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.

PREMIERE: Fielder - At Intermission

Laura Kerry

An intermission is a pause or an interlude outside of the regular flow of time. For the members of Fielder—formerly known as Dawkins—creating music is a kind of intermission from the normal fabric of life. The band started playing together in high school in Bethesda, Maryland, and since scattering to various schools across the country, they have continued to collaborate through the internet and over breaks, writing and sharing at intervals. Their first release from this long-distance effort is an EP simply titled Ep1.

“At Intermission,” a track off the debut, serves both as a welcoming introduction to the band and as the interlude that its title promises. Sparkling and ambient, the song radiates with warmth from its ethereal balance of electronic and acoustic voices. With keys and strings that cascade like water, percussive blips that chirp like birds or insects, and hymn-like vocals that ooze and echo across the audioscape, “At Intermission” feels like a lush and temperate organic space far removed from the winter we’re now inhabiting. Take a break from the regular flow of your day to take a listen.

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: Foozle - Romantic Comedies

Kelly Kirwan

The cover art for Foozle’s new full-length album sits like a kind of psychological test—an offshoot of the Rorschach inkblot that demonstrates how we can imbue a perfectly neutral picture with our own meaning. There are white walls, disheveled packing boxes, and a painting of two people, a couple likely, with the man leaning forward for a kiss on the cheek. My mind drifts to a breakup scenario, these pieces like relics of a past relationship—until I realize Foozle’s new album is titled Romantic Comedies. I'd advise sidestepping my creeping cynicism and simply diving into Foozle’s tongue-in-cheek lyrics, healthy dose of dissonance, and offhand vocal delivery.

As I listen through the record, I realize they’ve forged their own ground when it comes to relationship-minded music. This album is about the humdrum of the everyday, life and its little tediums. The credits have rolled on the big-budget Hollywood production, and we’re drifting through the ordinary, having leveled out to the simmer that follows those first magnetic sparks. And it’s still interesting, hooking us with its relatable humor and affinity for a strong guitar. 

Foozle has a rock-solid chemistry between Maryland-based bandmates Joanna Walker, Ryan Witt (who also has a hand in Go Cozy and UVF Rays), and Jake Lazovick (also known for Sitcom). They’re friends first, striking up a bond in high school and carrying this repertoire and seamless familiarity into their music. Their sophomore album is like listening to old friends shoot the shit, bottling a magnetism in something that sounds, in theory, pretty boring. But, it isn’t.

For instance, "TV Wrestling," a slow-moving melody that has an air of the ominous, its guitar strokes eliciting a crisp twang as the drums peter off softly in the background. Ambient sounds of wind pick up towards the end, a whistle that turns that to gust, threatening an eventual storm to come. It’s a song that feels like a nod to a fallen or unsung hero, battered and down on his luck, the meandering guitar riff evoking hazy similarities to those eyes-locked moments in an old-fashioned Western duel. The male vocal pitch is characteristically even (“I curl up in a bloody pose / And I pretend to prefer where I am”), and is later joined by Joanna Walkers’ intonation, “We can go on without it / We try to put our finger on it … And the afternoon light rolls in again.”

On "Winston," Joanna Smith takes the singing lead, her voice overflowing with indie-pixie quirk as the guitar dips into deep, electric-bluesy reverb beside steady percussion. “There are days when I’m so tired / I can’t sleep … I’m feeling lazy lately / But that’s okay / 'Cause I’ve got you,” she sings with the occasional male accompaniment, as the backing instruments press on with their sandpaper touch. It’s a different pace from their other songs, which drift over everyday lists and observations, like the small victory of a traffic light finally changing color. They live in the here and now (case in point, their song titled "¯\_(ツ)_/¯"), and they don’t try and turn the day-to-day into something it isn’t. They don’t need to, because there's a lot here to work with as-is.