From the first entrance of the moody, cascading guitars and Katelyn Tarver’s crisp, emotive vocal delivery, you can feel the threat of imminent heartache simmering in the background of this deceptively simple pop ballad. “All Our Friends Are Splitting Up” draws on the clear language of someone determined to be understood in a situation that’s fast spinning out of their control. Where Tarver makes broader observations in lines like, “Oh is this just how it goes? / You fall in fast and then it falls apart so slow,” it’s in the little details where she finds specificity: “I know we process things a little differently / But I’m jumping off the bridge while you watch TV.” 

The entrance of drums pushes this seemingly simple ballad further into bedroom pop territory, driving the emotionality home. Reminiscent of Gracie Abrams, “All Our Friends Are Splitting Up” is the kind of song you want to play on repeat in headphones to catch all the layers happening in the production. There’s a melodic meditativeness to the song—it’s both catchy and catches you off guard. It can be heartbreaking to be so hopeful, and Tarver’s song captures the essence of wanting to hold onto a love that you feel fast slipping away. Photo by Ethan Gulley.

Lonnie Holley’s early life in Birmingham, Alabama was chaotic: working from the age of five, “home” was either a whiskey house, a state fairgrounds, or a rotating orbit of foster care. Now a musician and artist with work in major museums and on permanent display in the United Nations, his pieces are imbued with furious improvisational creativity born out of struggle.

Just listen to that spacey Mellotron: "Like Hell Broke Away," out now on Jagjaguwar from the EP National Freedom, suspends old school blues in a fiery galaxy far beyond here. Kind of like the surreal circumstances of our current national woe. The gravity of Holley’s voice though, with its grave-shaking gravel, holds us down from floating away.

I like to imagine him singing to a hot celestial blues club, stars on backup, with space suited expats swinging on his every word. 

Interstellar Blues

Hey Hubble bubble,

space scat and some rubble,

his growl transcended Neptune;

Beltin’ those low notes

Or eyein’ the band,

Three Sisters fly high on his croon.

Boy in Space, the moniker of Swedish singer-songwriter Robin Lundbäck, reimagines the 80s hit “Take on Me” by a-Ha. While the original holds all the best parts of the era including iconic synths, this live version brings a renewed focus to the lyrics. Letting the words breathe allows for their weightiness to hit in lines like, “Slowly learning that life is okay / Say after me / It's no better to be safe than sorry.” Sustained falsetto musings from Boy in Space hammer in the point that being uncertain is no way to live if you don't want life's best moments to pass you by.

Norwegian band Das Body writes off-kilter pop music that simmers with quiet intensity, occasionally erupting and becoming unhinged. This catharsis, and the dark, catchy hooks that underpin it, is what makes “On Request” such an incredible listen. Singer Ellie Linden insists, “I can make the idea come true for you if I only know what you’re asking me.” It’s an offer to do whatever it takes to meet the demands of another, but it’s also searching for clarity; she can’t hit a target which she can’t see. Eventually, a sense of desperation builds, and roaring guitars surround the vocals. “On Request” explores the feeling of bending yourself to meet standards that are not your own and bristles with the frustration that comes from wanting to please someone without understanding how. The effect is soaring and raucous as Linden wails, “I’m gonna call up all my lovers. Tell them like it is.” She may not know how to meet the unspoken request, but the resulting tension becomes an explosive song.

Throughout the gorgeous, lush “About April,” Alex Banin fascinatingly explores the intoxicating effects of a love affair gone wrong. Love can be a drug in its own right, and Banin examines the painful emotions that can come with its withdrawal. As she states “Yeah, maybe you’re still lingering / In nothing but the rushes of adrenaline,” the beat starts to kick in, pushing the song towards a rolling groove. The track follows the journey that she takes as she comes to terms with the fact that the person she’s singing about has changed during their relationship, and they’ve irreparably grown apart. We all have to learn eventually that we cannot change or control other people, no matter how badly we may want to. By the end of “About April,” Banin reaches the acceptance stage of the grieving process—“No matter what happens I’m gone / There’s nothing else to do,” she sings yearningly—vocalizing the end of her relationship, and beginning to heal. Listen to “About April” wherever you stream.

Eric Cannata is known as the guitarist for Young the Giant, but earlier this year, he released an EP titled Lonely Beast. It's a personable, sweet, fascinating record—establishing him as a folk artist with his own distinct sound. Cannata recorded an acoustic version of the EP's title track in his home studio in California. His vocals are so clean, expressing the elemental and sincere themes in his lyrics. "Lonely Beast," he explains, is about a house cat. 

Hearing this nuanced recording of the track illuminated a beauty in our quarantine loneliness I hadn't considered yet. It's difficult to be as graceful at being alone as the lonely beast seems to be. It's difficult to venture towards contentment and relish periods of rest. Maybe the cat is a "lonely beast," but it knows when to savor the warm light coming in through the window and the slow hours of a midday nap.

Refreshing and whimsical, “Please Don’t Hold Me Hostage for Who I Am, Who I Was” opens a festival of worldly sounds, complete with folksy flutes and acoustic percussion. Thanya Iyer’s voice sounds at once youthful and wise as she cheerfully delivers a straightforward message: You control your own life, you can choose to heal. She repeats the message, this time making it personal: “I take it in my own time / I make the choice to get better / Please don’t hold me hostage for who I am, for who I was.” She goes on to say “I could be a dancer,” a suggestion that it’s never too late to pursue a dream, regardless of the past. The bridge section introduces a musical departure, in which Iyer repeatedly declares, “I know in life there are highs and lows,” the bassline closely following her vocal melody, a stark contrast to the airy counterpoint of the verses. A breakdown follows, the music growing darker as the meter slows. Edgy synth and almost robotic rhythmic vocalizations grow in intensity until the tension releases and light breaks through, ushering a return to the original groove. Iyer repeats her original message: a reminder that we all have the power to guide ourselves out of darkness.