True Believer, Jason Isbell (from the Southeastern Records release Foxes in the Snow)
Foxes in the Snow finds Jason Isbell in a raw, reflective space, drawing from the emotional wreckage of heartbreak and the cautious hope of starting over. These songs live in the aftermath—where pain lingers, memories echo, and new love emerges slowly, shaped by what came before. Some moments are tender, others bruising, but all are delivered with the lucidity and grace Isbell has made his hallmark.
The album’s most piercing moments come from songs that trace love as it frays and delve into the emotional wreckage left behind. “Eileen” is heartbreak laid bare—not shouted, but spoken in calm resignation. “Forever is a dead man’s joke,” Isbell sings, delivering the line like someone who’s said it out loud enough times to believe it. There’s no blame here, just the recognition of something broken: “You tell each other you can still be friends / You both know you’re on your own.”
“Gravelweed” is a meditation on how people and relationships change over time—and how those changes ripple outward, altering even the meaning of the songs they once shared. “Now that I live to see my melodies betray me / I’m sorry the love songs all mean different things today.” It’s not a song about anger or regret; it’s about the way time rewrites even the most personal truths.
“True Believer” offers one of the album’s starkest portraits of a breakup—unsparing in its emotional fallout. Isbell doesn’t just sit with the regret; he quietly pushes back against the version of events he’s been handed. “All your girlfriends say I broke your fucking heart, and I don’t like it,” he sings, more tired than angry. The sense of being provoked runs through the song: “Well, I finally found a match, and you kept daring me to strike it.” There’s resilience in the wreckage, too—“Just when you think that I’m beaten, I get up every time.” This isn’t a clean break; it’s a messy unraveling, told with clarity and conviction.
Foxes in the Snow isn’t just about endings. It turns, slowly and deliberately, toward what comes next—examining the process of opening up to new love with the same measured eye. “Don’t Be Tough” echoes the spirit of Isbell’s Drive-By Truckers classic “Outfit,” offering life advice that feels both hard-earned and generous. “Don’t be tough until you have to / Take your heartbreak on the chin / Don’t forget the shit you went through / But throw your caution to the wind.” It’s a reminder to stay open, even after being hurt—a message simple in its phrasing but profound in its emotional reach. The delivery is calm, measured, and rich with lived-in wisdom and understated Southern charm, making it one of the album’s most quietly affecting tracks.
“Open and Close” captures the vulnerability of learning to trust again. “Well, I’m open and close now to minding the flame,” Isbell confesses, before concluding, almost to himself, “it’s time to be brave.”
“Ride to Robert’s” moves deeper into that space of fragile optimism. It’s not a grand romantic gesture, but a song of small, shared moments—the kind that make new beginnings feel possible. “Before the room gets packed / We’ll claim a table at the upstairs bar / And count the cowboy hats / And bachelorettes that don’t know where they are.” There’s affection here, but also a wry undercurrent, as Isbell takes subtle swipes at the tourist-trap theatrics of modern Nashville. Even in romance, he never loses his eye for detail—or his sense of humor.
Foxes in the Snow is Isbell at his most bare and introspective. With just a guitar and his voice, he strips each song to its emotional core. These aren’t songs of closure, but of reckoning—drawing power from stillness, and lucidity from their unflinching honesty.
Stuart Little Killed God (on 2nd Avenue), Ben de la Cour (from the Jullian Records release New Roses)
Ben de la Cour has never played it safe. New Roses continues his fearless streak of musical exploration, pushing further into uncharted territory while maintaining the poetic core that defines his work. The gothic Americana textures of his earlier albums are still here, but woven in more subtly—less drenched in noir, yet still deeply affecting.
From the opening track, “I Must Be Lonely Tonight,” de la Cour sets the tone with an eerie synthesizer drone and insistent, restrained percussion. His voice, veering into falsetto at moments, carries the ache of isolation and emotional fracture. It’s sparse but never hollow—each element carefully placed, creating a quiet intensity that amplifies the tension.
“The Devil Went Down to Silverlake” reimagines Charlie Daniels’ Southern fable with a fatalistic twist. In de la Cour’s version, the outcome is never in doubt. A sinister fiddle circles the edges as he delivers lines like, “Hear that howling down the river? / Feel that cold wind on the bay / The Devil went down to Silverlake / For to steal your old soul away.” The devil, in this case, feels closer and more real—less a legend, more a lurking presence.
Even moments of connection are cast in shadow. “Beautiful Day” pairs a churning bass line and a fiery guitar solo with lyrics that question whether the peace being described is anything more than a mirage. “If this is hell it ain’t that bad, but if this is heaven I think I’ve been had,” he sings, channeling a ragged Neil Young vibe.
“We Were Young Once Together” steps back into a quieter, more acoustic setting. De la Cour reflects on a failed relationship and the challenge of raising a child in a world that seems dim and unpredictable. “I’ve given up hope for a better past,” he confesses, before turning to his daughter with the line, “She’s walking through a world on fire in watermelon shoes.” It’s tender, grim, and strangely beautiful.
A dark elegance defines tracks like “Christina” and “King Rex – Biloxi,” where rich, regal arrangements support vivid storytelling. The former paints a troubled portrait of a woman caught in an unhealthy relationship, while the latter sees de la Cour addressing the ghost of a romance gone cold: “We’ll always have Biloxi / But that don’t mean a thing.”
And then there’s “Stuart Little,” the most surreal moment on the album. In de la Cour’s darkly comic imagination, the beloved children’s book mouse commits murder and is pursued by the cast of Cats. It’s absurd and disturbing in equal measure—an example of how de la Cour’s narrative range continues to expand.
Late in the album, de la Cour offers a radical take on Hank Williams’ “Lost Highway.” Gone is the lonesome twang—replaced by sludgy, distorted gloom. It’s a dirge, dragging the listener into the depths of despair, like a Nine Inch Nails track on depressants.
Ben de la Cour delivers a record both unsettling and uncompromising. New Roses doesn’t offer comfort; rather, it stares down darkness with poetic clarity and unwavering intent. Where other artists might pull back, de la Cour leans in, drawing strength from the raw weight of discomfort.
Trapped, Ben Kweller (from The Noise Company release Cover the Mirrors)
Ben Kweller’s Cover the Mirrors is a raw and unflinching album shaped by the tragic loss of his son Dorian in a car accident. It charts the messy, complicated terrain of sorrow, love, and resilience—sometimes loud and turbulent, sometimes painfully quiet. These songs feel lived-in and unguarded, shaped by someone reckoning with grief while searching for meaning, connection, and some sliver of light in the dark.
The album opens with “Going Insane,” a chaotic, poetic swirl of personal anxiety and cultural collapse. Nostalgia clashes with disillusionment as Kweller stitches together fragments of a world off balance. The repeated refrain—“we’re going insane”—feels less like despair than recognition, a weary acknowledgment of the madness all around.
From there, the album veers into more electric terrain with “Dollar Store.” Guitars build from solitary riffs to a full-band surge as Kweller sings of disconnection and distraction. The lyrics capture that hollow middle ground between numbness and longing: “I’m looking for some motivation / I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
“Parker Harvey Fire Drill” brings back the Ben Kweller of old—playful, sharp-tongued, and full of caffeinated wordplay. It’s acoustic, infectious, and laced with social commentary that barrels forward like a runaway train. “She’s anti-social-media / All of them likes just make you greedier,” he spits, landing somewhere between Dylanesque abstraction and punk sneer.
That lyrical blitz continues in “Optimystic,” a guitar-fueled anthem of unraveling hope and unfiltered frustration. Each shouted “I’m not optimystic now” feels like a release valve snapping loose—equal parts catharsis and collapse.
The middle of the record dives into deeper shadows. “Depression” rides a heavy, almost reggae-like groove, grounding its darkness in rhythm: “I used to pretend that I was strong and tough but now I can’t even get through the day.” “Don’t Cave” follows with a different kind of weight—a whirling rock track that speaks directly to someone on the verge of giving up, urging them to hold on. The guitars rise and churn around Kweller’s voice as he delivers lines full of compassion and resolve: “Don’t give in when your heart aches / Your heart is much stronger than you think.” It’s a message of strength meant for someone else—but easy to hear as something he’s telling himself, too.
“Letter to Agony” is one of the album’s most vulnerable moments—just voice and acoustic guitar, steeped in self-doubt. It captures the crushing weight of depression and the painful awareness of how that burden is already affecting someone you love. Kweller sings with heartbreaking clarity, “I love you so much it’ll push you away / And then I will hate, hate myself more / Than I do currently.” It’s the sound of someone who doesn’t want to hold their partner back—but knows that letting go will only deepen the pain.
The most poignant moment comes with the presence of Dorian himself. “Trapped,” a song Dorian began before his passing, is one Kweller felt compelled to finish. In that context, what began as a meditation on lost love takes on a much deeper meaning: “Now I’m gone / Yeah, I’m free / But I wish you were with me.”
The album ends with “Oh Dorian,” a song that feels less like a goodbye and more like an open-ended conversation. Acoustic and unadorned, it carries a gentle warmth that stands in contrast to the pain that precedes it. Kweller doesn’t try to resolve his grief—he simply speaks to his son with love, lucidity, and longing: “Oh Dorian, where did you go? / Oh Dorian, please let me know / Oh Dorian, my best friend / But I can’t wait to hang with you again.”
It’s a heartbreakingly tender tribute—father to son, artist to muse, soul to soul—and a fitting close to an album built on love and loss.
Palm Readers, Palmyra (from the Oh Boy Records release Restless)
On Restless, Palmyra blends indie rock and bluegrass into something taut, vibrant, and deeply personal. The Virginia-based trio trades in tension—emotional and musical—but smooths the edges with close harmonies and hooks that linger. It’s a record marked by self-examination, wrestling with identity and purpose from multiple vantage points.
The title track sets the tone, opening in hushed introspection before erupting into a driving, guitar-laced chorus. “The truth is I’ve never been anywhere further from fine,” the band sings—a line that feels like a thesis for the album: raw, revealing, and urgent.
“Palm Readers” is a portrait of loneliness and the search for connection. The rhythm pulses like a racing heart, while the vocals carry the weight of anxiety and self-doubt. “I talk to myself like you talk to a kid after they’ve done a bad, bad thing,” the singer confesses—longing for tenderness but stuck in a cycle of self-criticism. It’s a moment of raw vulnerability, reaching for solid ground when nothing feels steady.
“Shape I’m In” is an emotional tour de force. Much of the song is quiet and reserved, with Sasha London offering an apology that sits uneasily beside a deeper personal struggle. It’s the sound of someone trying to chart their own course while grappling with their mental health. The track erupts in a cathartic, percussive climax—London reaching not just for forgiveness, but for self-acceptance.
Even when the tempo drops, the intensity doesn’t. “Can’t Slow Down” simmers in place, frustration thick in the air. “I can’t help feeling stuck / Knee deep in the mud,” the narrator admits, capturing the slow churn of stagnation and the restless urge to move forward, even when everything feels heavy.
Palmyra may be Restless, but that unease fuels something powerful. Across the album, the band confronts uncertainty and inner conflict, channeling it into songs that are as emotionally taut as they are sonically dynamic. Whether it’s a quiet moment of reflection or a full-throttle catharsis, Restless finds Palmyra pushing at the edges—and turning unease into resonance.
How To Cure a Heartbreak, Andy Frasco and the U.N. (from the Fun Machine Records release Growing Pains)
Ain’t no party like an Andy Frasco party—anyone who’s witnessed the joyous chaos of his live shows can testify to that. But on Growing Pains, Frasco and the U.N. prove they’re more than just a good time. The album delivers all the raucous, full-throttle energy fans have come to expect while digging deeper into vulnerability, growth, and the complicated process of becoming whole.
There’s no shortage of anthems here, and the sing-along ratio is sky-high. “Ugly On You” kicks in the door with a driving rhythm and a chorus tailor-made for shouting along with your fist in the air. It’s an unflinching middle finger to bitterness, dressed up as a rock ‘n’ roll rally cry: “’Cause getting high on spite looks ugly on you.” In a similar but more laid-back fashion, “Try Not to Die” channels calypso breeziness and Jack Johnson-esque sunshine. It celebrates life’s simpler pleasures with lyrics like, “Enjoy what you got / Forget what you’re not.” These are songs that beam with positivity without pretending life’s always easy.
That blend—of joy and struggle, euphoria and ache—is where Growing Pains finds its sweet spot. Take “What We Used to Be Is Not Who We Are.” It begins in a hush, all introspection and self-effacement, before blossoming into a defiant, trumpet-laced anthem of self-acceptance and solidarity. Frasco sings of scars, secrets, and second chances—not to mention being a friend (“love in your heart, you’re never alone”) and having friends (“Got an army of good friends to answer the call”). It’s not just a song; it’s a communal release.
Even at its most playful, the album lands with heart. “Crazy Things” is a love letter disguised as a road trip fever dream, starting as a gentle acoustic confessional before swelling into a barroom chorus. “Swinging for the Fences” is pure Frasco fun—a half-satirical, half-sincere ode to chasing someone way out of your league. From the opening lo-fi crackle to the swaggering crescendo, it’s the sound of a band chasing joy with reckless abandon.
The ache surfaces on “Tears in My Cocaine,” a raw acoustic ballad about heartbreak, self-destruction, and the blurred lines between coping and collapse. The pain carries into “How to Cure a Heartbreak,” which trades quiet sorrow for a cathartic burst of energy. While the lyrics mine the depths of heartbreak, the delivery is pure Frasco: big, boisterous, and undeniably human. “I try to fill my soul with substance / But my bucket’s filled with holes,” he sings—brutal, honest, and somehow still uplifting.
But Growing Pains isn’t just about working through sorrow—it’s also about finding a path toward contentment. “Flowers” is gentle, wise, and quietly radical, evolving from self-reflection to shared strength: “If you can’t blow out your candles, we’ll do it for you.” “Life Is Easy,” which features a stacked cast of guests including Billy Strings, Steve Poltz, Daniel Donato, and Mike Gordon, is a stripped-down anthem that chronicles the absurdity of modern life but ultimately concludes, “If you let it be, life is easy.”
Growing Pains captures everything that makes Andy Frasco & the U.N. such a force: the unfiltered honesty, the boundless energy, and the refusal to let the darkness win. It’s a record that dances through the mess, sings through the heartbreak, and leaves you grinning, grateful, and with your heart a little fuller.
The Great Yellow Light, Willie Nile from the River House Records release The Great Yellow Light)
Few artists write rock anthems with the fire and heart of Willie Nile. On The Great Yellow Light, he’s at it again—delivering a record brimming with unbridled optimism, even as it casts a clear-eyed look at America’s struggles, contradictions, and enduring potential. It’s a balancing act he’s long mastered: rage and reverence, protest and poetry, all wrapped in choruses built to shake stadium rafters.
Early on, “We Are” bursts out as a raucous, joyful anthem that defines the record’s spirit. It’s pure fun on the surface, but it carries the defiant energy that runs through the whole album—a celebration of resilience and togetherness in hard times.
“Irish Goodbye,” featuring legendary Irish singer-songwriter Paul Brady, draws on the culturally loaded tradition of the quiet, unsaid goodbye. Nile reimagines that tradition as a lens through which to confront mortality itself. The song is both a farewell and a refusal to linger, embracing the inevitability of departure with a mix of humor, sentiment, and grace. “An Irish goodbye, an Irish goodbye / Here’s fire in your whiskey, here’s mud in your eye / It’s high time to leave here, the angels know why / I’ll just say an Irish goodbye.” It’s a poignant nod to how we often exit life the same way we might leave a party—unannounced, but not unloved.
The title track, “The Great Yellow Light,” captures the heart of the album—an ode to awe, beauty, and those moments that make life feel electric. As Nile puts it, “For me, the title refers to those rare magical moments of awe and wonder that make life worth living.” The song opens with quiet restraint before building into something radiant and full of purpose. He sings, “And some think a life is just a game, a game that’s played by fools, well this I don’t believe; ’Cause I was dreaming of a girl with wonder in her eyes and thunder in her heart.” It’s a stirring reminder to keep chasing the light, however fleeting it may be.
Social commentary comes with a wink on “Tryin’ to Make a Living in the USA,” where Nile imagines music industry stardom as a fix-all while slyly poking at the absurdities of modern life. “There’s nothin’ wrong with me a hit record wouldn’t cure,” he quips—fully aware of both the joke and the truth behind it.
He turns more direct on “Wake Up America,” a bristling call to action. Steve Earle lends his voice to the cause, underscoring the urgency of the plea: “I know you’re not perfect, sometimes you break down / Wake up America or we’re all gonna drown.” The song’s urgency is matched by its hope—typical Nile, calling for change without letting go of belief.
“Fall On Me” channels a gritty Stones-like swagger, offering strength to someone on the verge of collapse. It’s not flashy—it’s raw, with a guitar groove that carries the weight of the lyric: “If you’re gonna fall, fall on me.”
“What Color Is Love” is one of the album’s most poignant moments. It begins as a tender piano ballad, a slow meditation on love’s elusive form, before building in intensity as the full band enters. Nile’s questions—“What color is love, oh how will it show, has anybody seen it, oh how would I know / Will it touch my hand, will I know its face, will I be a memory, will it leave a trace”—linger long after the song fades.
The Great Yellow Light is classic Willie Nile: spirited, big-hearted, and wide awake. Whether lifting a pint, raising a fist, or searching for grace, he brings a spark that never dims.
Waiting on the Dust to Settle, David Ramirez (from the Blue Corn Music release All the Not So Gentle Reminders)
David Ramirez opens All the Not So Gentle Reminders with a sense of unease and emotional weight. The brooding “Waiting on the Dust to Settle” sets the tone—a mid-tempo anthem about coming through darkness and learning to move forward. “I’m over the anger, the sadness,” he sings, not with bravado but with quiet determination. It’s a song about sifting through the wreckage and starting again, anchored by the belief that clarity is just ahead.
That hard-won understanding continues on “Nobody Meant to Slow You Down,” where Ramirez confronts the end of a relationship with tenderness and restraint. “Never wanted to waste your time / Never thought you wasted mine,” he sings, more focused on growth than blame.
He embraces his flair for showmanship on tracks like “Music Man” and “I Got People,” nodding to the golden age of pop standards with echoes of Sinatra, all while weaving in his own backstory. These moments don’t feel like detours—they’re part of a broader self-portrait, drawn with both intimacy and elegance.
Ramirez gets more enigmatic on “Twin Sized Bed,” a mysterious slow-burner that eventually breaks into an intense, almost cinematic conclusion. By contrast, “Holiday (Crush)” picks up the pace with a breezy look at fleeting vacation romance, light on its feet but not without depth.
The album closes on a restrained but quietly optimistic note with “Long Shot,” a string-laden ballad that softens its romantic bravado with a wink. “I like the long shot / I like when you play hard to get / And I can brag to all of my friends / ‘Hey, look at what I got,’” Ramirez sings, striking a balance between earnestness and playful swagger.
Ramirez walks a deliberate line between introspection and theatricality, finding resonance in both hushed confessions and grand gestures. The album is shaped by change and carried by a voice that feels every word it sings.
I Know Better, Sir Woman (from the OneRPM release If It All Works Out)
Kelsey Wilson has always known how to command a room, and on If It All Works Out, the Sir Woman frontwoman brings that same magnetic energy to the studio. The first of two albums the Austin-based soul collective will release this year, it’s a set that’s sweet, soulful, and undeniably sexy — retro in spirit, but with a crisp, modern sheen.
Relationship highs and lows dominate the emotional terrain, but it’s the variety of moods and grooves that makes the album pop. The opening track, “Circles,” rides an ’80s-inspired wave of spacey synths and deep-pocket funk, capturing the dizzy rush of infatuation. “I Know Better” is a dance-floor-ready sing-along — a catchy confession of desire that overrides common sense.
Sir Woman slows things down on “Who You Gonna Love,” layering dreamy textures under a warm reminder that self-love comes first. The tone shifts dramatically on “Get Out of My Mind,” a wrenching post-breakup plea delivered with raw vulnerability: “Get out of my mind / Get out of my head / ’Cause I can’t move on / With you in my bed.”
“I Don’t Do Forever” floats in gently, a hushed ballad that resists grand declarations in favor of savoring the moment. Wilson’s voice — intimate and unhurried — draws you in close. That same emotional push-pull powers “Love and Basketball,” a quiet storm of a track where the desire to linger collides with the inevitability of goodbye.
The album closes with “Making My Way,” an introspective tune rich with harmony and heartache. Even in parting, Wilson doesn’t assign blame — instead, she lingers in the ambiguity: “Was it you, was it me, or was it time?”
If It All Works Out is steeped in the messy, beautiful middle ground of love. Instead of resolution, Wilson delivers raw emotion and timeless grooves — and that’s more than enough.
Sock It To Me / It’s Your Thing, Lotti Golden (from the High Moon Records release Motor-Cycle)
I don’t typically cover reissues, but Motor-Cycle was an exception worth making. I hadn’t heard of Lotti Golden before, but this album made sure I won’t forget her.
Originally released in 1969, Motor-Cycle is eclectic and adventurous in all the best ways. The album takes the listener on a bold, shapeshifting ride through the sounds of 1960s America. The songs don’t stick to a single lane; they zig, zag, break down, rebuild, and soar—often in the same track. With every cut from the original release clocking in at over five minutes—and a couple stretching past eight—it’s remarkable how Golden keeps the melodies grounded and the energy high. It’s retro, sure, but never sounds stuck in the past. There’s something electric and immediate about the whole thing.
This is a true New York City album, gritty and buzzing with the life of the streets, subways, and smoke-filled clubs of the era. Golden’s voice is the anchor, an instrument distinctive, raw, and full of swagger; it carries each song through genre shifts and stylistic flourishes.
Take “Gonna Fays,” a wild burner that channels Janis Joplin with its unhinged, full-throttle close. Or “A Lot Like Lucifer,” which starts off like a big band standard before crashing into a funky, bass-driven groove. “Who Are Your Friends” throws some Motown into the mix, horns blasting and the rhythm section locked in tight. And then there’s “Get Together,” a gritty burst of San Francisco flower-power rock that wears its Youngbloods nod proudly. Golden doesn’t mimic these styles—she inhabits them, reinterprets them, and makes them hers.
“You Can Find Him” is pure ’60s pop with a gospel heart—rich harmonies and all. It’s the kind of song that would’ve sounded right at home in the Ronettes’ catalog, a swooning tale of longing that, yes, ends in triumph. Love is found, choir swells, fade out.
The reissue adds two bonus tracks that sound anything but tacked on. “Sock It To Me / It’s Your Thing” is a funk bomb straight out of the Sly and the Family Stone playbook: pulsing bass, blaring horns, and communal vocals that dare you not to move. And “Annabelle with Bells” closes the set with an effervescent nod to classic girl-group charm, ending things on a warm, triumphant note.
More than fifty years on, Motor-Cycle finally gets another moment in the spotlight—and it shines with grit, style, and a voice that deserves to be heard.
When Youth Fades Away, Somebody’s Child (from the Frenchkiss Records release When Youth Fades Away)
I’m a sucker for a pop song—especially one with teeth. That’s Somebody’s Child’s sweet spot: big emotions, pulsing beats, and choruses that don’t just soar—they explode. When Youth Fades Away leans further into synth-pop than its predecessor, but the band hasn’t lost its grip on rock and roll. The guitars still cut through, and the rhythms still hit hard.
The album’s title and cover—stark white text over a greyscale photo of a lonely, crumbling house—set the tone for what follows: a record obsessed with time, loss, and emotional drift. Opener “The Kid” sets it all in motion with a restless pulse and lyrics that wrestle with nostalgia and the need for companionship: “‘Cause life is better when shared with someone else, I swear.” That search continues on “Last Night I Held Your Hand,” where emotional urgency meets a racing beat that barely pauses for breath.
“Porcelain (Losing All My Patience)” dives headfirst into dissolution, chronicling a breakup where even the porcelain dishes become casualties. It’s shattered and beyond repair.
The title track captures the hollow drift of aging out of your younger self. Melancholy and anchorless, it contemplates change and fading identity. “I feel it in my head, myself of old ain’t coming back,” he laments. “When youth fades away, I swear I’m lost in the power of it all.”
“My Mind Is On Fire” brings everything into focus—passing time, a faltering relationship, and the creeping dread of turning 30. The beat surges with urgency, and the chorus bursts out in exasperation: “My mind is on fire.” It’s emotional combustion disguised as a dance track.
“Time of My Life” closes the record with a dose of sharp irony. The title implies joy, but the song chronicles the rapid passage of time—from the giddy start of a relationship to the end of a lifetime. It leans into a familiar playground chant—“Me and you / Sitting in a tree / K-I-S-S-I-N-G”—before turning darkly reflective: “And first comes love, then comes marriage / I guess I’m waiting for the hearse and carriage.” What begins in innocence ends with existential weight.
When Youth Fades Away doesn’t try to make peace with growing older—it wrestles with it. Somebody’s Child lays bare the fear, doubt, and disorientation that come with passing time, but sets it all to music that’s immensely catchy. The contrast is striking: big melodic hooks and pulsing beats prop up lyrics full of uncertainty and drift. It’s a pop record that dances on the edge of an existential crisis—and wraps the turmoil in glittering gloss.
About the author: Mild-mannered corporate executive by day, excitable Twangville denizen by night.