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.

Leaning into a time of disarray, Dubai-based neo-soul artist ekay has crafted a transcendental realm in her latest release, “Vacant." Before quarantine went into full effect, ekay traveled to LA and stayed for several months—during which the track was crafted. Describing “Vacant” as “what I wish I heard someone say during quarantine,” she ruminates in the unfamiliarity, seeking a muse, someone to “show me something true.” Conserving our collective sanity are "temporary highs," which "keep contradicting conditioned minds"—as circumstances have forced us to face the fallacy of present societal structure. The expectation to constantly be creating in this "free time" despite our anxiety is not lost on us, but ekay challenges that notion; "Production on maybe / Delays on save me," she worries, before resolving, "I mean, I should sleep." On the song, she says, "During this time where change is inevitable, I wanted to help find lightness in the new normal." "Vacant" finds peace in the tension between restlessness and inspiration drawn from accepting that you're lost in the here and now.

In many ways, 2020 has beckoned us to take personal responsibility for our actions; to be brutally honest with ourselves and others, as well as understand that we must change our lifestyles to protect our neighbors from sickness, injustice, and ignorance—even when this ignorance resides within ourselves. In this way, one of the latest tracks from Cape Francis (solo project of Kevin Olken Henthorn) is a sign of the times. “Just because I looked in a mirror / Don’t make my life appear any clearer / I’m sick of blaming everything else on everyone / So I can pretend it ain’t my bad.” Filled with poignant lyrics and pensive strumming recognizable from Henthorn’s 2019 album Deep Water, “Just Because” reminds us that we must shine a light on ourselves; not only to more clearly see the effects of our words and actions on those around us, but to banish old habits and complacency, and start anew. It brings to mind a mantra I jotted down at the beginning of quarantine:

& i die

a thousand little deaths

each day, so that

tomorrow, i might

be born again.

If you’re looking for a summer fling anthem to live through vicariously, "Thinking Backwards" is the song for you. Lyrically, Dinah Is effortlessly charms with her wit, tossing in lines that tickle your inner English major with playful imagery. A particular favorite of mine: “Weird voices are onto me; they follow me like they’ve lost their key." Alongside sparkly layered synths and compelling rhythms, the track chronicles thrills and chills of flirting with that cute person you’ve kind of got a crush on. Kick drums bring you into the groove, imitating the feeling of your heart leaping up into your throat and pulsing in your ears. Stacked harmonies and effects add a sense of cinematic augmented reality—letting you sink into the rom-com fantasy we’ve all wanted to live in sometimes. Overall, "Thinking Backwards" feels like walking home drunk from a party with someone you really like, swept over with bliss, and harmonies ringing in your ears over the fact that they like you too.

The Black Lives Matter movement didn’t start in 2020, but this year is ushering in an era ripe for new protest music. “I Can’t Breathe” by H.E.R. could very well be the definitive anthem against racial profiling and police brutality. The title, which has since become a slogan often used in protest messaging, references the last words of multiple victims of murder at the hands of police, starting with Eric Garner and most recently and famously by George Floyd. This song is meant to be listened to actively, with no distractions, so as to fully absorb the message, of which every word is important. Gabriella Wilson, the artist known professionally as H.E.R., sings clearly and with a careful pacing, likely intentional for the sake of communicating the lyrics most effectively. With an emotional, pleading tone in her voice, she delivers a straightforward gut punch: “I can’t breathe / You’re taking my life from me / I can’t breathe / Will anyone fight for me?” A slam poetry-style rap section tackles multiple aspects of the complicated issue of racial injustice in America, from systemic oppression to white privilege. “Be thankful we are God-fearing because we do not seek revenge; we seek justice,” the poet cries, with equal parts heart-wrenching fervor and activist authority. “I Can’t Breathe” is the message we all need to hear right now.

The newest single from bi-coastal-based Secret American, “Here Comes a Man,” seems to float along an island breeze. A mournful trumpet opening preludes heartbeat-style drums that whisk you inside an indie romance film—one where you happen to be sipping a piña colada on the beach while locking eyes with your summertime love-at-first-sight. Lead vocalist Derek Krzywicki offers us rose-colored vision into this meet-cute in the opening line, softly singing in the vein of an Americana Alex Turner, “Hello, I’ve seen your face before, I don’t recall your name / You’re looking at me too long through a glass of champagne.” But before we know it, he has craned his neck to notice his love-interest’s sub-par boyfriend and the song transforms from an ode to instant attraction into a declaration of daring confidence: “Is he making you happy, doesn’t look like he can." As the protagonist walks up to them, he grunts both musically and memorably, and announces his own presence with “Here comes a man.” It brings to mind the otherworldly recognition that comes with meeting the eyes of our future love, and smirking as we approach them—knowing we’re about to shatter their world in the best way possible:

how curious, as

you glide on cumulus

clouds, instantly

i realize—i’ve climbed

all of the mountains

contained in the galaxies

swirling inside 

your eye’s azure iris;

nine, ten lifetimes

before. now, if only

this time, you could 

tell me

your name?

It's an elegant and brutal exclamation point to a poetic, all-encompassing album. The highly anticipated follow-up record to Stranger in the Alps possesses every quality that endeared the world to Phoebe Bridgers' original musicianship. Bridgers has an ability to effortlessly marry brooding emo rock and soft, heartfelt folk in her songwriting—making her a leading voice in modern-day alt music. "I Know the End" is particularly startling because of its chameleon nature. It's dreary and sweet, hard rock anthemic, and gritty emo at its finest. It's not that the song can't make up its mind. In fact, the track eloquently punctuates every theme and tone previously introduced earlier in the album. "I Know the End" is a thesis statement of Bridgers' discography, mood, and inner conflict. Its lyrics emphasize the primary wrestlings from Punisher's stand-out tracks including "Chinese Satellite" and "Garden Song," which include a longing to believe (or disbelieve) in a higher power, a weariness over our apocalyptic society, and the aching loneliness of nostalgia. The track lyrically and musically escalates to a chorus of voices scream-singing "The End is Here," which feels like the most freeing expression of feeling utterly helpless in a climate of chaos. "I Know the End" concludes with Bridgers literally screaming while the song erupts under her voice. It's off-putting, then moving, then heartbreaking. The song ends with Bridgers ASMR-style breathing into the mic, laughing, and gasping for a breath, which brings you back down to earth after having transcended to an intensely ethereal and depressive space. This track is a defining, honest glance at our unforgiving circumstances. It brings you to the conclusion that maybe hope is found in unflinchingly observing the messes we make, addressing them, and moving forward—not taking ourselves too seriously along the way.