This Is the Scene on 11th Street When Black Midi Comes to Town | Concert Review

During the Year Of No Shows, I often daydreamed of a post-quarantine concert exuberant and outrageous enough to make up for all the nights that venues, once brimming with noisy liveliness, sat empty while musicians and would-be concertgoers alike waited patiently until they could breathe life into these spaces again. Now I’m not saying that a show must be rowdy and ear-splitting in order to be worthy of welcoming live music back from its pandemic-induced hiatus. In the months since tours having started up again, I’ve been blessed with the communal, campfire-like warmth of a Mountain Goats solo show at City Winery, the intimate giddiness of a post-Hurricane set Samia played at Union Pool, and a laid-back summer evening with Bright Eyes, Waxahatchee, and Lucy Dacus at Forest Hills Stadium. Each of these performances was moving and memorable, and each in its own way reminded me of something I’d desperately yearned for during quarantine. But it wasn’t until Tuesday night at Webster Hall that I was able to experience a concert that lived up to the magical, hell-raising insanity of my quarantine daydreams. And it wasn’t just the mosh pit-- though I’d heard from others that the pits at black midi shows go fucking crazy, and this one certainly did not disappoint. Beyond the simultaneously base and divine euphoria of getting tossed around in a sea of sweaty strangers, black midi’s show provided a fully immersive spectacle that felt as weirdly glamorous as it did grotesque. Like a night at the opera if said opera took place in the sewers where the Ninja Turtles live, or like Cirque du Soleil if Cirque du Soleil didn’t suck. From the moment they stepped onstage-- heralded by a faux pro-wrestling announcement that declared them “the heavyweight champions of London, England”  --it was like I’d entered another world. 

The whole scene was unassuming at first. The crowd had me feeling simultaneously too old and too young to be there-- mostly teenagers in Tripp pants and longhaired mid-30s white guys, at least three of whom were wearing Swans shirts. When I overheard a kid behind me in the merch line ask one of his companions, “so are you like, a black midi guy?” I had to stifle the urge to laugh and interrupt their conversation with, “it’s a black midi show; we’re ALL black midi guys.” I heard another group wishfully but doubtfully thinking aloud about whether the band would play bmbmbm, a song that some fans have christened black midi’s “Creep” (referring to both its status as the band’s signature song as well as the band’s seeming distaste for playing it live). Hours prior, bassist Cameron Picton had tweeted that they’d play it if they made $1,200 in merch tips that night. Clearly, this goal was not met (and Cam’s tweet was almost certainly made in jest-- the black midi boys are nothing if not constantly in on the joke), and their breakout track predictably did not make it onto the Webster Hall setlist. 

The band opened for themselves as alter-ego/blues fusion side project The Orange Tree Boys, an “amazing new band out of Las Vegas.” The Orange Tree Boys have previously made appearances at other live shows and on the black midi variety hour. Outfitted in camo, dark sunglasses, and delightfully faked American accents, they performed a short set of improvisational jams and AC/DC covers. Bowie had Ziggy Stardust, Beyonce had Sasha Fierce-- black midi have The Orange Tree Boys. They were followed by a haunting ambient set from Brooklyn-born multi-instrumentalist L’Rain, whose supporting spot on black midi’s US tour follows her residency at Mass MoCa. Her critically acclaimed 2021 sophomore album Fatigue lent itself beautifully to her live performance, her acrobatic vocals and delicately distorted experimental arrangements echoing through every inch of the ballroom. 

Between L’Rain’s set and black midi’s, I listened to a group of guys in front of me figure out their strategy re: opening up the pit-- who would go where, what was the best way to move up towards the front (this was before a few of them chorused “daddy? sorry. daddy? sorry. daddy? sorry” at black midi’s infinitely memeable frontman Geordie Greep). Of course, all strategy and logic dissipated the moment the lights dimmed and a disembodied voice introduced London’s heavyweight champions. The boys walked onstage to Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York,” which cut out as they began to play erratic Schlagenheim album opener “953.” The song’s starting chords set off an almost Pavlovian reaction in the audience, sweeping us up into a human tornado. As we thrashed about, Geordie alternated between what can only be described as a disemboweled Sinatra cover over 953’s jagged post-punk anti-melody, and the song’s actual lyrics. 

One of the most striking contradictions of black midi’s music is how it’s theatrical yet unemotional. The musical experience they provide is somewhat concerned with feeling, but not so much feelings. Their songs rarely reveal any easily definable emotion. This only furthers their worldbuilding abilities, especially in their live performances. To call what I witnessed at Webster Hall a “concert” almost feels reductive, unable to encompass the depth of the rabbit hole they drag their audiences down. We zoomed through the dystopian urban development of the 2019 single “Speedway” with Cameron and his sinister, monotone vocals in the driver’s seat. On this tour’s live standout, rumored to appear on LP3, “Welcome To Hell,” Geordie became the demonic carnival barker of our nightmares, calling for us to “listen, listen!” and setting the crowd aflame while chanting the names of plagues-- “Cholera! Malaria!” And how can I begin to adequately describe the mass psychosis that was this specific live rendition of “John L,” a song I’ve heard half a dozen live recordings of, all of which sound wildly different from one another. As Geordie reached the verse where he speaks from the perspective of the song’s titular disgraced cult leader, the audience seemed to become the cult itself-- “crowds of every age, creed, and gender...overwhelmed by their king.” Geordie Greep-as-John L’s “gargling non-song” incited what looked/sounded/felt like a collective exorcism, making all of us players black midi’s show.

This was also one of the few moments in which I was lucky enough to get a decent view of Morgan Simpson, quite possibly one of the greatest drummers working today. To hear his intricately crafted chaos on black midi’s records is one thing, but to see him in action is transcendent, his free jazz drumming tying together black midi’s genre-defying sound. Since the band first broke into the spotlight, it’s been clear that it’s Morgan’s intricate yet bombastic rhythms that anchor black midi’s wild sonic landscapes to some semblance of coherence. black midi’s music is like a rickety wooden rollercoaster-- there’s a thrill in feeling like it’s about to fall apart beneath you --Morgan’s drums are like the screws that hold the rollercoaster together, but not tight enough to keep you from wondering “is this safe?” (also, much like my first time riding the Cyclone, I was having so much fun getting knocked around that it wasn’t until later on that I realized that something-- or someone --had hit me in the mouth making me bleed a little). The boys are as in sync with one another as ever, and the addition of touring members Kaidi Akinnibi on saxophone and Seth Evans on keys have helped to fatten the band’s already larger-than-life sound to fill the increasingly spacious venues they’ve been booking since the release of 2021 sophomore album Cavalcade.

Memorable moments from the night went beyond just musical ones. Seth and Geordie sparred with one another between songs, the audience egging them on. Kaidi, in his ruffled shirt and sequined mask, mimicked the disciplinarian sternness of a disappointed teacher as he broke up their “fight” (the end of the show saw Geordie chasing Seth offstage with a toy sword). At one point, Cam hopped down from the stage with a pizza box in hand and passed out slices to the rabid crowd.

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black midi’s chameleonic nature transcends the versatility of their music. Known to make appearances dressed up as chefs, doctors, astronauts, businessmen, and as the aforementioned Orange Tree Boys, they’re always filling out the world of their performances. They’ve struck a perfect balance between how seriously they take their craft and how seriously they don’t take themselves. Their live shows have become masterclasses in the art of Committing To The Bit. Yet their campy, over-the-top presentation never feels like a gimmicky attempt to pander to their audience or solidify their status as a Definitive Gen-Z Band. Moreover, it makes the moments of true beauty and emotional resonance all the more striking. Live favorite “27 Q” had Geordie going full crooner; his vocal delivery was lovely, but it was a loveliness that still fit into the wacky Looney Tunes bullshit of the black midi musical universe. Then came cacophonous closer, “Slow,” in which Cameron’s melodic vocals guided the song to its violent, apocalyptic climax (the image of Cameron standing atop an amp stoically shrieking the word “slowly” over and over again will forever be burned into my memory). 

After the band put down their instruments and gathered at the edge of the stage to say goodnight, Geordie called out to us with a wink that he’d see us tomorrow night, “And the next night! And the night after that! And the night after that! In Hell, where you’ll burn for coming to this show, you fuckin’ sinners! Go home!” If Hell is anything like a black midi show, I don’t wanna go to Heaven.

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

Pictoria Vark – I Can't Bike | Single Review

There are some artists you will never forget hearing for the first time. Maybe you remember precisely where you were, when it was, or how you first stumbled across them. Sometimes the experience itself is notable, but more often than not, our brain decides to lock these feelings of initial discovery into its long-term memory banks because the music connects with us in some profound way. You hear the song, and you’re struck with some variation of “how have I gone my whole life without this?”

I have many artists that fall under this criteria, but one project I’ll never forget hearing for the first time is Soccer Mommy. I had never heard of Sophia Allison or her band until 2018’s Clean, which had just released and was the talk of the town in indie music circles at the time. I threw that album on, and everything seemed to click all at once. It was gorgeously produced, instrumentally stunning, and disarmingly confessional. I’d never heard anyone sing about those topics quite the way that Allison does on that record. 

When I press play on “I Can’t Bike,” the newest single from Pictoria Vark, I am immediately struck with the same things I felt when I first heard Soccer Mommy all the way back in 2018. Pictoria Vark is the solo project of Victoria Park, a clever spoonerism that allows Park to explore the brutal and ever-changing waters of her twenties through earnest and emotional indie rock. This similarity to bands like Soccer Mommy isn’t found just in the song’s brilliant instrumental or structural modesty, but a deeper ethos rooted in something universal, human, and truthful. 

Much like the best songs from Soccer Mommy, Snail Mail, or any of those deeply personal bedroom-born indie rock projects, “I Can’t Bike” hinges on the singer grappling with some form of personal failure. These songs find their heroes recognizing something they’re bad at and struggling with that fact openly. This form of harsh self-judgment is an immensely relatable experience, especially for people in their early 20s just on the cusp of entering adulthood and encountering new pratfalls in seemingly every area of life. 

Sometimes these personal failings can come from our own lack of experience, and other times it’s because we’re unfairly comparing ourselves to those around us. In the case of “I Can’t Bike,” the song finds Park honing in on near-imperceptible ticks of someone she’s known for years and realizing that she has her emotional work cut out for herself. It’s easy to get hung up when you’re on the receiving end of these types of interactions, but that’s where music becomes the perfect outlet. Rather than harp on these negative emotions, Park turns them into a communal outpouring that any listener can absorb and fit into their world. 

“I Can’t Bike” begins with, of all things, a steady bassline. While this initially might seem like an odd way to kick the track off, the instrument doesn’t sound out of place in the slightest. In fact, once you find out that Park has played bass for the likes of Squirrel Flower and Dee Snider, this choice seems like a no-brainer. 

Within seconds, Park’s delicate croon enters, setting the scene as her bass keeps time. Thirty seconds into the song, the guitar and drums (all played by Park) enter the fray, propelling the track forward while still keeping the pace set by the initial soothing bassline. The song rolls onward with momentum and adoration reminiscent of Blue Deputy’s “New Jersey,” weaving a lush mid-paced Beach House-esque instrumental that the listener can fully luxuriate in. 

As this rising instrumental punctuates each verse, the track eventually culminates in an eruption of distorted guitar around the two-minute mark for a fiery solo that offers a mixture of catharsis and redemption. As the music video shows, this song is not actually about biking at all, but finding comfort in the presence of close friends. The title “I Can’t Bike” captures one possible meaning of the complicated world of early-adulthood emotions while the lyrics capture another. The single is crafted so that anyone can listen and project their experiences onto it, finding comfort in the fact that they are not alone. 

Sufjan Stevens & Angelo De Augustine – A Beginner's Mind | Album Review

For better or worse, Sufjan Stevens’ lasting mark on pop culture may be his ill-fated 50 States Project. Whether catching random strays on Twitter, receiving post-mortem retrospectives via music blogs, or being spiritually revived by fans, it seems that the idea of each state receiving its own album-length dedication was too alluring of a conceptual hook for some to let go of. And I get it, just extrapolate the data; Illinois is an all-time classic indie album, and Michigan is one of my favorite records of all time. It’s easy to look at those two LPs and go, ‘man, I hope Sufjan writes an ornate 90-minute indie-folk album about my state.’ Maybe that’s why people can’t seem to move on; because it’s so personal, so potential-filled, and so hopelessly abandoned. 

Sure, Sufjan has enjoyed a relatively recent pop-cultural hit in “Mystery of Love” (with an Oscar appearance to boot), but as those Tweets and articles above prove, his 50 States PR stunt was an idea that appealed to music fans from all across the country for very obvious reasons. No matter how many hit songs or incredible albums Stevens makes, some music fans will forever be hung up on the 50-album pitch that he first staked his name on. 

The thing that bugs me about The 50 States Project being Sufjan’s primary cultural touchstone is because it misses the point of why those albums are great. If you take those releases at face value and simply view them as “records about states,” then Sufjan Stevens has already dipped his toes into similar conceptual waters. He’s written an album about every planet in the solar system, he’s recorded over 100 Christmas songs, he’s made a record about stories from the bible, and even created an entire multi-media project about a specific bridge in Brooklyn. If those don’t show commitment, then I don’t know what does. 

Obviously, these conceptual hooks might not have been broad or clever enough to garner that same level of mainstream attention. Sure, I enjoy them, but I am also a Sufjan freak. My point is that Sufjan Stevens has created albums with similar levels of conceptual commitment; it’s just that nothing has managed to break through in quite the same way as the 50 States Project did. That’s why, when Asthmatic Kitty announced A Beginners Mind, my interest was piqued. 

Unveiled as a collaborative project between Sufjan Stevens and labelmate Angelo De Augustine, A Beginner’s Mind is a concept album where each song is “(loosely) based off popular movies.” The album promised to run the filmic gamut from highbrow films to lowbrow popcorn flicks and everything in between. That sounds like some damn broad appeal there. 

The other half of this equation is the music itself. As mentioned above, both Michigan and Illinois are best-in-class indie records. As much as it pains me to admit, only a select few pieces of Sufjan’s oeuvre even get close to broaching the same level of quality, whether they had similarly ambitious concepts or not. Planetarium is fun, Seven Swans is stark, and BQE is charmingly earnest, but those records are far from universally appealing. Similarly, (as much as I adore them), it’s not outlandish to see why 100 Christmas songs wouldn’t appeal to everybody. But movies? Everyone loves movies!

When I clicked play on “Reach Out,” the album’s opening song and first of four singles, I was immediately struck with a sense of “Classic Sufjan,” for lack of a better term. Sure, he was flanked by a collaborator and confidante in Augustine, but it truly sounded folky as fuck, and that’s something I have been missing since 2015’s Carrie & Lowell. It’s not like Sufjan hasn’t been prolific over the last decade or so; in the time since his seventh studio album he’s scored a ballet, released a synth collaboration with his father-in-law, and even dropped a two-and-a-half-hour-long electronic piece earlier this year. Furthermore, 2020 saw the release of The Ascension, Sufjan’s first proper studio album in nearly five years, and while that record was good, it was more an extension of his electronic-tinged Age of Adz from a decade prior. What I’m saying is that those releases all felt like auxiliary additions and electronic diversions within the Sufjan Stevens Canon. It’s been over half a decade since we’ve heard anything like this from an artist whose greatest works are all firmly rooted in the trappings of folk music. 

Luckily that single wasn’t just a bait-and-switch; the album continues this folky trend while still edging into exciting new sonic territories. Both “Lady Macbeth In Chains” and “Back To Oz” are groovy early-album cuts that evoke visions of peak Fleetwood Mac or “Young Man’s Game” off of the most recent Fleet Foxes album. There are aching piano-led ballads, precise guitar plucks, and songs grounded by searching ambient swirls.

Lyrically, the device of using these famous films as jumping-off points allows for our singers to shift perspective at will, much like Sufjan did on those early States albums. Just as Michigan and Illinois would see Stevens placing himself in the shoes of a down-on-his-luck Yooper or a renowned serial killer, the songs on A Beginner’s Mind see our intrepid duo taking unique perspectives on stories that have already proven themselves to be compelling. Sometimes our musical guides sing from the point of view of a character directly from the film; other times, they analyze the cinematic events of a given movie from an omnipotent distance.

In almost every case, as a listener, it’s fascinating to put the pieces together and see how Stevens and Augustine use these ideas from a completely different medium as artistic inspiration. Regardless of the source film or your familiarity with it, these songs are written in a way that makes you relate to their plight either by linking it to something universal or through sheer force of empathy. For example, in “You Give Death A Bad Name,” the duo use Night of the Living Dead as a way to discuss climate change, the failings of a capitalistic society, and general disillusionment with America. These are all topics that Sufjan thoroughly delved into nearly two decades ago within the States Projects and as recently as songs like “America” off The Ascension from last year. They’re ongoing evolutions of thoughts on the same subjects, just cast in a different light.

Elsewhere on the album, the two touch on themes of religion, death, and general existential dread, all tried-and-true topics for both artists. Sometimes they work the title of the movie into the chorus of a song like the aforementioned “Back to Oz” or “It’s Your Own Body And Mind,” where they delicately croon “she’s gotta have it” over a series of gentle acoustic guitar strums. 

“Olympus,” another early single, uses Clash of the Titans as inspiration to paint a scene not of mythical claymation monsters but genuine human connection. The song’s outro deploys a poetic lyrical alternation to hone in on hyper-specific details that quickly work their way up to cosmic forms of adoration.

There’s something
And it’s the light on your hand
There’s something
And it’s the touch of my wristband
There’s one thing
And it’s the weight of our wish
There’s one thing
And it’s our very first kiss

Songs also contain quotable one-off barbs that all land at different times, depending on how close you listen. Minutes before the above quote in the same Clash of the Titans-themed song, Sufjan asks himself, “​​am I at rest, or resigned in my chaos?” Quite a deep and existential line for a song based on a 40-year-old fantasy adventure movie.

Outside of the music and lyrics, these songs are all wrapped in gorgeous art courtesy of Daniel Anum Jasper as seen throughout this article. Jasper is a Ghanaian artist famous for his work in the 80s in “mobile cinema” culture. This phenomenon first emerged when enterprising film fans screened Hollywood blockbusters in the backs of pick-up trucks using portable generators. Ghanaian artists painted alternate posters to advertise the movies, inspired only by the scant information they had about each film. Within Asthmatic Kitty’s press release, the label explains this choice with poignant and concise rationale:

By transforming old films into vital new songs with new imagery, Stevens and De Augustine ask us to consider ourselves (and the world around us) from a previously unconsidered vantage point—a new way of seeing and hearing—an exercise that’s as necessary and relevant now as it’s ever been. 

And therein lies the true appeal of Sufjan’s most remarkable work, whether it’s weaving tales of snow-covered life in the midwest, the bleeps and bloops of an alien planet, the stark emptiness of loss, or the portrayal of Pinhead in Hellraiser III. As listeners, we haven’t always experienced those things firsthand, but that doesn’t make them any less relatable. In fact, when presented in the right way, even the most far-off places and unknowable concepts can feel surprisingly easy to understand. 

So, given all these options, why would you ever want an album penned about your hometown? Just to hear familiar nouns rendered in song form? I’d argue it’s more exciting, fulfilling, and rewarding to visit these distant landscapes and imagined perspectives because they are so opposite of our day-to-day life. These songs give us entire worlds to escape into, even if just for a few minutes at a time. It’s an exercise in empathy, but it also ladders up to some greater understanding of the universe. The concepts of grief, love, longing, and loss are practically too big for words, but maybe if you look at them from enough perspectives, you begin to see pieces of the bigger picture. 

Church Girls – Still Blooms | Album Review

The “get out of this town” narrative is well-trodden territory in pop-punk, pretty much a staple of the genre. On their third album, Still Blooms, Philly punk rockers Church Girls conjure up imagery of this kind of suffocating environment, letting it fuel their desire to break away from the things that keep them feeling trapped. And they aren’t just leaving their metaphorical dead-end town; they’re barreling away from it at top speed in a getaway car and refusing to look back. 

As a lifelong New Yorker, I used to romanticize the idea of growing up in some small town that I could rebel against. It was a fantasy within a fantasy-- I liked the idea of having somewhere to escape from. Much of that fantasy involved a rite-of-passage that, though standard for most US teens, was foreign to me: driving around my crappy hometown with the stereo at full volume, finally getting my first taste of freedom. Now, in my twenties, I remain un-licensed, able to count on one hand the number of times I’ve been behind the wheel, and wishing I could get up the invincible “fuck-it” energy I had when I was younger to counteract the fear that’s been holding me back from learning to drive. All that being said: move over Olivia Rodrigo, someone else’s songs made me want to get my driver’s license. Church Girls are making heart-pounding, windows-down pop-punk anthems that burn with the promise of liberation, even in their most desperate moments. 

Desperation and determination go hand in hand on this album. These songs are driven by a grim optimism, with lead vocalist Mariel Beaumont plunging into the depths of despair and surfacing with an even stronger resolve. Just look at lead single “Separated,” where Beaumont intones, “one day we won’t think about it much / the sky will lift up and we’ll be unstuck from these sickly cycles in an old patterned loop.” It’s these brash statements of hope, even when such notions seem illogical, that imbue the songs on Still Blooms with a revelatory spirit and earn them a place in a greater, genre-spanning musical lineage. Think The Mountain Goats’ 2005 autobiographical bildungsroman The Sunset Tree, with John Darnielle declaring that he will “make it through this year if it kills me” and forcing himself to believe in a day where he can “rise up free and easy.” Think Fiona Apple taking control of her narrative and demanding her freedom over the beautifully tangled cacophonies of last year’s instant classic, Fetch The Bolt Cutters. Church Girls’ liberatory vision is messy and challenged by self-doubt, but the shadows surrounding it make it all the more compelling. 

These songs are hurtling into an unknown, but the reckless energy of their sound is in no way a reflection of a lack of thoughtful attention that Church Girls pay to their craft. They demonstrate a calculated chaos that Church Girls first began to cultivate on their 2017 debut Hidalgo, but have perfected as their sound has evolved. The four band members are now acutely attuned to one another, down to the smallest detail. On “Dune,” an electrifying guitar solo heralds in Beaumont's ethereal vocals at the bridge. From there, angelic harmonies build over a rolling snare. These vocals have an almost choir-like quality, which bring their vivid, emotionally resonant lyrics to shimmering heights. 

“Vacation,” the album’s final single, is another great example of the group’s undeniable chemistry. Instrumentally, it calls back to the energetic guitar riffs and pummeling drums of Bomb The Music Industry’s album of, coincidentally, the same title. The same can be said for the song thematically, as its unflinching confrontation with anxiety and regret will undoubtedly appeal to fans of Jeff Rosenstock’s vulnerable lyricism. “Vacation” shows Church Girls unafraid to engage with ugly feelings. It’s a strikingly honest commentary on the self-sabotaging impulse to isolate in sorrow rather than letting yourself need others. The album’s most profound moments are also some of its darkest. Beaumont has said that the aforementioned “Separated” is about a family member’s alcoholism. She attempts to make sense of her shifting ideas of home and family through lyrics like, “the known place has flamed out / and we’re learning not to yearn for it at all.” It’s an honest statement on love and addiction, and how the two complicate one another in ways that we might never quite make sense of. 

“Undone” opens with Beaumont dejectedly remarking, “so this is how it ends, huh?” Her voice softens at the bridge, the words “leave you at the water’s edge” floating delicately over contrasting parentheticals-- “Sink! Or! Swim!” is chanted almost militaristically by her bandmates. The drowning motif returns a few songs later on “Dissolve,” as does the contrast of shouted staccato backing vocals with Beaumont taking the melodic lead. We see drowning symbolism yet again on “Basement,” whose lyrics give us some fire as well as water. The flames that engulfed the broken home in “Separated” are now blazing through city streets. It’s another deeply personal track, one that sees Beaumont confessing, “I’m barely keeping it alive,” as she watches the moon from a dark, dusty basement. These tracks-- as well as supercharged album opener “Surface” --remind me of some of my favorite cuts from PUP’s discography, with their infectious pop-punk riffs, raucous gang vocals, and cutting delivery that’s somehow both miserable and triumphant. 

The album’s final few songs skew a bit more reflective, shifting the focus from the destination to what is left behind. Penultimate track, “Gone,” details a dismal homecoming scene, which questions whether or not this place can even be called home anymore:

All I got’s this ceiling fan
And the mattress on the floor
Now I’m stuck on dry land
Wondering what I came here for

It’s a familiar feeling of returning to a place associated with potent memories hoping for closure but ultimately coming up empty-handed. Closing track “Visions” looks to the future, begging the question of what happens once you’ve arrived in “a distant town like you wanted.” Church Girls provide a soundtrack to a ride off into the sunset, all while keeping that inescapable past in their periphery. Much of the album feels like a series of escape attempts, and ultimately all roads lead back to the very thing we were running away from.

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

Couplet – LP1 | Album Review

“Our letters wax and wane, but our stories will always end the same.”

When I learned that Couplet is a Tanner Jones project, my excitement hit peak levels. Having come of age musically in the heyday of You Blew It!, I was disappointed when their most ambitious effort, Abendrot, also turned out to be the band’s swan song. A songwriter and their vocals rarely match as well as Jones’s do. When yelps were needed, he went off; when ballads called for crooning, he soothed. His voice, both literally and lyrically, has been sorely missed and is now welcomed back with wide-open arms after a years-long break.

Adam Beck (Sincere Engineer) and Evan Weiss (Into It. Over It. and Pet Symmetry) are billed as re-imagining, arranging, and producing the songs written by Jones. In Couplet, the individual members’ contributions are each an embroidery unto the band’s musical tapestry. Through various filters, chorus, flangers, and reverb, Jones’s voice is more of an instrument that communicates the melodies through lyrics. Weiss’s recognizable style is not present and has changed drastically to fit this different style of music in contrast to his other projects. LP1 is both Jones’s show and a terrific, different new band.

Throughout the album’s 33 minutes, my head flowed and bobbed, swimming along to the songs as though I were floating in waves. Despite that summery vibe, LP1’s arrival is perfectly timed with autumn’s return. Evocations of American Football in the album’s title and overall somber atmosphere are present. Yes, with the emphasis on electronic elements, the comparison to The Postal Service is unavoidable, especially on opener “The Dregs,” first single “Old Elba,” and deeper cut “Forage.” The lyrics on “Page” even echo Ben Gibbard’s now-renowned style: 

We’ll take our time
record it in between the lines
If your lead should break
We’ll pretend it’s something we’d erase
If the page runs out of space
We’ll fold it into an origami shape.

Where Couplet gets weird, though, is when they channel electronic Radiohead on “Mistresses All.” The main melody is more angular than the rest of the album; the boxy drums crash down in what will undoubtedly be an incredible live show. A synthesized bass line grounds the moody, spacey Moog. As accessible as LP1 is with its hooks abound, I hope Couplet’s upcoming music explores the soundscapes similar to those introduced in “Mistresses All.”

Couplet is not You Blew It! 2.0, and that is a good thing. The project is a totally different beast from the same musicians you already know and love in settings you do not typically find them. Nevertheless, if you fall into the camp that misses Tanner Jones, Couplet feels like a hot cup of coffee on a brisk October morning.

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Joe Wasserman is a high school English teacher in New York City. When he’s not listening to music, he’s writing short stories, writing and recording music in his shoebox apartment, or loving his dogs, Franklin and Maudie. You can find him on Twitter at @a_cuppajoe.