REVIEW: Julie Cool - Demo

Laura Kerry

Our experience of music owes much to the environment in which we hear it. Sometimes, that environment is internal, such as the post-breakup void that makes a song sound raw or the new love that renders it airy and upbeat. Often, it’s external, arising from the landscape outside of a car window or the rain hitting your bedroom windows.

Julie Cool’s debut EP exhibits the opposite effect: the music transforms the landscape around it. In the dead of winter, Demo infuses its surroundings with a shimmery warmth. Just four songs long, it’s a pop of summer in January—a sunny contrast to the cold that had settled in Baltimore, where the band (Elliott Dean, Chris Arreza, Ben Bjork, and Matt Morin) lives, when they released the album on one of the last days of 2017.

The main sources of the Demo’s warmth are lo-fi production, bright guitar, and relaxed vocals. Combined, they form easygoing psych-pop tunes whose jangliness and nonchalance resembles—uncannily in the case of “Triceratops”—that of Mac DeMarco. For the most part, though, Julie Cool is dreamier than DeMarco. In the opener, “Heaven Knows (feat. ruru),” the pretty male and female harmonies sit further back in the mix than the instrumental voices, resulting in haziness. Though the spacious and clear guitar parts offer a bright foundation, the vocals inject undertones of wistfulness, emphasized by lyrics such as, “When you leave me all alone / All the thoughts collide in my head.” As the song increasingly builds to a dreamy cacophony, the listener can imagine those thoughts colliding.

Julie Cool’s dreaminess emerges in different forms elsewhere in the album. In “Sheila,” a drum loop fit for Michael Jackson sets the stage for a woozy song whose lyrics project a John Hughes film in the movie screen of the mind (“Do you see her / Moving down the hall / She won’t see you / She don’t care at all”). The track sounds like a warped ‘80s pop song steeped in jangly guitars.

Good old-fashioned pop also dwells at the core of “Triceratops” and “I Don’t Mind,” both of which use foot-tapping melodies, time-tested chord progressions, and head-bobbing rhythms, even as they—and you along with them—wobble and float through hazy and sometimes surreal compositions. While winter is stark and severe, Julie Cool’s debut is lush, loose, and vibrant, full of the kind of music that not only immerses the listener, but everything around her, too.

REVIEW: Wae - Glimmer

Kelly Kirwan

Fuzzy reverb damn near drips from the speakers on Wae’s latest album, Glimmer. The seven-track EP glints with '70s nostalgia, reveling in hazy psychedelia that mingles easily with the band’s own experimental flair. At the heart of Wae is musician Caleb Moore, who’s carried the group through three metamorphoses before hitting its stride in this most recent roster. Spearheading bass is Beau Cole, with Dan Whitely tackling keys and Eric Rosario holding down the drums. Respectively, these musicians have graced other groups such as Lands & Peoples, Raindeer, Other Colors, and Shinji, making the rounds on the indie circuit before settling into this slinky quartet.

Their music sounds like the gentle ghost of psych-rock’s past, their chords appearing to us in slightly distorted waves like a heat haze in the near distance. In the words of their label, Friends Records, based in Baltimore, “These songs are stream of conscious [sic] diary entries: moods and moments that needed to be exploded, inspected and reformed.” Glimmer has the delicate touch its title may suggest, but it also isn’t afraid of a ragged edge. It’s a sultry, frayed, swerving piece of work that marks up its melodies with crinkling riffs and subtly warped vocals. Even when Glimmer slithers into sedated, introspective interludes, they never let their sound become too primly pretty—they add these opposing garnishes in just the right doses. 

Take "Shit Take II," a wry title that sets the tone for their album. Muffled, far-off vocals drift over the melody, which is marked by guitar plucking and a sort of wavering, languid strut. It’s mostly instrumental, with those reverberating strings and a touch of white noise seeping its way into the beat. It ends abruptly, cutting off at the two-minute mark to keep us from the moody trance that would have slowly engulfed us. Not bad for a so-called shit take. 

"Too Much" begins with a wash of something reminiscent of an '80s homecoming dance in a science-fiction movie. It’s a song to slow-dance to, likely as mist starts to waft into the gymnasium, to the tune of gleaming guitar strums and a start-and-stop interplay as the track nears its home stretch. "If You Wanna" features Rosario and his deliberate, sauntering percussion. The vocals are, in their signature style, unhurried and kept at a distance, as if we were eavesdropping through an air vent. Wobbly streams are vaguely audible in the background, reminiscent of radio-signal interference, as the melody sways onward. 

Glimmer has been compared to the stream of consciousness that’s often found in diary entries, but it’s more akin to a delightful fever dream. A slightly off-kilter landscape that shape shifts with every chord progression, and feels completely natural as we’re engulfed in its beat. These four absolutely click, and they’ve given us a chance to reverberate on their frequency.  We hope this new version of Wae is here to stay.

REVIEW: Flock of Dimes - If You See Me, Say Yes

Kelly Kirwan

Charisma can’t be bottled. There’s no recipe to pass on and recreate, because the very essence of its charm is the enigma, the lure of the je ne sais quoi—and Jenn Wasner’s idiosyncratic timbre is dripping with it. We could sit here and dissect the slant in her syllables, how her voice has a certain soft hum that ties each word to the next, but we would never quite be able to understand or mimic her.

Jenn Wasner's music isn't an extracurricular, it's woven into her state of being. She's simply shape-shifted depending on the project, acting as one half of Baltimore's folk-tinged indie-rock outfit Wye Oak, or partnering with Sylvan Esso for fresh covers of Crowded House and Gillian Welch. From her track record, it’s easy to sense a slight curiosity in Wasner’s approach. Honing her craft has never come with the sacrifice of sounding stale, which is perhaps most evident in her decision to ditch the guitar that's so firmly integrated itself into both Wye Oak’s and her own identity. Their 2014 release, Shriek, filled this space with bass instead, in an effort to sidestep the unintentionally patronizing compliments that came from being a woman with a talent for the six-string.

Now there’s a new development in Wasner’s evolution, releasing her first full-length album under the solo moniker Flock of Dimes. If You See Me, Say Yes is a dreamy, synth-speckled landscape, with hints of '80s electronica and poignant lyrics delivered in Wasner’s soulful, magnetic voice. The LP followed Wasner’s move from her hometown of Baltimore to a rural area of North Carolina, where she found a certain quiet and introspection that thrives outside the city. It was quite the shift from the fluidity of tour life, but with similar feelings of disconnect, a vague loneliness and thrill which tangle together when planting new roots. This is likely why her latest release feels so personal, and why we feel so invested as listeners.

The song "Semaphore"’s place as lead single is well deserved. Apparently, Wasner heard the word “semaphore” and found herself repeating it over and over, enraptured by both it’s sound and definition (a means of flag-based communication between distant ships). The song pulses on a slightly static percussion, upbeat and emotionally enthralling. Her siren pitch repeats the chorus, “Too far gone for the semaphore,” and even if the titular world is unfamiliar, the lyrics and melody connect on a visceral level. There's a sense of desperation which unfolds into a resolute acceptance, a not-all-who-wander-are-lost mindset emanating from the speakers.

Then there's "Birthplace," which is filled to the brim with a hollow, funky drum line and gleaming synths. Wasner's evocative trill affirms, "And my love is not an object / That rusts with lack of use." It's a meandering and rhythmic beat, one that feels like a bittersweet representation of Wasner's foray into independence. "It is a blank page / It is a sharp knife," she sings, ruminating on new beginnings and her more singular pursuits, which are accompanied by pangs of letting go. If You See Me, Say Yes is an intimate portrait of Wasner, and while I doubt she was seeking any approval in that regard, she'll still find it.

REVIEW: Sun Club - The Dongo Durango

Laura Kerry

A collage of carousel bliss, terrifying clown faces, and other surreal carnival characters, Sun Club’s album cover serves as the perfect introduction to their debut LP. In the first track, “Glob,” a maniacal laugh and/or cough plays alongside a circus-like organ and children’s laughter and screams before bleeding into the reverb-soaked guitar of the next track. The organ and the clownish voice return elsewhere, reminding us that, like its art, The Dongo Durango is a kind of perverse carnival.

Throughout the album, even when Baltimore-based Sun Club’s expansive guitar-pop reaches its sunniest peaks, they maintain a sense of ghoulish humor. The word “punk” comes to mind—in part, because the yowl-laden vocals recall the genre—but mostly in the way that contemptuous old ladies use it in reference to preteens passing on skateboards (for example: “Oh dear, those punks have some nerve”). Three out of five members of the band, Shane and Devin McCord and Mikey Powers, have been playing together since they were preteens, so perhaps the youthful brazenness is a tribute to their origins. Or maybe it comes from the odd pleasure in their song names (“Language Juice,” “Cheeba Swiftkick,” “Puppy Gumgum”), or the bizarre interludes (see the end of “Carnival Dough” or “The Dongo Durango”)—but Sun Club does have some twisted, delightful nerve.

At first listen, that unruly boldness generates some effects that make The Dongo Durango difficult to penetrate. The hollering, reverberating voice and distorted guitars sound distant; the songs are frenetic; and their structures are somewhat opaque.  The more you listen, though, the more the music comes into focus. On songs such as “Beauty Meat,” Sun Club trades off between hooky melodies and guitar riffs and odd time signatures, which throws the listener off balance while propelling her on. Occasionally dipping into the sentimental yelp of Local Natives’ indie rock and the idiosyncratic yelp of Animal Collective’s experimentalism, Sun Club makes for an interesting ride through a warped version of pop.

Some of those tough-to-access elements are also the flipside of how the album derives its wild energy. Sun Club recorded the album live over a month in an old warehouse-turned-studio, which not only accounts for the echoing sound, but also for the lack of restraint. They successfully captured the sound and feeling of seeing a band in person. You don’t hear all the lyrics when you see a show, nor do you pick apart the chord phrasings, but you certainly do get your body moving. And isn't that one of the greatest things music makes you do? Exhilarating as it is dizzying, The Dongo Durango is a depraved carnival ride you will want to ride again.

Release Day: Lower Dens - Escape From Evil

Will Shenton

There’s something to be said for any band that can maintain an air of cool aloofness without abandoning their vulnerability. It’s a balancing act, and a shift too far in either direction runs the risk of coming off cold or, perhaps worse, melodramatic. With their third album, Escape From Evil, Baltimore four-piece Lower Dens have continued to navigate that tension with expert subtlety.

Lead vocalist, guitarist and songwriter Jana Hunter’s voice has always had an authoritative quality that I would hesitate to describe as warm, but her occasionally droning contralto nonetheless retains a bit of uncertainty that softens its edge. On a desperate love song like “Ondine,” the straightforward, pleading lyrics (“I will treat you better”) and almost imperceptible quaver suggest that her apparent emotional distance might be nothing more than a mask. This person isn’t a robot, she’s just afraid of getting hurt like the rest of us.

Threads of love, fear, and guilt run throughout Escape From Evil, and even seem to have played a role in its musical structure. There’s an underlying air of anxious reservation to the album, but from time to time it gathers the courage to break from its thematic comfort zone with more pop-forward tracks like “Non Grata” and the glimmering “To Die In L.A.” The result is a record that manages to be conceptually and acoustically consistent without ever getting boring, marking yet another successful walk along the artistic tightrope.

While this latest effort is something of a departure for Lower Dens (their 2012 LP Nootropics went pretty heavy on the sci-fi), it’s clear that the band hasn’t lost sight of what it is that makes them appealing. Whether they’re musing on transhumanism or beseeching a lover on their way out the door, Hunter and the gang aren’t afraid to explore the insecurities of the cynical, postmodern heart. Hearing a voice finally start to slip when you thought it was as jaded as your own goes a long way towards inciting self-reflection, and maybe it’s exactly what some of us need to hear.