The music is ambitious and boundless, and & I’m Fine Today is SUSTO’s best crack at it yet. You can see the growth in album art alone: while their 2014 self-titled debut’s album art took a crack at Nirvana’s Nevermind, & I’m Fine Today embodies the psychedelic style of the 60s with album art that begs to be owned on vinyl.

& I’m Fine Today is a collection of fine songs, but it’s also a collection of fine stories. Many songs on the record stand out for their songwriting finesse, but almost every one is memorable because of the story they tell. “Gay in the South” tells an obvious story, but it’s one that encapsulates the record: one where Jesus isn’t the centre of somebody’s being, but rather somebody that haunts them.

“They promised us: ’You are going straight to tell when you die.’ I don’t even think it’s a real place,” Osborne sings on “Gay in the South”. On “Waves”, he asks: “Is there anybody in there, smoking weed with God?” On & I’m Fine Today, the questions Osborne asks aren’t strictly personal anymore. Now, SUSTO is asking the questions of their generation about the reality of a higher power — and whether or not that higher power is a benevolent force if its believers are not.

On the other hand, if philosophical questions about God isn’t your style, this is an album with a song called “Cosmic Cowboy” on it. So despite the life questions, there’s still space for some fun and games.

If the album has any central messaging, it’s earliest mention is in “Waves”. “The sun comes up, the sun goes down, and that’s what it’s all about,” Osborne sings in the chorus. And on “Jah Werx”, the final track, the band sings “Jah werx, and I’m fine today” throughout the chorus. When the lyrics come together, & I’m Fine Today is about God, nature, the rising and falling tides of waves as the sun rises and sets, and the way everything returns to dust when it’s over no matter what you believe.

Musically, & I’m Fine Today is a wonder. From the far-out style of “Far Out Feeling” (no pun intended) to the layered production of “Wasted Mind”, the songwriting and engineering are impeccable. But even more impressive is the storytelling of the record. & I’m Fine Today is a captivating, exhilarating record, and an astounding sophomore attempt from SUSTO that catapults them to the top of the league.

The post SUSTO: & I’m Fine Today appeared first on Unsung Sundays.

The big song on this record — the one they seem to think will bring Dodie a lot of attention — is “Sick of Losing Soulmates”, the final track on the EP. For me, I don’t think it’s the money track. It’s got a lot of emotional power, but it sacrifices charm for it.

And to be clear, at her best, Dodie oozes charm. “Intertwined”, the opening track, strongly reminds me of the French folk I’ve heard over the years. (I had to check to make sure it wasn’t a cover of a song I’ve heard before.) The music is familiar, but Dodie’s voice is perfect. Haunting, but filled with youth, Dodie sounds like she’s been performing for years. It’s so surprising that Intertwined is her first EP.

Much of the charm continues throughout the record. “I Have a Hole in My Tooth (And My Dentist Is Shut”) and “Life Lesson” are both under a minute long, but they’re perfect little breaks from the rest of the album and reminders that music doesn’t always have to be serious. And while Dodie spends her time largely meandering in a genre most people take much too seriously — folk — she never takes it seriously herself.

“Absolutely Smitten” takes that fun and makes a full track out of it. I love it. For my money, this is the song from the record they should play at the bars and the pubs. It reminds me of what The Lumineers were doing on their debut record, but Dodie is a much better singer.

For people who are getting tired of listening to the same old sad folk on a loop, Dodie is a refreshing breath of fresh air.

You know what’s great about Dodie? If you like her music, you can find her performing it all in her home on Youtube. She was a Youtube “sensation” before she got signed to a label. And that’s fantastic.

For fans of music, there’s nothing better than seeing somebody’s progression from relative unknown to a label, and then maybe, to success. With Dodie, there’s never been a better way to start tracking with somebody’s journey.

If you like Dodie, you’ll definitely want to search for her on Youtube.

The post Dodie: Intertwined — EP appeared first on Unsung Sundays.

A critique aims to consider the art’s merits, but it also wants to consider its place in the wider scope of form. In the case of music, a proper critical review should discuss the meaning of the music, and its relevance to either an artist’s oeuvre or general society.

There are occasions, though, when critical thinking is pointless because, well, nobody cares — and it’s irrelevant. Michael Bay movies (Transformers), Dan Brown novels (The Da Vinci Code), or Pokémon video games come to mind.

But today I’m adding Lisa LeBlanc’s name to that list.

Why You Wanna Leave, Runaway Queen? is an insanely fun album that I can’t possibly critique. I don’t know how to describe the magic spell it puts on me, but its delightful mix of Americana, old-school rock ‘n’ roll, and garage rock attitude hits me right where it hurts.

The truth is right in the track names. “I Love You, I Don’t Love You, I Don’t Know” is delivered with all the panache you’d expect. “Could You Wait ’Til I’ve Had My Coffee?” is basically a constant barrage of delightful rock attitude. And yes, the country-style cover of “Ace of Spades” is perfect — and Lisa LeBlanc’s voice is amazing.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t talk a bit about her voice. LeBlanc is an excellent singer with the room-filling power of Metallica’s James Hetfield, and all the lazy attitude of Lou Reed in his prime. Her punk-y voice is a delightful antecedent to her music, which is often twangy and country-like — even if she doesn’t fully embrace the genre.

It’s hard to categorize LeBlanc’s style, actually. Most people consider her folk, but she’s the first to acknowledge her rock and metal roots. She’s dubbed her music “folk trash”, which I don’t think fits her — but it does get the point across.

Her quieter tracks (which are rarer), like “5748 km”, are more apt to fit that term. But those quiet tracks are rare. Songs like “Dead Man’s Flats” seem quiet, but are insistent on their astounding breakneck paces. Others, like “(Self-Proclaimed) Voodoo Women” start slow, but develop roaring rock personalities in their latter halves. (These tracks aren’t unlike the epic metal tracks that doubtlessly inspired them.)

The point of all this is that it’s hard to call Lisa LeBlanc folk rock. She’s dangerously close to post-punk, or garage rock — if she’s not there already. And as her band gets louder, so does her sound.

If anything, Why You Wanna Leave, Runaway Queen? demonstrates LeBlanc’s completed transition from “folk trash” to “rock ‘n’ roll diva.” It’s not going to light the world on fire for its social commentary, but it’s immune to these criticisms because LeBlanc’s music is just so much darned fun. It makes you want to air guitar, dance, bang your head around, and cheer.

If you’re looking for a record that does that — a record that knows how to have fun and reinterpret the attitudes of the past with new sounds — look no further than Why You Wanna Leave, Runaway Queen?. A rollicking, rocking success by any measure.

The post Lisa LeBlanc: Why You Wanna Leave, Runaway Queen? appeared first on Unsung Sundays.

In other words, the track titles force us to talk about the album as a whole.

And as a cohesive whole, 22, A Million is worth talking about. Remember how weird it was when Bon Iver started singing on Kanye West tracks? It didn’t make sense then, but it does with 22, A Million. The transition is now complete. Bon Iver, Bon Iver was a stepping stone towards this, and in retrospect, it feels like an awkward sophomore attempt. This was always the future.

Justin Vernon interest in fusing electronic music and folk goes back to the beginning. And can you blame him? He recorded For Emma, Forever Ago on his laptop. Electronic sounds are an obvious direction to pursue.

Many of the tracks on 22, A Million exemplify this change. “10 d E A T h b R E a s T “, “33 ‘GOD’”, and “715 – CREEKS” are easy examples. What’s incredible about the tracks isn’t just Vernon’s unbridled creativity, but the fact that he actually pulled it all together. He made something beautiful out of all of this.

In a lot of ways, it’s fitting that we first got hints of this new Bon Iver sound from his performances with Kanye West. With 22, A Million, it feels like Bon Iver is trying to make a similar statement of creativity and power. This is Bon Iver’s 808s & Heartbreak. People might revile the record now, but we’ll look back on it with fondness as the turning of a corner.

If that comparison doesn’t resonate for you, it’d be fair to compare the album to Radiohead’s Kid A. It’s as if Justin Vernon said that too much of the folk scene sounds the same, that he didn’t want to add to the noise, and he wanted to make a change.

That change ripples through every track no this record. It’s almost impossible to talk about them individually. Lyrically, Vernon continues to be somewhat cryptic. But despite the distance that the electronics introduces, his voice feels more intimate and earthy than ever.

“8 (circle)” is a great example. Vernon’s voice makes it feel like the song is a private performance, but the electronics give the song a spacious depth it would otherwise lack.

It’s all so fitting for Justin Vernon, a man who seems bound to his neurosis of musical self-doubt, uncertainty, and reinvention. 22, A Million is a record about the ripples new sounds introduce, and the butterfly effects they create. It’s a beautiful record that’s reminiscent of watershed moments of the past, but only time will tell how we remember it.

As for me, I don’t want to be on the wrong side of history. 22, A Million could go down as Bon Iver’s first masterpiece.

The post Bon Iver: 22, A Million appeared first on Unsung Sundays.

Schmilco reminds me of those songs.

This is obvious from the opening notes. “Normal American Kids” is a folk opener that feels inauspicious after the rocky tracks of Star Wars. Featuring just Jeff Tweedy’s voice and acoustic guitar, “Normal American Kids” defies logic by excluding bass lines and drum work from the song at all.

When the other band members finally get a chance to contribute on “If I Ever Was a Child”, they take a back seat to the acoustic guitar and Tweedy’s voice. Schmilco is a folk record. It’s different. If Sufjan Stevens took over the band, this is the record I would expect them to make.

Not every song is completely downbeat. “Nope” has a playful backbeat. “Someone to Lose” feels like it’s from The Whole Love era — a rollicking bass line carries the song forward, not unlike the best songs from that record.

But the record is at its best when Tweedy and co. are being willfully laid-back and folk-inspired. “Quarters” and “Happiness” (which is obviously ironically titled) are two standouts towards the end of the record.

There are poor songs here — nobody would say Schmilco is the band’s best record — but they’re few and far between. If anything, Schmilco has a good batting average. But it lacks the energy of a traditional record, and that’s going to throw people off at first listen.

As a result, the most legitimate complaint people could have with Schmilco is that the band sounds bored. I don’t think they do — but I think they know that’s the reaction they’re going to get. The title alone is a dead giveaway that they’re certain nobody will care about the record. It’s as if they threw their hands in the air and said “whatever.”

Whether or not you’ll like Schmilco depends on whether or not you already like Wilco. For newcomers, it’s not going to be the best place to start. But if you’re a fan of the band, you’re going to find a lot to like here — despite the album title’s suggestion otherwise.

The post Wilco: Schmilco appeared first on Unsung Sundays.

I’ll start with the most obvious: she refused to be pigeon-holed. Every album Angel Olsen releases redefines her, placing her in a new spectrum of ideas and music that defy expectations. It makes it hard to write about her, because judging her by previous metrics is impossible.

Angel Olsen forces you to judge her present work in a vacuum.

Somehow, though, each record feels better than the last. Although comparing them is foolish, My Woman feels like the real Angel Olsen. But then again, so did Burn Your Fire for No Witness. (You see the problem here?) As always, My Woman is a statement. This time around, Angel’s got love on her mind.

“Shut Up Kiss Me” feels anthemic, while “Never Be Mine” offers a counterpoint to that song’s intense passion. The themes of the tracks are clear from the title, but the musical and vocal intensity that Angel delivers them with leaves no doubt about her intent with the track. Angel’s vocal prowess elevates the subject matter.

“Give It Up” feels like Nevermind-era Nirvana, and that feels fitting for Angel’s take on the despair of love. My Woman makes love sound constantly painful; even when it’s good, it hurts. It’s fleeting when you have it, infatuating when you don’t, and painful when it’s gone. Angel’s take on love is similar to the way Buddhist monks talk about pain: love, lovelessness, and unrequited love are all crazy moments in time that dissipate as soon as they materialize. And every change is a blessing and a curse.

At least, that’s what Angel says on the first half of the record. On the album’s second half — particularly “Sister”, “Woman”, and “Pops” — Angel makes the case for her womanhood. Similarly defined by pain and wreckage, this is Angel at her heaviest and most aware.

The two halves of this record are stylistically at odds. The latter half is so much slower and more subtle than the first, but it never lags — even while it sprawls into eight-minute opuses. On “Pops”, Angel’s distorted voice carries the weight of a two-ton hammer. “I’ll be the thing that lives in a dream when it’s gone,” she sings.

With that, Angel writes her thesis about love: it’s a thing of fancy, and the dream is better than the reality.

It’s fitting to me that there’s no modern comparison for Angel Olsen’s music. We often compare her to Dolly Parton — perhaps her clearest idol — but there’s obviously room to add Nancy Sinatra and Joni Mitchell to the list. Angel Olsen isn’t a throwback, but she captures the dreamy female-led pop prowess that many of us love and miss. My Woman captures that spirit better than any of Angel’s previous records. It’s Angel’s best and most powerful record yet.

The post Angel Olsen: My Woman appeared first on Unsung Sundays.

Pretty amazing for what started as writer’s block.

These mystical tracks are self-evident from the get-go. The sparse production and airy vocal work of “Fall” and “Snow” feel as if they belong in a fairytale world.

I’m aware that some of you might take that to mean her voice is high-pitched and squeaky, but it’s not that at all. Her voice is lower than many women’s, but the way she sings — using all of her breath — evokes the feeling of being whispered to. Listening to Hannigan’s music feels like discovering a treasure only you and her know about.

Some of this work might be due to Aaron Dessner’s production. As he usually does on a record, Dessner’s created an emptiness with each track here that feels very much like the space occupying much of The National’s music.

On At Swim, that approach largely work. When Hannigan sings that she wants to “swim in your current” on “Undertow”, the production’s sparseness makes it feel like she already is. In “Fall”, the space within the track makes it feel larger than it really is.

It’s a powerful effect; an undercurrent in the music, if you will, that makes it feel more emotionally visceral. “Ora” leaves Hannigan’s voice almost naked on top of a piano, and while most songs fall apart with such minimal construction, the production (and Hannigan’s voice) bring it together.

Like many fairytales, the stories Hannigan tells us aren’t always pretty. “We, the ashes: We spend our days like matches / As we burn our ships as black as / The end, the end,” she sings on “We, the Drowned”. It’s as dark as it is beautiful, as lyrically powerful as the production is spacious.

Perhaps what’s most powerful about At Swim, though, is Hannigan’s awareness of being lost in an undertow. It’s a record about fighting a series of fights that we can’t win.

At one point, Hannigan pleads for us to hang the rich so we can spare the young. The thought is both sobering and damning. Hannigan must know what she asks for could never be.

So much like many fairytales, the scenery is gorgeous, but the ending isn’t pretty. In At Swim, we’re all in deep water. And we’re not going to make it. And any morals of the story will come too late.

The post Lisa Hannigan: At Swim appeared first on Unsung Sundays.

But despite her ability to craft country music that tops the charts, it’s her solo work that feels most expressionistic. The Bird & the Rifle, which is her tenth record by my count, largely tells stories about women who can’t escape their negative relationships with bad men. (As a man, I don’t feel totally qualified to write about this, but I’m going to give it my best shot anyway.)

At her best, McKenna’s songs are powerful regardless if you understand what she’s talking about. “If Whiskey Were a Woman” hits like a punch in the guy. “Old Men Young Women” feels like a softly-sung plea. “Halfway Home” has lyrics that strike: “Calling the dreaming girls looking for a saviour; he ain’t gonna save you.”

“Wreck You” opens the album with McKenna’s voice, singing “I get dressed in the dark each day,” almost silent as the instruments slowly come in. Produced by Dave Cobb (the producer also responsible for recent efforts by Sturgill Simpson), The Bird & the Rifle has a disarming authenticity to it. It feels like McKenna is singing you these songs by the fire, sharing her story with you in trust.

Because of that nearly-alarming sense of intimacy, the album is better than it has any right to be. It’s the perfect combination: intimate, crystal-clear production paired with country-influenced Americana folk and great storytelling. The Bird & the Rifle sounds like a songwriter at the top of her game. As a result, the album is approachable despite its heavy subject matter.

The Bird & the Rifle is also an album of immense substance in its stories. It’s not just that they’re emotionally compelling; they also feel like a call to become better people. As a man, it feels wrong to comment on the obvious gender bias of the album; most of the songs are written from the perspective of the broken woman. These stories are all tragedies, but they’re also meant to be lessons.

As a result, The Bird & the Rifle elevates McKenna to a place of compassion — a rare quality in today’s music. During the title track, McKenna sings “He’s afraid if she flies, she’ll never come home again. Something about the bird in her spreading those wings always bring the rifle out in him.”

It’s a single moment among many that feel at once aware and sensitive of the situations women everywhere are in every day. The Bird & the Rifle is an album that should be celebrated because it celebrates women, and because it has compassion for them.

The post Lori McKenna: The Bird & the Rifle appeared first on Unsung Sundays.

It’s an intriguing concept that mixes well with Shauf’s morore-sounding, baroque pop, indie folk stylings. It’s not far off from Father John Misty’s approach: a concept album about a loosely connected theme, but approached with an interest in its most mundane elements.

There’s a diversity of guests here that feels exactly appropriate for what Shauf is going for. On “Early to the Party,” a man arrives way earlier than necessary. At the end of “Twist Your Ankle,” he sings “Everybody’s laughing at me; I wish I just stayed home.” And the song brilliantly ends, quite literally, on that note.

“Alexander All Alone” is about a smoker who, on his last pack, suddenly keels over and dies. “Begin Again” is about being stuck with a friend who can’t stop bragging about how he’s cheating on his partner with the girl Shauf wants to be with — and Shauf pleads for the world to end rather than the conversation to continue.

Musically, it does end: the music reaches a climactic swell, as if the light has arrived to “dissolve [them] all,” as Shauf so desperately wants. It’s brilliantly well-realized, the musical stuff of indie pop dreams.

I share these songs specifically with you not because they’re exceptional examples from the album. Every song on The Party is worth hearing; it’s an exceptional record — one of the year’s best in its genre. But the songs I’ve described are great examples of the sheer amount of variety on display. Every song has as much of a personality as its characters do. For a songwriter self-releasing his first record on a “serious” label, that’s an accomplishment.

With The Party, Andy Shauf has matured and become one of Canada’s best singer-songwriters. It’s a treat of an album. I think you’re going to love it.

The post Andy Shauf: The Party appeared first on Unsung Sundays.

Much of that is owed to her music, which plays with distance and immediacy, and visceral qualities and intimacy. Even among other singer-songwriters, she’s unique, with the closest comparison being Angel Olsen (perhaps).

On previous records, Nadler has stripped her sound to be nothing more than her and a guitar, largely allowing her voice to be the most powerful part of a record. On Strangers, her heavenly (if sad-sounding) voice remains all that’s needed to make an impact, but she’s expanded the songs to include other instruments and a wider range of production techniques.

I read in an interview/review with Wall Street Journal that Nadler experimented with Logic on this record. You can hear it on some tracks, particularly the airy and expansive Nothing Feels the Same. Other tracks, like Hungry Is the Ghost, are expansive in different ways. Hungry includes an electric guitar and the soft beat of a kick drum in the background, building an incredible amount of tension.

When she experiments with the instruments is when Melissa Nadler feels the most alien and unlike us. She doesn’t use them in traditional manners at all, instead opting to sound ephemeral, as if the song were about to disappear away from our grasp and fade away — along with her. Even when Nadler’s vision of a guitar solo plays, it’s nearly buried in the mix, distant and haunting.

Katie I know plays with synths and a drum kit, offering a variation on the regular Nadler sound that still feels as bleak as ever. Janie in Love feels like a sound that would fit perfectly on the soundtrack to Fallout or The Walking Dead, with its deep and eery piano parts and distorted rock chorus.

Some of that might have to do with the album’s theme. Nadler isn’t the first to release a post-apocalyptically-themed album this year, but her music is certainly the bleakest about it. There’s little hope offered on her record, but there’s a strong atmosphere and a sense that there’s something beyond our own understanding of the world.

The best thing I can say about Melissa Nadler’s Strangers is that it encourages us to get lost, and to dream, in another universe. One where Nadler is queen and calls to all of us with her mysterious voice.

The post Marissa Nadler: Strangers appeared first on Unsung Sundays.