Soccer Mommy – Evergreen
Indie Rock | Indie Folk
74%

There’s a deeply tempting magic attached to the idea of fresh starts. When you move to a new place, strike up a conversation with a stranger, and it dawns on you that their entire perception of you hinges on what you say and do next. Everyone you meets knows a different version of you, and every first meeting is a blank state to create the ideal version of who you want to be. Belwood favourite Sophie Morgan took that idea and ran with it when crafting her new alter ego Luvcat. Her new project pairs the romantic allure of a smoky jazz club with the dark gothic storytelling of Nick Cave, Tom Waits and Leonard Cohen – with a hearty dash of playfulness and theatricality thrown in for good measure. Luvcat’s beguiling mystique has clearly captured people’s imaginations, as the project’s popularity and influence has been racing like wildfire in just the past year. Fresh off the continent, having just supported The Last Dinner Party across Europe, I caught Luvcat on the first stop of her debut UK headline tour for a bewitching night of mystery and mischief. Continue reading
I remember watching a video essay about horror soundtracks, and how they often feature the most beautiful music as a way of relieving tension. It remarked that the counter to horror wasn’t music that was bright and joyous, but rather sounds that were calm and peaceful. A brief moment of respite like the eye of a hurricane. In some strange way this song reminds me of that philosophy. The title track of Lily Kershaw’s latest album, ‘Pain & More’ lives in the shadow of heartbreak, full of a wistful yearning for brighter days. Yet the antidote for that pain isn’t a balm of grand overwhelming joy, the days that Lily longs for aren’t the greatest days of her life. Instead the remedy for heartache lies in simple pleasures, the kind often taken for granted. The true best days of our lives are the unremarkable ones we forget about. The song’s lyrics speak of merely having enough fuel in the car and money in the bank to get by, its video a nostalgic reflection on a quaint afternoon at the arcade. The sparse bittersweet arrangement and Lily’s bright Joni Mitchell-esque vocals offering a peaceful oasis, the eye of the storm safe from the horrors of heartache.
This latest track from Atlanta based prog metal outfit Coda Nova is a prime example of a song practicing what it preaches. ‘Symmetry’ tells the tale of scientists pushing the boundaries of discovery, and the dangers of letting scientific advancements reach realms that humans aren’t ready to meddle with. Asking whether progress truly progress if it means doing more harm than good. Though its lyrics are left vague and open to interpretation, the track’s philosophy is mirrored in its arrangement. Much as I love the prog space, I’ve seen many a band stumble over their own ambition. Losing musicality in their pursuit of complexity, not realising when they’ve pushed too far beyond the boundaries. Though Coda Nova exhibit plenty of ambition here, between the intricate guitar work, atmospheric breakdown, and seamless shifts between different sections, the band at all times feel grounded. With ‘Symmetry’s soaring vocals, reminiscent of Coheed & Cambria’s Claudio Sanchez, and its earworm lead riffs combining to form a killer chorus, it’s clear that the band knows what works. Returning you to the highlights at precisely the right moment without ever spiralling out too far.
As a child, autumn was my favourite time of year. The horizon awash with amber hues, the streets paved with the gold of fallen leaves. Watching those leaves swept up in the swirling wind and imagining them dancing to my own whims and designs. When I grew older, discovering music as I went, the sound I began to most associate with autumn was that of Nick Drake. The intricate meanderings of his acoustic guitar and the bright tenderness of the piano evoking the swirl of leaves, yet with an undercurrent of melancholy that hits harder as you grow older and reckon with autumn being a time of unrelenting change and encroaching endings. I see that same melancholic fall vista conjured in Julia Logan’s ‘Moodswings’; in piano notes as cool as October rain, and folk guitar that weaves like the breeze through increasingly barren branches. Yet true to its name the song shifts in tone, rather than linger in wistfulness. In the sweetness of Julia’s vocals on the endearing chorus, and in the whimsical lilt of synths in the song’s latter half, I hear hints of the playful autumnal magic of my childhood, once forgotten, begin to peek through the cracks.
The blues doesn’t concern itself with forging new paths or radical reinvention. “New” is anathema to the blues – and know that I say this with the utmost love and adoration. As a society we nailed the perfect blues sound early on, and from that point on every artist has carried the weight of tradition in their work, like a campfire story that lives on through generations of retelling. To play the blues is to walk down a well worn road, hitting all the familiar stops, and in doing so inviting comparison with all the greats who came before. ‘Bottom of a Bottle’ is proof enough for me that Jovin Webb can walk that road with his head held high. Taken from his debut album Drifter, out 18th October, it’s the perfect example of what makes the sound so enduring. Grounded by a shuffle as sturdy as an old oak, we’re treated to the soulful cries of guitar, the wails and warbles of harmonica, and the gravelly growl of Jovin himself as he seems to tear every last note from the depths of his very being. The blues isn’t about doing something new, it’s about doing the familiar so damn well that it feels like hearing it again for the first time.
Have you ever watched any behind the scenes studio footage which shows a songwriter at work piecing a new track together? It’s interesting getting to hear each individual instrument being recorded one by one. Each one a separate piece of a wider puzzle, and the true artistic vision doesn’t reveal itself until all the pieces are assembled and suddenly a song just springs into existence. Except, listening to ‘I Believe in Love (and it’s very hard)’, I don’t get that same impression of jigsaw pieces forming a picture. Hearing this new single from Canadian singer/songwriter Rose Cousins, I keep breaking it down into its constituent elements in my mind, and each piece feels like a work of art in its own right. The intricate expressive nuances of the drum work, the deep rumbling bass tone that you can feel in your gut, the bright and elegant piano playing lending so much presence and refinement, Rose’s heartfelt vocals channelling the golden age of singer/songwriters. Each component tells a beautiful story in of itself. ‘I Believe in Love’ is no jigsaw, it’s a collage taking existing works of art and using them to create a bigger picture.
Much of what I have to say about a piece of music depends on when it finds me. A sun-kissed Americana anthem may not feel as potent in the dead of winter, while a break-up ballad may resonate deeper in the wake of heartache. You need the right frame of mind, the right angle of approach, to experience a song at its best. Occasionally however you find songs like ‘The Moon’ which can be approached from a different perspective and suddenly take on a whole new meaning. This latest single from Belwood favourite Hannah Grace is a reassuring love letter to a friend in need; a reminder that you’re there to lean on even when it feels like life is spinning out of control. While it naturally connects with anyone seeking to comfort someone in need, it touches a very different part of your heart when you’re the one that’s struggling. When that anxious voice in the back of your mind insists that your loved ones aren’t as invested in you as you are in them, ‘The Moon’ becomes a soothing balm to quell the self doubt. With Hannah’s most tender and effortless vocals to date, ‘The Moon’ is equally moving whether its words are ones you long to share, or the ones you desperately needed to hear.