Colleen Green has Matured (A Little) On “Cool”

Like a lot of people, I was saddened a few weeks ago by the death of Norm MacDonald, who I consider to be possibly the funniest guy who ever lived. One of the things I appreciated about Norm was how, in an era with a lot of “smart” comics who fancy themselves as philosophers, he was very willing to play the idiot. Some of Norm’s most iconic clips are him just acting like a goofball around people who are trying to be serious, and I often came away thinking he had just outsmarted all the people he was talking to, even as they were trying to appear intelligent and he was cracking stupid jokes. Norm really was the smartest guy in the room, in part because he didn’t care about revealing it to others.

I get some similar vibes from Colleen Green, who just released Cool, her first album since 2015’s I Want to Grow Up. I was obsessed with that album on a couple different levels: emotionally, I related strongly to the lyrics, and analytically I was fascinated with its weird kind of unassuming greatness. In a lot of ways, the album broke convention from the type of stuff I normally hype up: it was not even remotely subtle, it didn’t have a lot of creativity or ambition, and I doubt even Green herself would claim to be a particularly virtuosic musician who makes sounds you’ve never heard before. This made it an easy album for a lot of listeners to dismiss after one or two listens, and because Green presents herself in a somewhat frivolous manner (the jokes and stoner girl imagery), it never got much in the way of critical praise.

But I argued (and still do) that Green is a lot smarter than she gets credit for. She knows her own limitations and within those boundaries makes songs that are consistently fun to listen to and affecting while having the musical equivalent of character development. Her direct, unpretentious approach works largely because of her unflinching honesty. Of course, the majority of artists are honest, but there’s a difference between what I think of as “convenient honesty” and what Green does. Most will reveal themselves through art, but only the parts that still make them seem sympathetic, wise, or good. Green is very willing to sing about foibles that don’t necessarily paint her in a positive light to some listeners, which is both realer and a lot more brave. When I listened to “Deeper Than Love,” I had no doubt those were her real feelings, because why would anyone make that up?

I Want to Grow Up paired that brutal honesty with mostly straight-forward, loud guitar rock, creating an experience that was like being pummeled over and over again by reality, but in a way that was weirdly enjoyable. On Cool, Green has matured somewhat; there’s more of a variety of sounds and moods, which makes the album a little less directly impactful. The atmospheric “Highway” uses a synth and Green’s near-spoken delivery to replicate a night drive — Green says she prefers the scenic route, which I suspect is a metaphor for the ambling pace she lives her life at. The most adventurous track is “Natural Chorus,” which is pretty much Colleen Green does Stereolab. Most of the song is a simple motorik groove, and it’s another point where she shows a willingness to create more subtle moods with sound, along with the long opening riff on “Someone Else” and a closing guitar instrumental, the questionably-titled “Pressure to Cum.”

Those songs add some textures to the album, but Green is still most in her element when she’s making simple guitar pop that shows her personality. “You Don’t Exist” is a relentlessly catchy tune where she “calls bullshit” on social media, and “It’s Nice to Be Nice” has her reminding herself to be kinder to others (“it’s nice to be nice, it’s good to be good”) and reap the rewards. In typical form, this isn’t the most groundbreaking material, but Green presents it in a refreshing way. She doesn’t pretend to have all the answers, like she is the teacher instructing her listener students — she’s just exploring her own feelings in a way that is always direct and unpretentious, with a mix of seriousness and humor. Even as she explores new styles and matures, her ability to do that is what makes Green one of my favorite songwriters to listen to.

I Like These New Songs (Pt. 2)

Here is the long-awaited sequel to my blockbuster previous post, “I Like These New Songs (Pt. 1).” For any new readers who are unsure of what is going on: when we left off, I was linking to new songs I liked and then writing paragraphs about them. Since the first post was such a wild success, I figured I wouldn’t divert from that formula — it would be like making a Fast and the Furious movie without car races or whatever they’re doing in those now.

Colleen Green – “I Wanna Be a Dog”

Many words — some of them rather embarrassing — were spilt on the blog over Colleen Green’s last full length, I Want to Grow Up, which I then insanely listed as the #2 album of the decade when no other person who does things like ranking albums even thought it was good. Her new single, “I Wanna Be a Dog,” is another showcase of her unique gifts: while she may lack traditional ambition and creativity, she makes up for it tenfold with authenticity and (despite her tendency towards self-deprecation) a confidence in who she is. Green is in typical catchy and relatable form here, using various dog metaphors (the leash she puts on herself, barking at a closed door) to articulate her ongoing struggles with being an adult and overcoming insecurities. It’s fun to listen to, partially because it is so personality-driven and unpretentious compared to a lot of tedious indie dreck.

Angel Olsen – “Gloria”

In another career move aimed at me personally, Angel Olsen is following up All Mirrors and Whole New Mess with an EP of 80s covers, starting with this reimagining of Laura Branigan’s “Gloria.” If the measure of a cover’s quality is how well the artist adapts it to their own style, this scores highly. The original is in there somewhere, but for the most part Olsen has turned this into one of her typical swooning ballads, with swelling synths and some strings. Olsen sings like she really feels the words rather than the typical “wouldn’t it be cool and fun if I covered this song” vibe that sometimes makes covers boring and inessential.

Sungaze – “Body in the Mirror”

As someone who is on Bandcamp a lot and gets frustrated by soft pop artists who call themselves things like Satanic Witch Torture, I respect Sungaze’s straight-forward band name — this Cincinnati group sounds exactly like you’d expect, with a dreamy, psychedelic sound that is in the highly trafficked Mazzy Star area. What makes them just different enough from that band (and others like Widowspeak) is their embrace of more droning song structures that really let the sound wash over the listener. “Body in the Mirror” is a typical song from them, running over five minutes with some spacious guitar parts and simple lyrics that add some meaning without being too obvious about it.

Desert Liminal – “New Tongue”

It’s rare to find a band that truly has a unique sound, but Desert Liminal’s 2017 debut Static Thick had its own blurry, ambiguous, kind-of-poppy-but-not-really thing going on. The band has added a member and increased the production values a bit since then, but “New Tongue” still maintains their individuality. Sarah Jane Quillin’s rich vocals blend into the droning synths and her lyrics are real poetry, with personal details and the rhythmic sound of the words adding to the haunting, mysterious vibe of the sound.

Nation of Language – “Across That Fine Line”

This synth pop group made my coveted top albums list last year with their first full-length, Introduction, Presence, and are quickly following it up with an album that should lead to a break out of sorts. Generally I understand that the music I enjoy is wildly unpopular and most normal people would recoil in disgust at the mere sound of it, but I don’t know — listen to the soaring, anthemic chorus on “Across That Fine Line” and tell me it wouldn’t appeal to normies who enjoy bands like U2 and Coldplay. I’m already preparing my snide comments about how I liked them before they got big.

Spellling Shoots for the Stars on the Dazzling “The Turning Wheel”

Like many indie fans, I often am fascinated by shambolic, minimalistic recordings, which can have an authenticity and relatability that is refreshing compared to the big budget slickness of more mainstream music. But there is still that part of me that craves big sounds and large-scale ambitions, and some of my favorite albums are when an independent-minded artist goes all out with a bunch of crazy ideas. The Turning Wheel, the new album by Spellling (Chrystia Cabral), is one of the finest examples of this in recent years: following up her excellent 2019 album Mazy Fly, she successfully crowdfunded over 20,000 dollars on Kickstarter and used it to pay a massive crew of musicians to bring her concept to life. These resources, along with her natural development as a songwriter, have allowed her to bring her music to dazzling new heights.

Spelllling earns the obvious Kate Bush comparisons here due to the complex studio arrangements, fantastical lyrics, and the way she bends and twists her voice into different registers, at times seeming to represent different characters in the music. Sometimes these comparisons are unfair and burdensome, but I’d argue nobody has come this close to capturing what makes Kate Bush so fun to listen to: the feeling of being totally in the grip of an eccentric artist and transported to her weirdo fantasy world. Spellling does not sound like anyone else, and beyond the specifics of the sound or lyrics, what makes The Turning Wheel so addictive is its spirit, its desire to show the listener something new and take them somewhere far away.

It’s probably worth noting that there are ways to be ambitious without using entire orchestras and making hour-long albums, and I’m sure more low-key artists are also often pushing themselves to the limits in their own way. But there is still an epic, shooting-for-the-stars feeling with The Turning Wheel that is exciting and something I’d been missing in indie music lately. The opener and lead single, “Little Deer,” sets the tone with a lengthy piano and strings intro that leads into Spellling’s mystical vocals and lyrics which are later joined by some horns. This song alone has more ideas and complexity going on than most albums, and the rest of The Turning Wheel is similarly constructed to overwhelm the listener at all points.

This is an album for anyone who gets excited when they see 30 different instrumentalists credited on the Bandcamp page, including a clarinetist, a brass quintet, harp, and “shredding electric guitar.” The sheer volume of sounds contributes to every song feeling a bit like a self-contained fairy tale, with Spellling’s voice also contributing to a variety of moods, ranging from haunting spookiness to more upbeat and stirring sounds that almost sound like part of a Disney soundtrack. To attempt to describe everything going on would be fruitless, and also would ruin a lot of the fun with The Turning Wheel. It’s rare to hear an album that is this different and so authentically quirky and surprising at every turn.

Beneath all the flourishes and extravagance lies a moving and presumably semi-autobiographical portrait of an intensely creative individual who sometimes struggles to connect with the outside world. On “Always,” she sings “How can I ever know what love can truly be/I want to live alone inside my fantasies,” and its evident from the surrounding music that this album is a product of that mindset. “Boys at School” goes into the past, portraying a lonely 15-year-old who says “four walls is all I need of friends,” while on “The Future” she is like a possibly time traveling Rapunzel who is “hiding inside my mind in a tower no one would climb.” It’s not hard to piece together that this is an artist who really needs this kind of art to express herself.

These songs and words are the key to what makes The Turning Wheel so effective: rather than just being weird for the sake of it, there is purpose behind everything on this album and it all works together to bring Cabral’s fantasies to life. While these songs are undeniably theatrical — sometimes it straight-up resembles a Broadway musical or one woman show — it also all feels organic and genuine. I think Spellling put a lot of herself into this and it’s her most successful album at grounding her musical experimentation in more tangible feeling. Anyone who still looks for something new in art and values the power of self-expression should seek out The Turning Wheel and celebrate it.