Taja Cheek's third L'Rain album is a mangled tapestry of psychedelic rock, R&B, radio pop, prog and folk references that's woven with distinctly unique threads. Brimming with sensually familiar earworms and devious, experimental touches, it's like hearing musical history reframed with rare literacy and spirit. Massive recommendation, whether yr into Joan Baez, TV On The Radio, serpentwithfeet or Moses Sumney.
It takes a well-trained ear to form such divergent elements into a sound this coherent and witty. Cheek's last album 'Fatigue' was a dizzy fusion of uncanny pop and soulful, vintage R&B that captured listeners, topping The Wire and Pitchfork's end-of-year charts in 2021. 'I Killed Your Dog' doesn't try to recapture that magic, but broaden the outlook, using familiar sonic signifiers to help her reconcile grief. She describes the album as an "anti-break-up" record, using the well-worn theme of love to help her engage in a dialog with her younger self, sharing knowledge she's learned on her journey through a confusing, contradictory world.
What immediately stands out is Cheek's impressive attention to detail. The production throughout is luxurious, bringing to mind the 1/4" tape dubbed studio wizardry of the late-'70s pop/rock set. They don't make 'em like this anymore, we're led to believe, but Cheek's instrumentation is gorgeously saturated, coalescing like a single thought rather than a bunch of loose ideas. It's quite a feat, because she's rolled in even more tangled references here than she did on the album's ambitious predecessor. Glorious psychedelic folk and soft rock sequences are amalgamated with Cheek's gospel and R&B-inspired vocal turns, with everything curled up on a bed of experimentally-minded drones 'n tones that wouldn't sound out of place on one of Cluster's later sets.
'I Killed Your Dog' is a confounding record that challenges conventional notions of romance by using nostalgic signals without the usual reverence. Gregarious hard rock riffs collide with proggy keyboard solos and horn blasts, as if she's using each sound as a character from her life and assembling them into a surreal, Altman-style narrative. On 'Pet Rock', the album's lead single, she dissolves the bratty, clichéd shrug of bands like The Strokes into a bombastic froth of lopsided rhythms, screams and sexy, euphoric electronics. And the title track takes it further, a dissociated fog of mutated vocalizations and confusing lyrics that swirl and cycle around analog gasps and hushed sax vortexes.
"Crumble like I am cheap / paper found on the ground," she mouthes over pitch-bent piano on the bony 'Our Funeral', before plucked bass, electrified keys and taut drums shuttle us into a dimly-lit cabaret. Cheek embraces Laurel Canyon folk on the stand-out '5 to 8 Hours a Day (WWwaG)', using its emotionality to energize her enigmatic, melancholy vocal harmonies and playful instrumentation - she steps into spoken word in the chaotic second half, letting lap steel whines and brassy squeals obscure her words. And her most playful moments are captured in brief interludes, where she sends up persistent jazz references ('What's That Song?') dimples old time spirituals ('Sometimes') and toys with concrète techniques ('All the Days You Remember').
It's a celebration of pop's often discomfiting canon that stresses the Black roots of so much music we absorb absent-mindedly, using paradoxical combinations to question what love might even be when it's vaporised into entertainment. Essential listening.
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Back in stock. Oxblood colour vinyl.
Available To Order (Estimated Shipping between 7-14 Working Days)
This item is to the best of our knowledge available to us from the supplier and should ship to you within the time-frame indicated. If there are any unforeseen issues with availability we will notify you immediately
Taja Cheek's third L'Rain album is a mangled tapestry of psychedelic rock, R&B, radio pop, prog and folk references that's woven with distinctly unique threads. Brimming with sensually familiar earworms and devious, experimental touches, it's like hearing musical history reframed with rare literacy and spirit. Massive recommendation, whether yr into Joan Baez, TV On The Radio, serpentwithfeet or Moses Sumney.
It takes a well-trained ear to form such divergent elements into a sound this coherent and witty. Cheek's last album 'Fatigue' was a dizzy fusion of uncanny pop and soulful, vintage R&B that captured listeners, topping The Wire and Pitchfork's end-of-year charts in 2021. 'I Killed Your Dog' doesn't try to recapture that magic, but broaden the outlook, using familiar sonic signifiers to help her reconcile grief. She describes the album as an "anti-break-up" record, using the well-worn theme of love to help her engage in a dialog with her younger self, sharing knowledge she's learned on her journey through a confusing, contradictory world.
What immediately stands out is Cheek's impressive attention to detail. The production throughout is luxurious, bringing to mind the 1/4" tape dubbed studio wizardry of the late-'70s pop/rock set. They don't make 'em like this anymore, we're led to believe, but Cheek's instrumentation is gorgeously saturated, coalescing like a single thought rather than a bunch of loose ideas. It's quite a feat, because she's rolled in even more tangled references here than she did on the album's ambitious predecessor. Glorious psychedelic folk and soft rock sequences are amalgamated with Cheek's gospel and R&B-inspired vocal turns, with everything curled up on a bed of experimentally-minded drones 'n tones that wouldn't sound out of place on one of Cluster's later sets.
'I Killed Your Dog' is a confounding record that challenges conventional notions of romance by using nostalgic signals without the usual reverence. Gregarious hard rock riffs collide with proggy keyboard solos and horn blasts, as if she's using each sound as a character from her life and assembling them into a surreal, Altman-style narrative. On 'Pet Rock', the album's lead single, she dissolves the bratty, clichéd shrug of bands like The Strokes into a bombastic froth of lopsided rhythms, screams and sexy, euphoric electronics. And the title track takes it further, a dissociated fog of mutated vocalizations and confusing lyrics that swirl and cycle around analog gasps and hushed sax vortexes.
"Crumble like I am cheap / paper found on the ground," she mouthes over pitch-bent piano on the bony 'Our Funeral', before plucked bass, electrified keys and taut drums shuttle us into a dimly-lit cabaret. Cheek embraces Laurel Canyon folk on the stand-out '5 to 8 Hours a Day (WWwaG)', using its emotionality to energize her enigmatic, melancholy vocal harmonies and playful instrumentation - she steps into spoken word in the chaotic second half, letting lap steel whines and brassy squeals obscure her words. And her most playful moments are captured in brief interludes, where she sends up persistent jazz references ('What's That Song?') dimples old time spirituals ('Sometimes') and toys with concrète techniques ('All the Days You Remember').
It's a celebration of pop's often discomfiting canon that stresses the Black roots of so much music we absorb absent-mindedly, using paradoxical combinations to question what love might even be when it's vaporised into entertainment. Essential listening.
Black vinyl LP.
Available To Order (Estimated Shipping between 7-14 Working Days)
This item is to the best of our knowledge available to us from the supplier and should ship to you within the time-frame indicated. If there are any unforeseen issues with availability we will notify you immediately
Taja Cheek's third L'Rain album is a mangled tapestry of psychedelic rock, R&B, radio pop, prog and folk references that's woven with distinctly unique threads. Brimming with sensually familiar earworms and devious, experimental touches, it's like hearing musical history reframed with rare literacy and spirit. Massive recommendation, whether yr into Joan Baez, TV On The Radio, serpentwithfeet or Moses Sumney.
It takes a well-trained ear to form such divergent elements into a sound this coherent and witty. Cheek's last album 'Fatigue' was a dizzy fusion of uncanny pop and soulful, vintage R&B that captured listeners, topping The Wire and Pitchfork's end-of-year charts in 2021. 'I Killed Your Dog' doesn't try to recapture that magic, but broaden the outlook, using familiar sonic signifiers to help her reconcile grief. She describes the album as an "anti-break-up" record, using the well-worn theme of love to help her engage in a dialog with her younger self, sharing knowledge she's learned on her journey through a confusing, contradictory world.
What immediately stands out is Cheek's impressive attention to detail. The production throughout is luxurious, bringing to mind the 1/4" tape dubbed studio wizardry of the late-'70s pop/rock set. They don't make 'em like this anymore, we're led to believe, but Cheek's instrumentation is gorgeously saturated, coalescing like a single thought rather than a bunch of loose ideas. It's quite a feat, because she's rolled in even more tangled references here than she did on the album's ambitious predecessor. Glorious psychedelic folk and soft rock sequences are amalgamated with Cheek's gospel and R&B-inspired vocal turns, with everything curled up on a bed of experimentally-minded drones 'n tones that wouldn't sound out of place on one of Cluster's later sets.
'I Killed Your Dog' is a confounding record that challenges conventional notions of romance by using nostalgic signals without the usual reverence. Gregarious hard rock riffs collide with proggy keyboard solos and horn blasts, as if she's using each sound as a character from her life and assembling them into a surreal, Altman-style narrative. On 'Pet Rock', the album's lead single, she dissolves the bratty, clichéd shrug of bands like The Strokes into a bombastic froth of lopsided rhythms, screams and sexy, euphoric electronics. And the title track takes it further, a dissociated fog of mutated vocalizations and confusing lyrics that swirl and cycle around analog gasps and hushed sax vortexes.
"Crumble like I am cheap / paper found on the ground," she mouthes over pitch-bent piano on the bony 'Our Funeral', before plucked bass, electrified keys and taut drums shuttle us into a dimly-lit cabaret. Cheek embraces Laurel Canyon folk on the stand-out '5 to 8 Hours a Day (WWwaG)', using its emotionality to energize her enigmatic, melancholy vocal harmonies and playful instrumentation - she steps into spoken word in the chaotic second half, letting lap steel whines and brassy squeals obscure her words. And her most playful moments are captured in brief interludes, where she sends up persistent jazz references ('What's That Song?') dimples old time spirituals ('Sometimes') and toys with concrète techniques ('All the Days You Remember').
It's a celebration of pop's often discomfiting canon that stresses the Black roots of so much music we absorb absent-mindedly, using paradoxical combinations to question what love might even be when it's vaporised into entertainment. Essential listening.