Simple, stripped-down bedroom recordings—the kind where the vocalist sings in a fragile and whispery murmur over stilted acoustic guitar but also says “fuck” a lot. This is definitely going for a Waxahatchee feel. I admit that it’s not really my jam, this lo-fi aesthetic of songs scribbled on scratch paper and recorded in ten minutes in some quirky location. Not that I have any idea about the origins of these particular songs, but… everyone knows that aesthetic. Full disclosure, I’m being a little snippier than I would if this didn’t come with a sheet that tells me that Loucks’ songs somehow channel her studies in East Asian philosophy. Hard not to be at least a little skeptical about that kind of statement, unless “Hey, Mr. DJ, she wants to show her titties,” is a Confucian tenet I’ve forgotten about. But, setting that aside, this is fairly sweet and straightforward, with some nice harmonies.
–Indiana Laub (Related, [email protected], relatedrecords.com)