REVIEW: Swoon Lake - Swoon Lake

Laura Kerry

Swan Lake is a ballet that tells a story borrowed from Russian folktales, about a princess who turns into a swan. The music, composed by Tchaikovsky, carries as much or more weight than the choreography in establishing the mood and narrative of a tale that has become ubiquitous.

Swoon Lake is the Brooklyn-based band that adapts its name from the ballet. Ethereal and evocative, the band and its music share more with the work than just part of a title. Throughout their new eponymous EP, their first since last year’s Like Being A Mouth, the band creates an atmosphere in which one can envision fantastical fairy tales unfolding through twirls and leaps. Swoon Lake—a trio comprised of Melodie Stancato, Paul Weintrob, and Lucinda Hearn—describe their music as “ghost folk,” a fitting name for a sound that seems simultaneously rooted in the familiar and eerily strange. The EP carries narratives and structures, but they are disembodied, ghostly.

In Swoon Lake, the band builds a kind of narrative performance in four acts. In the first, “Bloom,” they establish their haunted setting. “When the earth forgets how to decay / And when the ghosts can't remember what to say,” Stancato sings in a lush, beautiful voice, beginning the song like a poetic folktale. Throughout the track, digital and analog voices dip in and out over the sturdy rhythm of a guitar arpeggio. The second song, “Bath,” is a similar mashup of old and new, but the overall effect of the ukulele, swirling electric guitar, synth, and a folk melody is a timeless feel. “Bath” works in distinct images—“limbs adjacent,” “the eyes left vacant,” “intertwined, inhaling vapors”—adding onto the landscape established in “Bloom” while the exact story remains abstract.

The latter half of the EP continues to build toward the overall arc of the album. In “IDK,” a theatrically haunting track propelled by an ominously meandering guitar and Stancato’s voice—here exhibiting an impressively expressive range, from delicate and soft to tough and strong—adds tension to Swoon Lake. The narrative continues to be obscure, but we see glimpses of meaning and feeling. “I don’t know,” the singer repeats several times, then, “Did I become the lady / Whispering won’t you save me?” In “Home,” Swoon Lake provides a half-resolution. Slow, quiet, and more tightly structured than the others, they ask a series of questions (“When you see me you will see the water?”, “Is it dark when I ask you to love me?”) before repeating, “Oh, I just want to go home.” Just as many of the versions of Swan Lake end in tragedy, the song never quite makes it home, cutting out after the start of a final wish, “Oh, I.”

In Swan Lake, a princess transforms into a swan; in Swoon Lake, hands become mouths (“Bloom”), baths becomes oceans (“Bath”), people become unfamiliar to themselves (“IDK”), and folk becomes haunting and ghostly. Through all of these shifts and disorientations, though, the band manages to maintain a cohesive and evocative sense of story and place. Swoon Lake has created the score to a performance we have the pleasure of making up as we listen.

PREMIERE: QQQ - The Pharmacy

Kelly Kirwan

QQQ is an artist of few words. Or, at least, the “about” sections of his profiles stick to the essentials, simply labeling his music as electronic and dance. His sounds are densely packed, and as such, don't require a lengthy introduction. True to form, his latest track, "The Pharmacy," is an array of skittering synths that fall together in odd shapes and varied textures, backlit by a vintage computer screen. It’s a sputtering, digitized pattern that has few lyrics, all delivered in a warped voice.

QQQ has created a landscape with a foundation of ricocheting beats and hints of nostalgia—"The Pharmacy" is reminiscent of a switchboard overloading, full of wires short-circuiting as electricity courses through every socket. At one point the song takes on a crinkling, static trajectory that sounds like a distant cousin of a dial-up login. Towards the end, there’s an almost sci-fi turn, with a spooky, electronic flourish that might score a Hollywood UFO sighting.

With its revved-up synths, roiling beats, and retro sheen, "The Pharmacy" is a track that'll certainly give you your fix.

REVIEW: Hooded Fang - Dynasty House

Kelly Kirwan

Dynasty House is a title you might expect to find on a thick, leather-bound book of epic poetry, its pages filled with far-off adventures and intertwined lineages. Instead, it’s stamped across the new EP from Toronto-based outfit Hooded Fang, a pairing of six tracks that feature ever-expanding melodies, jangly guitars, and vivid lyrics that return to a theme of exploration time and again.

Take the opener, "Queen of Agusan," with its murmuring vocals and bouquet of sharp, tangy notes that spiral in tandem, evoking a somewhat uneasy feeling—a countdown of dark inclinations. “She was nursed by spellbound waves / A seaside gem / She was raised by a monsoon matron / Becoming a stone’s stone,” we hear in a deep croon, as this mythic imagery sinks its hooks into us, leaving us enraptured by a story with a legendary strut.

"Nene Of The Light" has more of a bop to its step, a whistle-like note wafting its way across the melody. It’s a song that has an air of shrugged shoulders, with repeated lines like “I ain’t that holy” and “I like to pretend,” interspersed in a mood that’s somewhere between nonchalance and pessimism (“Drown in an hourglass / Build a castle instead”). It’s laid-back grunge with rolling percussion, lulling us into an almost meditative state even with its grit. It seems Hooded Fang don’t need thousands of words or pages to create an opus that conveys a world without limits. They’ve crafted a far-reaching canvas in under 30 minutes.

REVIEW: (Sandy) Alex G - Rocket

Laura Kerry

Some albums elicit strong feelings of place—the album that evokes the beach, the one that recalls a dingy basement or a grassy field. (Sandy) Alex G’s new LP, Rocket, perfectly suits a drive down a New England highway at the end of May, the environment in which I first heard it.

(Sandy) Alex G, the 24-year-old Philadelphia-dweller whose real name is Alex Giannoscoli, has made eight albums that span a wide territory of sounds, but have one place in common: the artist’s bedroom, where he records and produces his music. Over the years, his lo-fi indie sound has earned a cult following that led first to deals with Orchid Tapes and Domino, and then spots on Frank Ocean’s albums Endless and Blonde.

In Rocket, Alex G returns with that signature lo-fi style, but this time it's more direct and accessible, less shrouded in effects and esoteric touches. The often-cited Elliott Smith influence remains in sparse, downtempo songs such as “Poison Root” and “Big Fish,” but overall, the artist’s addition of banjo and violin on many tracks makes it a brighter work. Relying on those two country-associated instruments, “Bobby,” “Rocket,” and “Powerful Man” all reveal a different side of Alex G that feels more open, less internal. They're the kind of songs that invite you to roll down the windows and let in the early summer air.

Not all of Rocket is so breezy, though. The album is Alex G’s most accessible, but it is also one of the most varied. Next to the sentimental folksong “Bobby” is the shimmering electronic jam
"Witch," with echoing, affected vocals, followed soon by “Brick,” a fiery noise-rock song with the taunting refrain, “I know that you’re lying” (good for rage-inducing traffic jams on the aforementioned New England highways). Elsewhere, there are inflections of jazz in the mellow percussion, guitar solo, and walking bass-line in “County” and sax accents in “Guilty.” The flow of Rocket is confounding, but it manages to maintain a solid grip on the listener nonetheless.

As varied as the sounds and genres throughout the album are the stories that Alex G conveys. In speaking about his music, the artist makes a point of obscuring the origins and “real” meanings of his songs, which makes for a fun journey of the imagination and a limited set of Genius annotations. In Rocket, the lyrics seem both specific and universal, introspective and observational, personal and narrative.

In one of the album’s standouts, “Bobby,” the perspectives seem to shift around as Alex G and a female voice sing in harmony, moving between sides in a love triangle. In “Powerful Man,” conversational rhyming couplets move from a story about a baby biting a woman’s cheek to musings about fatherhood (“Guess it started with the baby / She went in for a hug then it bit her on the cheek / That was pretty funny to me / But I guess I should have more sympathy / I ain’t never raised a kid / But I bet I’d do a good job if I did”). Other songs include details (“Look how he tucks his shirt in” in “Big Fish”; the days of the week on “Alina”) that evoke vivid images but don’t amount to any cohesive picture.

On Rocket, Alex G shows his range and depth as a songwriter and apartment producer. With a song for every mood and a story for every situation, it’s an album to spend time with wherever you are this summer.

REVIEW: Hoop - Super Genuine

Laura Kerry

“When you push, I draw back / Then you hide and I want more.”

In the new Hoop album Super Genuine, this line from “Folded Impulse,” featuring Allyson Foster, describes the inverse relationship between two people. When one person does something, it provokes the opposite reaction in the other. To illustrate the point, Foster and Caitlin Roberts, the band’s frontwoman, sing a soft call-and-response, both their voices quiet and delicate.

While many of the most emotionally vulnerable albums mine the artist’s inner thoughts and feelings, Super Genuine remains mostly outward-facing. Like in “Folded Impulse,” it examines the relationships between various points—friends, lovers, family. Hoop, which began as a duo in a small town in Washington, has slowly transformed into a quartet that grew out of Roberts’ new home in Seattle—called the “Womb Room”—with housemates-turned-bandmates Leena Joshi and Pamela Santiago (Inge Chiles joined later). The first album they've made together reflects the closeness that comes from sharing a space and, as the name of that space hints at, feminist sensibilities.

Throughout Super Genuine, Hoop explores vulnerability through connections with others. In the opener, “Marlin Spike,” Roberts sings, “You hate to tell me you’re scared to lose me / You hate to tell me you really need me” in a quiet song about falling for one who won’t open up. In “Skiptracer,” Hoop offers support and counsel to an addressee named Michael, who is similarly inhibited. “Surrender yourself,” she sings, “And at the same time explore yourself.” At other times, Hoop is happy in the face of love. In “Good Dregs,” she sings, “It's the right time to learn something new / To learn new ways to love you.” In “Baseboard” (featuring Briana Marela), Hoop is defiant, proclaiming that there are limits to what she can give without return. “I’m not here to please you,” she sings. “Nothing can make me stay.”

Even when strong and defiant, though, Hoop sings in an ethereal, childlike voice. Most of the time, this emphasizes the emotional potency of the music. In combination with simple guitar patterns, it occasionally sounds thin—lacking the grounding that Hoop has in their lyrics. True to the legacy of their location, the band also plays with a heavier, grungier sound at times. “To Know Your Tone” (featuring Allyson Foster), “Drawn To You,” and “Send Purpose Down” all feature fuzzier guitars that comprise a full, shoegazey style. Elsewhere, Hoop fills in their sound with layers of harmony, beat loops, and shimmery synths.

Among more common contemporary genre markers on their Bandcamp page, such as “pop” and “alternative,” Hoop lists “feelings.” Though the songs are light and melodic, that dimension of Super Genuine does require some effort on the part of the listener. Hoop doesn’t just confront the subjects of their songs, they also address the audience. Ultimately, though, the album is cathartic. It is, as they say in the optimistic glow of the final song, “Bask In Easy Tone,” “water to wash [our] hands.”