Laura Kerry
Cousin Moon, a band known around the Northampton, Massachusetts area for several years and under a few different names, disappeared into the studio about three years ago and emerged with the 17 polished songs that comprise their self-titled LP.
The first feature that strikes a listener upon arriving at the band’s Bandcamp page, besides the length of the album, is the volume of album credits. A dense block of text that requires a couple scrolls, the notes list every song and painstakingly attribute each sound—from the oscillating drum machine in opening track “Thursdays” to the soundscape and Akai in the closer, “Lorna.”
Some of the care of crediting speaks to the fact that Cousin Moon, a five-piece group, functions more like a tight-knit collective than a uniform band. Aaron Moon, Karl Helander, Phoebe Helander, Max Wareham, and Andy Cass all play different roles throughout the album, and the result is a collection of songs that, while all related, possess slight variations in tone and feel. Karl Helander’s vocals sound distinct from Moon’s, which sound completely different than Phoebe Helander’s. Karl Helander, Wareham, and Moon all play different versions of guitar (Spanish guitar, National lap steel, “guitarmonies”), and no two synths are the same.
More than the shifting arrangements of multitalented musicians, though, the dense credits reflect the meticulousness with which the band approaches its sound. In Cousin Moon, each instrument and voice deserves every bit of acknowledgment that it receives. At first glance, it’s easy to revel in the immediate satisfaction of Beach Boys harmonies, Beatles (or Tame Impala’s version of the Beatles) pop-psychedelia, and other perfectly crafted displays of pop, folk, and indie rock. But delve more deeply into the dense compositions, and you begin to pull out a surprising number of voices.
Even quieter-seeming tracks such as the jazz-inflected “Dreamers” reveal themselves to be complicated and impressively detailed; the credits list Gibson finger picking, counter melodies and background vocals, and a double bass, among other more usual suspects. “Rainy Season,” too, the sparsest and most delicate on the album, boasts light synth, two different kinds of guitar, and multi-part harmonies. Only the all-instrumental interlude, “Stan,” is truly simple, containing a straightforward build and release of synth voices.
The credits become a sort of game of cross-referencing. As the listener moves through the kaleidoscopic texture of Cousin Moon, the impulse arises to pick it apart and understand it. Is that a sitar creating the retro-feeling psychedelic dizziness in “Senior”? (Yes.) What creates that Bowie-like drama on “Entropy”? (Karl Helander’s vocals; “Mellotron-esque strings”; double bass.) How did “Florentine” get so darn warm? (Implied Beach Boys influence; flute; lap steel.)
Of course, the album does fine on its own without the literature, too, leaping through love longs, surreal narratives, and songs about art with a gracefulness impressive for something so ambitious. Cousin Moon gave a substantial amount of time, thought, and care into music that ultimately serves the listener best when she gives the same back.