Matador

Lindsey Jordan—the 22-year-old NYC-by-way-of-Maryland singer-songwriter who looks like she's still in high school and goes by Snail Mail—has lived a lot since her 2018 debut, Lush. You can hear it all over Valentine, her second album, which is full of references to heartbreak, losing herself, a stint in rehab and a quest to change. Her wonderfully raw (no American Idol perfection and show-off runs here) voice still sounds girlish, but with a new hoarse quality. The album's stylized cover art, with a besuited Jordan posing defiantly, even hints at the more grown-up direction this time around. "Valentine" starts off kind of free-floating and loose, pouring like honey, before the chorus kicks in: "So why'd you wanna erase me, darling Valentine?" This is the new emo, as big and bold as anything by My Chemical Romance or Paramore but lashed with a 2021 world-weariness and a straightforward queer sensibility. Waxahatchee's Katie Crutchfield, in guest-writing the bio for the album, nailed it: "Valentine is somehow a jolt and a lovebuzz all at once." Against clicky drums, Jordan reveals the desire to anesthetize boredom that landed her in rehab. "On two, feels like spring/ All on my own, guess the shit just makes you boring/ Got money, don't care about sex," she sings. "Sometimes I hate her just for not being you." In fact, Jordan told Pitchfork that success forced her to grow up and reassess, lest she end up another music business tragedy. "After Lush came out, I was driving myself crazy going to every single social thing," she said. "I was like a baby in an adult job." If it sounds a bit like the story behind Julien Baker's last album, the comparisons don't end there. Like Baker, Jordan wrestles with religious guilt and compulsions on the galloping "Madonna," and that new hoarseness makes the two sound even more similar than before (it's a compliment).You can also hear traces of Soccer Mommy's breathy dreaminess in "Headlock," in which Jordan lets herself imagine how wrong things could've gone if she hadn't gotten help: "Thought I'd see her when I died/ Filled the bath up with warm water/ Nothing on the other side." "Glory" feels like punchy '90s indie pop, and the sweet and quiet acoustic ballad "c. et al." is so intimate you can hear fingers slipping on the strings as Jordan unveils a surprisingly bluesy side. "Forever (Sailing)" has a lovely cafe-jazz touch; the snare splashes like a wave gently hitting the side of a yacht, while horns play as bright as the afternoon sun. Jordan has said she grew up influenced by the male-dominated Warped Tour bands of the 2000s, and she brings things full-circle with "Mia," a grand romantic gesture ballad in the vein of "Hey There, Delilah," that feels at once fresh and timeless. © Shelly Ridenour/Qobuz

Lindsey Jordan—the 22-year-old NYC-by-way-of-Maryland singer-songwriter who looks like she's still in high school and goes by Snail Mail—has lived a lot since her 2018 debut, Lush. You can hear it all over Valentine, her second album, which is full of references to heartbreak, losing herself, a stint in rehab and a quest to change. Her wonderfully raw (no American Idol perfection and show-off runs here) voice still sounds girlish, but with a new hoarse quality. The album's stylized cover art, with a besuited Jordan posing defiantly, even hints at the more grown-up direction this time around. "Valentine" starts off kind of free-floating and loose, pouring like honey, before the chorus kicks in: "So why'd you wanna erase me, darling Valentine?" This is the new emo, as big and bold as anything by My Chemical Romance or Paramore but lashed with a 2021 world-weariness and a straightforward queer sensibility. Waxahatchee's Katie Crutchfield, in guest-writing the bio for the album, nailed it: "Valentine is somehow a jolt and a lovebuzz all at once." Against clicky drums, Jordan reveals the desire to anesthetize boredom that landed her in rehab. "On two, feels like spring/ All on my own, guess the shit just makes you boring/ Got money, don't care about sex," she sings. "Sometimes I hate her just for not being you." In fact, Jordan told Pitchfork that success forced her to grow up and reassess, lest she end up another music business tragedy. "After Lush came out, I was driving myself crazy going to every single social thing," she said. "I was like a baby in an adult job." If it sounds a bit like the story behind Julien Baker's last album, the comparisons don't end there. Like Baker, Jordan wrestles with religious guilt and compulsions on the galloping "Madonna," and that new hoarseness makes the two sound even more similar than before (it's a compliment).You can also hear traces of Soccer Mommy's breathy dreaminess in "Headlock," in which Jordan lets herself imagine how wrong things could've gone if she hadn't gotten help: "Thought I'd see her when I died/ Filled the bath up with warm water/ Nothing on the other side." "Glory" feels like punchy '90s indie pop, and the sweet and quiet acoustic ballad "c. et al." is so intimate you can hear fingers slipping on the strings as Jordan unveils a surprisingly bluesy side. "Forever (Sailing)" has a lovely cafe-jazz touch; the snare splashes like a wave gently hitting the side of a yacht, while horns play as bright as the afternoon sun. Jordan has said she grew up influenced by the male-dominated Warped Tour bands of the 2000s, and she brings things full-circle with "Mia," a grand romantic gesture ballad in the vein of "Hey There, Delilah," that feels at once fresh and timeless. © Shelly Ridenour/Qobuz

Limbo: the prevailing doctor or waiting room-esqe space characterizing the underlying energetic propulsion towards somewhere "else." Yet, being in these suspensive spaces offers a unique chance to ask: "where did we come from?" and "where the heck are we going?" Haley Fohr's— performing as Circuit des Yeux—steadfast, unafraid, and sublime bravado ushers a 10-track opus on this precarious idea of suspension. Across the entirety of i>-io, Circuit des Yeux wrote, arranged, produced, and performed with a 24-piece orchestra to bring these firmly fundamental ideas to life with rich, textured, mellifluous detail. Recorded during the depths of 2020 lockdowns, -io embraces its thematic gusto to a perfect T and showcases an artist guiding an audience to places we never thought we'd go and back again. Buckle up—it's a wild ride. Circuit des Yeux's voice is equal parts storytelling and world-building instrument. Enriched with a range of rich baritone touches to warbling falsetto whistle tassels, her voice shares pertinent mystical lyrics for our journey, and seamlessly blends in as a member of the bombastic musical backdrop. The album's cinematic ambitions are clear from opener "Tonglen | In Vain." Hushed breaths emulsify into an orchestra's warm-up whirl. Dissonant strings swell and swell until a brief pause leaves us in a pinch; the sweet release of "Vanishing" and taut operatic rock groove of "Dogma" strap us in as Fohr offers bleak condemnations on the paradox of modern life. "Argument" flexes the record's true ambition. Split into three movements, Circuit des Yeux weaves muted trumpet blares, 6/8-time rollicking guitar lullabies and demonic bass-enriched vocals pondering, "Is this the end?," all in a fiery 5-minute specter. In both lyrics and sonic soundscapes, -io embodies the idea of the perpetual. "It is a place where everything is ending all the time … where mothers have vertigo, gravity is God, and grief hovers just below the atmosphere," Fohr says. "It is also the place that lent me the ability to openly explore the spiral of fear, sickness, death, and grief." What can these edges of our comprehension teach us about the moments of life where we're stretched and our tethers begin to buckle? On -io, we're called to steep in that space, let go of the paradoxical expectations built into our culture, and connect with a deeper, if not essential, part of our being. This record does that and more, and in brilliant Hi-Res audio, requires your full attention and multiple spins for its richness to realize. © William Card/Qobuz