soaked trip hop closer “Love Language.” It’s a kind of mood that leans heavy on nostalgia, which meshes well with the reflective nature of Marom’s lyrics, looking in the rearview mirror on past decisions or relationships. I think it’s a brilliant move, harkening back to the past sonically while coming to grips with lost times. Cryogeyser created a soundtrack for us to return to whenever the present is overwhelming, the past seems confronting, and the future seems uncertain. As the trio blur those time frames together, things somehow only manage to become more clear. 

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

The Laughing Chimes – Whispers In The Speech Machine | Album Review

Slumberland Records

There’s a part of me that still thinks a goth is the coolest thing you can be. It’s not even something that I particularly identify with or feel a strong pull toward, but to me, there’s nothing more fascinating than the person in the corner with the swoopy black hair and an extraneous leather belt. 

While it’s easy to see how a crush on Sam from Danny Phantom could segue into the emo investments and highlighter-colored hair of my late-Aughts scene period, I often kick myself for taking so long to arrive at an admiration for this type of music. I look at the discography of a band like The Cure or The Jesus and Mary Chain, and I see nothing but decades of consistency. I also look at the number of bands they’ve influenced, like Mogwai, Beach House, and countless others, then wonder why it took me until my mid-twenties to develop an appreciation for goth and new wave.

Perhaps I was apprehensive because it felt ingenuine to be drawn to this aesthetic as a relatively stress-free, well-off kid from a suburb of Oregon. Goths were something I saw in movies and TV shows; even by the time I was a teenager, the music felt like an ancient text, and for me to adopt that style would have come across as nothing but hollow. The reason The Cure can make an album as phenomenal as Songs of A Lost World more than 40 years into their career is because that’s who those people are at their core. Robert Smith has always been that bitch. 

The same thing goes for jangle-pop acts like R.E.M., who, in my estimation, have near-spotless discographies and have always sounded effortlessly cool, even when they were still greasy, pimple-faced college kids. It makes total sense then that I’d hear an album like The Laughing Chimes’ Whispers In The Speech Machine and be drawn in like a fly to honey. 

Despite sounding like an album you’d pick off the shelf of an English record store in the mid-80s, The Laughing Chimes hail from southeastern Ohio, lending their blend of post-punky dream-pop a sturdy midwestern foundation. It’s a trip to think about these four making such gothy works from Athens, Ohio, of all places, but anyone who’s visited that part of the country can attest to the imposing industrial abandon that marks your days. I imagine it’s actually quite similar to the drab places where this music often emerges like London or Scotland, but what does my Pacific Northwestern-ass know?

Whispers In The Speech Machine starts by whisking the listener straight up in a pitch-perfect jangle riff that serves as the engine for most of the record’s 28 minutes. It’s easy to get drawn in, nodding along to the delay-drenched guitar lick of “Atrophy” as Evan Seurkamp’s dreamy vocals float by. You’re liable to soon lose your place in time and space as The Laughing Chimes move you from one scene to the next with a studied precision. Just like the washed-out half-exposure on the album cover, things start to feel half-real and overgrown, an amalgamation of physical places and hallucinatory visions constructed from half-remembered locales. Was I really here, or was it just something I saw in a movie? Why does that building look so familiar? Who are all these people that I feel like I should know? 

Though it feels scant, these eight songs have the exact right elements: the aforementioned arpeggiated guitar paired with driving, cool basslines that link up perfectly with Quinn Seurkamp’s effervescent drumming. Despite being prominent in the mix, the vocals often feel more like a vibe-guiding suggestion than a critical element–it’s just as easy to get sucked up into the gorgeous swirling guitarwork and driving rhythm section as it is the wraithy lyrics surrounding them.

Some songs like “Country Eidolism” retreat into more retracted acoustic-guitar-led pensivity, which the band knows to quickly chase with a high-energy burst like “Cats Go Car Watching.” Through all these lush instrumental explorations, the Laughing Chimes remain locked in on their gothy inspirations. A playlist of songs that influenced the LP reveals not only expected suspects like The Cure and Bauhaus but more modern touchpoints like Alvvays and early-career R.E.M. 

Up until the final moments of “Mudhouse Mansion,” you’re likely to remain under the band’s witchy spell until its final reverb-soaked jangles have come to a rest, at which point, you’ll be hopelessly dumped back into the real world with all of its horrors and pains. The transportive nature of Whispers In The Speech Machine is one of its powers, no doubt, but the band’s harkening back to this older style of music also serves to show us how far we’ve progressed (or flatlined) in the previous decades. If the contrast feels stark, then the music is doing its job.

Mount Eerie – Night Palace | Album Review

P.W. Elverum & Sun

It’s been about a month since Night Palace dropped, and I barely have my arms around it. Over the course of 81 minutes, legendary singer-songwriter Phil Elverum covers a lot of sonic and thematic territory. Black metal, motherhood, loosey-goosey indie rock, songs based on poems, poems based on songs, and Marxist property theory are just a few of the topics Phil examines on his sprawling new album. There’s a 12-minute spoken word track, a 58-second lullaby for his daughter, and an autotuned song about talking to a fish. It’s a complex listen.

Night Palace’s multifaceted nature stems from Phil’s attempt to reconcile many different pieces of his psyche, the world that he inhabits, and his rich artistic history. Since The Microphones’ free-flowing cult classic The Glow Pt. 2 landed him at the top of Pitchfork’s Top Albums of 2001, his 25-year stint as one of indie’s preeminent singer-songwriters has been marked by pendulum swings. One project is quiet, literal, and sincere. The next? Noisy, distorted, and atmospheric. In his words, this album is about finding as much connection as possible between all these versions of himself and all the contradictions we inhabit. It’s about creating continuity between our collective past and the present. Between the domestic and the spectral. The analogical and the objective.

In his attempt to locate this elusive nexus, Phil crafts a collection of songs that play out like the album-to-album oscillations of his discography in miniature. The opening track, “Night Palace,” features a hefty dose of contemplative verse and the studio experimentation that defined the early Microphones stuff - an air organ run through heavy distortion that blankets the composition with a thick, staticky haze. “Huge Fire” loosens things up with an electric guitar and a warmer arrangement to complement Phil’s lyrics about the all-encompassing sensory act of building a giant bonfire. It’s also the first of several references on Night Palace to Phil’s favorite symbol over the years - the powerful, dynamic force of the wind. At age 23 on tracks like “I Want Wind to Blow,” the wind was a way out for Phil, an escape from the claustrophobia of modern urban life. Now, at 46, the wind is not something to pray for but rather a powerful, beautiful, and destructive inevitability. It’s not strictly any one of those things; it represents the confluence of all those things and more.

The wind and other environmental symbols that appear throughout Night Palace represent an easing of Elverum’s commitment to a hyper-realistic songwriting approach after the passing of his wife Genevieve and the release of his devastating (and best-selling) 2017 album, A Crow Looked At Me. “Broom of Wind” is a perfect example of Phil loosening those self-imposed restrictions by allowing the poetic to coexist with the realistic within the very same song. It’s a stroke of concise songwriting brilliance that harmonizes his early inclination towards the natural metaphor with his late-period literalism, referencing a zen poem of the same name and conjuring a homey, solemn image of Phil sweeping his kitchen every morning. “Sweeping with an old broom / whose straw keeps chunking off / for me to sweep up” is both a relatable domestic frustration and an iteration of Sisyphusian myth rolled up into one short and sweet verse. Night Palace is full of such instances - the ordinary made cosmic.

As the album stretches on, seemingly into infinity, Phil inhabits just about every pocket of his sound that he’s ever explored. “Blurred World” is one long, gorgeous verse about worsening vision and pissing outside that recalls the vocal choir heavily featured on his 2005 album Singers. On the hilarious and poignant “I Spoke With a Fish,” we get another taste of the autotuned wackiness of 2013’s Pre-Human Ideas. Phil’s frequently cited Stereolab influence has never been quite so clear, in both sound and subject, as it is on “Non-Metaphorical Decolonization” and “Co-Owner of Trees,” two krautrock jams about nativism and the strange concept of land ownership. Though many of these ideas are familiar, it’s not quite right to call them retreads; a couple decades of experience imbues these words and sounds with new life, and their unconventional sequencing accentuates just how unique each one is. Every time I listened, a new handful stood out, and I suspect the same thing will happen again and again as I revisit.

There’s an entire dissertation to write unpacking each of the verses and sonic vignettes in Night Palace’s 26 tracks. This record - possibly even more so than many of Phil’s works - should be treated as a primary source text rather than an airplane novel. It’s a snapshot in time that means something different to its author and audience today than it will in a year and a few years after that. It should be listened to, read, discussed, and relistened to again. In that way, it can be a nexus of temporal perspective for you in the same way that it was for our old friend Phil.

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

A Place For Owls – how we dig in the earth | Album Review

Broom of Destruction Records

A Place for Owls open up their stellar sophomore album, how we dig in the earth, with “go on,” an acoustic ballad that crescendos into strings, keys, and gang vocals. Lead singer Ben Sooy’s voice is gentle–but not weak–in conveying the general human problem of not being okay at all. This first track is perfectly indicative of the 45 minutes of humane intimacy and tenderness found throughout the record, the strengths that separate APFO from both their influences and their peers.

Once “go on” reaches its peak, “hourglass” roars in with thick, crunchy guitars, crashing cymbals, and Sooy’s beating, bleeding open heart. The song tells the story of his and his partner’s miscarriage presented in momentous, wall-of-sound emotional rock that is textured and carefully layered. It sounds like the color of a densely wooded forest during the first chill, with the warmth of a cabin just a few steps out of reach. It is here that I imagine myself feeling the love Sooy has for his partner, their unborn children, and the life they are building together. Every grain of sand in “hourglass” is the sound of love vying against the unexpected, harsh realities of life.

Without losing the established solemnity of the album, “broken open seed” is as much fun as it is a reflection on the endless nature of waiting for sunlight, the bloom and blossom of oneself.

A broken open seed, imagine me
Lying 'neath the ground all covered in leaves
The very voice of earth
That groans beneath the dirt
When everything's asleep
Everything's asleep
Everything but me

I’ve listened to enough emo music to have developed a keen ear for spotting the quiet-loud dynamic range utilized in many of the genre’s songs. It is a trope of emo that I love, but also one that is expertly subverted on “broken open seed.” One can easily imagine a version of this song that begins quietly, slowly watered with thunderous guitars, and blooms into a headbanging conclusion. Yet APFO go against my ear’s expectations and land in a quiet place to spread their message of love and support for one another. Being themselves is APFO’s superpower.

In contrast to the hooky synths of its predecessor, “huston lake” is another simple and direct ballad reminiscent of the first half of “go on.” Every time I’ve listened to this album, I tear up on this track. I can’t tell you if it’s because I’m a sucker for soft piano and haunting lap-steel guitar or if it is for how beautiful and cathartic it is for me to hear someone let go so enthusiastically when all I do is strive to maintain control in my own life. Perhaps I’m still processing whatever traumas I’ve faced, but I prefer to give grace to Sooy, Nick Webber, Daniel Perez, Ryan Day, Jesse Cowan, and co.: they inspire a release through sparse instrumentation that brings listeners closer to the divine.

At the center of how we dig in the earth lies the one-two punch of “a tattoo of a candle” and “desmond hume.” The former is full of sing-along melodies and the most optimistic lyric I’ve ever heard: “draw your breath in / hope is a weapon.” (I’m already considering a tattoo of that lyric, and the album is not even a month old.) If one follows the extended network of APFO and their Holy Fools, then it is no surprise that they are genuine people who ultimately believe in the beauty of life, community, and love. This authenticity shines through in “tattoo’s” chorus, using specific details to communicate universal feelings:

I'm smoking cigarettes with Daniel
A tattoo of a candle
A flicker and a fade
And everything has changed
I don't need another reason
It's just another season
The leaves will fall and fade
And everything's the same

As “a tattoo of a candle” winds down, “desmond hume” continues the band’s streak of Lost references and ends the A side of the album on an appropriately somber, contemplative note. Evoking the quietude of “go on” and “huston lake,” Webber plays piano and Sooy picks a guitar while reflecting on the death of a stepfather who never really understood him or his complex relationship with his mother. 

Along with the solemn devastation inherent in multiple levels of grief, what stays with me in “desmond hume” is the metaphor of spirits in Sooy’s backpack. At the onset of the song, he calls them American Spirits, identifying them as cigarettes. After processing some of his grief throughout the track, the second “Spirits” lyric becomes something else to me. Sure, they are his comfort in times of distress, but they are also the hauntings he carries with him, always just a light away from springing to life.

In “haunted,” Sooy becomes the spirit. Layers of acoustic and twinkly electric guitars accompanied by a lone trumpet isolate his vocal, emphasizing the loneliness he sings about. When Elliott Green and the full band join, APFO enter full-cathartic-anthem territory, foreshadowing the album’s closing track.

It’d be remiss of me not to discuss “help me let the right ones in.” As an avid Jimmy Eat World fan, Sooy knows the importance of the last song on an album. It is the final statement of the record as an artifact. What thoughts and feelings are left with the listener when all is said and done? Not just that, but the last song must put a ribbon on all that’s come before. Unsurprisingly, APFO stick the landing. “help me let the right ones in” is the call to action after an album of grief and gratitude through the lens of elevating tremolo-picked guitars, pounding drums, and a buoyant, thumping bass. If the beginning of how we dig in the earth is green in its earnest descent into catharsis, the end is a dandelion, Coldplay-colored yellow basking in the warmth and intimacy of love, friendship, family, and the acceptance of change.

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Brooklyn native Joe Wasserman moonlights as an English teacher when he’s not playing bass in the LVP. Find more of his writing on Substack.

Haley Heynderickx – Seed of a Seed | Album Review

Mama Bird Recording Co.

Did we take a wrong turn somewhere? This is something I’m sure everyone has thought at some point in their life, whether that’s in relation to a big life decision such as a move or career change, the direction of a relationship, or something as simple as a literal wrong turn while driving. As a person who grew up in the Information Age, with every global horror and consequence of full-throttle late-stage capitalism beamed directly into my brain, that question becomes haunting and so much bigger than myself. I know for a fact I’m not alone in that torment. If there’s one idea that much of my favorite art from 2024 explores, it would be that kind of existential dread: a cocktail of emptiness and anxiety that can only come from living day-to-day in a world that’s seemingly spiraling more and more out of our control. 

This year, I’ve heard everyone from Vince Staples to MJ Lenderman struggle to find meaning, let alone happiness, in modern times. On “Seed of a Seed,” the lead single and title track off of her long-awaited sophomore album, Haley Heynderickx is in the midst of this same search for contentment. “Cause we all need a sense of lore sometimes / Like I need a silent mind / In a consumer flood,” she sings in one of the verses, the swaying guitar pattern tracking the whole song, joined by a forlorn cello. She wonders if her parents and her “parents’ parents” knew any better before quickly concluding that they couldn’t have. Seed of a Seed is an album concerned with a great many things, but the thought that Heynderickx returns to over and over is this idea of cycles and history and how to reconnect with nature and serenity when we’re caught up in systems far outside of one person’s control. Maybe we took that wrong turn a long time ago…

For the unfamiliar, Haley Heynderickx is a Portland-based singer-songwriter whose debut album, I Need to Start a Garden, has netted her a devoted following in the six years since its release off the back of its enchanting take on indie folk. Where many of her peers blend folk with indie pop and rock influences from the 90s and 2000s, Heynderickx seems to draw from a much older well of inspiration, with mid-20th century folk and jazz chief among them. I remember catching her road test new material while opening for Lucy Dacus on her 2022 jaunt through the Northwest and feeling transported to the late 60s, wondering if this is what it felt like to stumble into a New York bar and watch Joni Mitchell hone now-classic songs.

It should come as no surprise to anyone who has had the opportunity to hear Haley Heynderickx perform in the past two years that Seed of a Seed finds her doubling down on her classic influences while bringing them into the 21st century. “Gemini” begins the album in a place of anxiety, with Heynderickx channeling Bob Dylan’s “Subterranean Homesick Blues” as she attempts to push down the part of herself railing against all the mundane anxieties of daily life. Nothing is spared, as everything from phone addiction and ignored messages to aimless spending and annoyed strangers get namechecked in a storm of distractions. Each repetition of the guitar motif is underscored by a rising tension until she finally relents to that voice and all the instrumentation joins in what may as well be the musical transcription of a deep breath. 

Regardless of how in vogue her influences are, the strength of Heynderickx’s songwriting is undeniable, as evidenced by “The Bug Collector” off of her debut eventually going viral on social media platforms like TikTok years after release. In that song, she gently removes insects from sight out of love for a panicked partner, but on Seed of a Seed, she has turned her attention to the bugs themselves. “Redwoods (Anxious God)” sees Heynderickx cutting through a forest of whimsical imagery straight out of a mythological fable, repeating a message she received from a pebble: “Humankind is getting lost / Not even little bugs want to talk with us.” The harmony between man and our neighbors is blocked by an impossibly high barricade centuries in the making. It’s a sentiment that risks coming off as hippie preaching, but the childlike wonder captured in both the imagery and plucky performances puts even someone as terminally online as myself right there with Heynderickx. With each infectious refrain, I imagine dancing among the eponymous redwoods and yearning to hear their wisdom, only for the final line to bring me crashing back to civilization. 

Elsewhere, “Mouth of a Flower” ponders the hierarchy of the world, tracing the life cycle from a hummingbird drinking a flower’s nectar to the various ways that humans have taken from the environment and each other. Once again, it’s easy to imagine this inducing some eye rolls in the hands of a less compelling writer, but Haley’s tone is never accusatory. There’s so much beauty in the give and take between man and nature, but also an underlying concern about how imbalanced these exchanges have become as our consumption continues to expand. Flourishes of cello and electric guitar inject extra moments of color into the song, but the former sours towards the end, its chugging rhythm twisting the core refrain, “And we take, and we take, and we take,” into something unnerving. 

These moments of tension may underscore the themes of overstimulation and imbalance, but it’s well worth noting that the experience of listening to Seed of a Seed is so far from either. I only stress them so heavily because it’s easy to get swept up in just how beautiful the vast majority of this record sounds and miss those hints of darkness. Haley Heynderickx pulls a kind of magic trick on the listener with this record. She and her band are able to conjure up their own archaic and grandeur sonic environment so casually that the appeal seems simple to anyone tuning in, but there is a meticulous craft behind it all. Their attention to detail is infectious. Every production choice, each slide of the trombone or pluck of a guitar string, sounds perfectly designed to make you appreciate the nearest patch of green in your vicinity. 

On “Gemini,” this manifests as her “pull[ing] the fuck over just to stare at purple clover off the highway,” kickstarting a series of interrogations into what really matters in her life. Seed of a Seed feels like it’s constantly trying to bottle that moment of realignment of the self and give it to the listener – a plea to value what is in front of us rather than striving for what isn’t. Nowhere is Haley more transparent about this endeavor than on “Sorry Fahey,” where she ponders the correlation between learning to appreciate the little things in life and the trials of adult life. It’s both achingly earnest and playful in a way that’s fast becoming a signature of Heynderickx’s music, full of musical twists and turns, as well as the songwriter lovingly admonishing her cat for being an asshole. 

Maybe to be an adult
To know your body keeps score
Is when you start to appreciate
Start to really appreciate

That you could call your Pa
Or a friend
And not bail on
The thing next Tuesday
Cause it’s a new day
It’s an offering
It’s a kettle
Making you tea
Ginger

It’s this that acts as the key to Haley’s outlook. Finding peace and purpose as an act of gentle protest is an idea that flows throughout the record. “Tell me truly, what is your dream? Tell me truly, is it the city life?” Heynderickx probes on the magnificent single “Foxglove,” asking the listener to reconsider what they need to be happy with in this life. The daydream may die, but that doesn’t mean fulfillment goes with it. That idea has followed me ever since I made my way through Northwest Portland alongside my partner one recent evening. As we walked by all the locally owned storefronts as they closed down for the night and the autumn wind blew through the trees, I felt her chilled hand in mine and was overwhelmed by an increasingly rare sense of contentment. My mind flickered back to the title track’s mantra: “If I get lucky / Maybe a glass of wine / If I get lucky /Maybe a hand next to mine.”

More than creature comforts or even the majesty of nature, Seed of a Seed imparts the importance of community to its listeners. After all, if people are responsible for the messes we find ourselves in, maybe it’s people who can help untangle that same bundle of stressors and fears. Viewed through this lens, that choice of title seems even more clever. We are all products of our environment and those who came before us and, by extension, their environments and the choices they’ve made. We are caught up in an impossibly sprawling tapestry of these people’s choices, which can be terrifying to think about. How can positive change ever be enacted with so many moving pieces out of our control and at odds with one another?

But there’s beauty in this idea, too. On the album’s unassuming closer, “Swoop,” Heynderickx directly reckons with her own family history and how she wound up in the station she finds herself in. She recounts her grandmother’s immigration from Hong Kong and the birth of her mother before visiting the former’s grave, settling into a sense of belonging at her place within this lineage. It’s a perfect punctuation after the wistful “Jerry’s Song” chronicles the shared experiences of a tried-and-true bond. In that song, she compares herself to clay and her subject to limestone amidst a flurry of memories, a different blurred image coming into focus with each listen. A cheeky line about splitting a sandwich in “divided America” feels prescient in hindsight, but it only highlights Haley’s belief in the power of little things. That tapestry already has so much conflict and innumerable clashing threads, so maybe the most anyone can do at the individual level is to be kind and generous to those immediately around them. It’s slow work, but if enough join in, something beautiful could be woven into the piece. 

I’ve had the privilege of seeing Haley Heynderickx again in the last month, almost two years since those opening slots, and with a full band this time around. It was a full circle moment to have songs I’d first heard in a live setting performed after becoming familiar with them for the purposes of this review, but more than any particular song they played, it’s an interaction with the crowd that keeps crossing my mind. In an interval between songs, an audience member asked if Haley had managed to start her garden, to which she ruefully admitted she hadn’t, citing limited living spaces and her touring schedule. Her trombonist, Denzel Mendoza, was quick to reaffirm by gesturing to the room and calling either the music, the moment, the audience, or a mix of all three “her garden.” It was a genuinely sweet exchange, and you could tell it meant a lot to the singer to think of it that way. Even if she hadn’t considered it before, Seed of a Seed is a product of that mindset: ten songs meant to sow the simple joys of nature and companionship into the brains of all who hear them. If we’re lucky, it will reap a bountiful harvest.

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Wesley Cochran lives in Portland, OR where he works, writes, and enjoys keeping up with music of all kinds, with a particular fondness for indie rock. You can find him @ohcompassion on Twitter, via his email electricalmess@gmail.com, or at any Wilco show in the Pacific Northwest.