Kelly Kirwan
California is for dreamers. A mecca of artists out for their big break within a concrete maze of freeways, Los Angeles has a sun-bathed glint that so often catches our eye and pulls us in closer. And mixed in with all that scrappy ambition funneled towards "making it" is a lingering undercurrent of ennui. LA can wear you down, with its encroaching sense of loneliness seeping in at the most unsuspecting of traffic lights.
Corbo (also known as Corbin Clarke, from the dynamic duo that is Bür Gür) has captured this intermingling of easygoing West Coast vibes and lurking listlessness in his solo debut. This independent undertaking, Adrift, has been described as a wandering through LA's art scene, "an acute appreciation of ephemeral beauty colored by a gentle sadness." Even the album’s cover conveys this feeling, a somewhat pixelated, neon-colored wash of abstract watercolor. It's an apt transmutation of Corbo's melodies, with their glimmering synths and breezy guitar riffs falling together with the ease of an exhale. His vocal accompaniments are varied, displaying a range of talented singers on the rise, and their presence on the album furthers the album's starry-eyed atmosphere.
Adrift as a whole is textured and sprawling. Each of the nine tracks has its own vivid identity, but listening to them in succession seems like a requirement. Corbo’s music induces a trance-like state, like a daze that sets in after long stretches of driving, and it feels as if you’ve thought about everything and nothing. On "Crack," crinkling is the main motif. Genevieve Artadi’s breathy, satin vocals follow an introduction akin to shattered glass crunching under our shoes. She then guides us, with her lightweight timbre, into bouts of white noise as the song narrows into silence before billowing again.
Then there’s “Our Everything,” with speaker-rattling percussion that dots the melody in a pattern we can’t immediately place. Phantom Thrett’s singing is downright soulful, letting the lyrics linger in his magnetic croon, “And I know the strength in numbers / But I like to be alone sometimes.” The song is speckled with these sweet if not deceivingly innocuous details, like “I turned on my radio / I heard a song my granny used to sing to me / It made me feel at home.” It’s a beautiful song, a rumination on cravings for solitude, made more complex by a simultaneous desire to keep our connections close.
Another favorite is "The 81," which is a beaut. It’s experimental with heavy helpings of funk, guided by Sudan Moon’s vocals, which are ever-so-slightly raspy in their murmur. Her voice is layered, at times start-and-stop, and mixes with the ambient touches of laughter that evoke warm weather respites. And the truth is, we’ve only cracked the surface. Adrift is an album that can fill any space, infiltrate any mood. It's not to be missed.