The Alternative's Top 75 Records of 2019

SASAMI (Sasami Ashworth) has been making music in almost every way possible for the last decade, and between playing keys, bass, guitar within Cherry Glazerr and Dirt Dress; contributing vocal, string, and horn arrangements to studio albums by the likes of Vagabon, Curtis Harding, Wild Nothing, and Hand Habits; arranging for films and commercials; and even playing French horn in an orchestra - she has gained a reputation as an all-around musical badass. Now taking a turn to focus on her own music, SASAMI's self-titled debut will be out March 2019 on Domino. pre-order the LP at www.dominomusic.com/releases/sasami/sasami-lp-mart-exclusive

Rebirth takes place when everything falls apart. DIIV—Zachary Cole Smith [lead vocals, guitar], Andrew Bailey [guitar], Colin Caulfield [vocals, bass], and Ben Newman [drums]—craft the soundtrack to personal resurrection under the heavy weight of metallic catharsis upheld by robust guitars and vocal tension that almost snaps, but never quite… The same could be said of the journey these four musicians underwent to get to their third full-length album, Deceiver. Out of lies, fractured friendships, and broken promises, clarity would be found. “I’ve known everyone in the band for ten years plus separately and together as DIIV for at least the past five years,” says Cole. “On Deceiver, I’m talking about working for the relationships in my life, repairing them, and accepting responsibility for the places I’ve failed them. I had to re-approach the band. It wasn’t restarting from a clean slate, but it was a new beginning. It took time—as it did with everybody else in my life—but we all grew together and learned how to communicate and collaborate.” A whirlwind brought DIIV there. Amidst turmoil, the group delivered the critical and fan favorite Is the Is Are in 2016 following 2012’s Oshin. Praise came from The Guardian, Spin, and more. NME ranked it in the Top 10 among the “Albums of the Year.” Pitchfork’s audience voted Is the Is Are one of the “Top 50 Albums of 2016” as the outlet dubbed it, “gorgeous.” In the aftermath of Cole’s personal struggles, he “finally accepted what it means to go through treatment and committed,” emerging with a renewed focus and perspective. Getting back together with the band in Los Angeles would result in a series of firsts. This would be the first time DIIV conceived a record as a band with Colin bringing in demos, writing alongside Cole, and the entire band arranging every tune. “Cole and I approached writing vocal melodies the same way the band approached the instrumentals,” says Colin. “We threw ideas at the wall for months on end, slowly making sense of everything. It was a constant conversation about the parts we liked best versus which of them served the album best.” Another first, DIIV lived with the songs on the road. During a 2018 tour with Deafheaven, they performed eight untitled brand-new compositions as the bulk of the set. The tunes also progressed as the players did. “We went from playing these songs in the rehearsal space to performing them live at shows, figuring them out in real-time in front of hundreds of people, and approaching them from a broader range of reference points,” he goes on. “We’d never done that before. We got to internalize how everything worked on stage. We did all of the trimming before we went to the studio. It was an exercise in simplifying what makes a song. We really learned how to listen, write, and work as a band.” The vibe got heavier under influences ranging from Unwound and Elliot Smith to True Widow and Neurosis. They also enlisted producer Sonny Diperri [My Bloody Valentine, Nine Inch Nails, Protomartyr]. his presence dramatically expanded the sonic palette, making it richer and fuller than ever before. It marks a major step forward for DIIV. “He brought a lot of common sense and discipline to our process,” adds Cole. “We’d been touring these songs and playing them for a while, so he was able to encourage us to make decisions and own them.” The first single “Skin Game” charges forward with frenetic drums, layered vocals and clean, driven guitars that ricochet off each other. “I’d say it’s an imaginary dialogue between two characters, which could either be myself or people I know,” he says. “I spent six months in several different rehab facilities at the beginning of 2017. I was living with other addicts. Being a recovering addict myself, there are a lot of questions like, ‘Who are we? What is this disease?’ Our last record was about recovery in general, but I truthfully didn’t buy in. I decided to live in my disease instead. ‘Skin Game’ looks at where the pain comes from. I’m looking at the personal, physical, emotional, and broader political experiences feeding into the cycle of addiction for millions of us.” A trudging groove and wailing guitar punctuate a lulling apology on the magnetically melancholic “Taker.” According to Cole, it’s “about taking responsibility for your lies, their consequences, and the entire experience.” Meanwhile, the ominous bass line and crawling beat of “Blankenship” devolve into schizophrenic string bends as the vitriolic lyrics. Offering a dynamic denouement, the seven-minute “Acheron” flows through a hulking beat guided under gusts of lyrical fretwork and a distorted heavy apotheosis. Even after the final strains of distortion ring out on Deceiver, these four musicians will continue to evolve. “We’re still going,” Cole leaves off. “Hopefully we’ll be doing this for a long time.” Ultimately, DIIV’s rebirth is a hard-earned and well-deserved new beginning.

recorded spontaneously in january 2019 at matt's parent's house

The pseudonymme of DIY pop diva/producer Kelsie Hogue, Sir Babygirl mixes and matches inspirations as sundry as Charli XCX, Hole, Hey Arnold!, and Tim And Eric Awesome Show, Great Job! into unabashedly bubblegum, unashamedly queer pop for a future free of genre boundary and the gender binary. Born in Silicon Valley and raised in Hanover, New Hampshire, Sir Babygirl collected slumber party guests in the form of the bass, piano, guitar, along with formally studying voice. After attending Boston University’s School of Theater, she began to synthesize all her interests in the local Allston scene—fronting a hardcore bubblegum band, collaborating with local musicians, and tinkering with self-production on demos that would lead her to Sir Babygirl project. Sir Babygirl quickly swapped diploma for a microphone to explore Chicago’s DIY and comedy scenes, but was ultimately visited in a dream by pop princesses Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, and dear departed high priestess Whitney Houston. The three divinities implored: pop was the pure plastic expression and cartoon catharsis for which Sir Babygirl was meant. She returned home to the woods of New Hampshire to convert her childhood bedroom into a makeshift studio. Little by little, she applied her sharpening musical tools to emerging past selves, childhood traumas, and a joyous curiosity for herself. Sir Babygirl chronicled each revelation in song, reclaiming and celebrating all the deep dives, detours, and divas that led her to her debut album Crush on Me. Crush on Me dances through discovery—from opener and debut single “Heels,” which sets Sir Babygirl as a bewildered, bisexual Cinderella bailing on the ball, all the way to the gentle self-courting of the closing title track. Along the way, Sir Babygirl rages through the agony and ecstasy of queer flirting (“Flirting with Her”), peels past layers of latent shame (“Cheerleader”), parties with old ghosts (“Haunted House”), trudges through social anxieties (“Everyone is a Bad Friend”), and basks in the glow of neon-lit nights out (“Pink Lite”). On the other side of the journey, Crush on Me ultimately celebrates the silliness and sanctity of a second adolescence, a rite so quintessential to the queer coming-of-age experience. Imagine Karen O performing Robyn’s “Dancing On My Own” with Courtney Love strumming the synth line… or maybe a Max Martin-produced cover of Lauryn Hill’s “Ex-Factor” performed by My Chemical Romance’s Gerard Way. Wrap it all up in an aesthetic that marries Grimes to Ashlee Simpson in the uncanny valley of celebrity culture and neo-Absurdism. Somewhere out there, in between a girl group and a boyband, is Sir Babygirl… and her pug Baby Diva. Along her journey, she has discovered the sugar-rush sweet spot between melodic emo confessionalism, cartoon character plastic-is-fantastic vocals, and PC music-adjacent synthpop fantasia. That place is real, and its lord is our knight Sir Babygirl. Crush on Me will be released February 15, 2019 on Father/Daughter Records.

recorded by andy rusinek at the map room in portland, oregon and by nathan and andy at our houses, summer-fall 2018. mixed by andy and nathan and mastered by blake la grange

When David Berman disbanded Silver Jews in 2009, the world stood to lose one of the best writers in indie rock, a guy who catalogued the magic and misery of everyday life with wit, heart, and the ragged glory of the occupationally down-and-out. After a 10-year break professedly spent reading books and arguing with people on Reddit, Berman enlisted members of the Brooklyn band Woods to back him on *Purple Mountains*. Berman’s pain had never been laid quite so bare, nor had it ever sounded quite so urgent. “I spent a decade playing chicken with oblivion,” he sings on the swaggering “That’s Just the Way I Feel.” “Day to day, I’m neck and neck with giving in.” And “Margaritas at the Mall” turns an ordinary happy hour into a jeremiad about the cold comforts of capitalism in a godless world. That the music—country-tinged indie rock—was as polished and competent as it was only highlighted Berman’s intensity: less a rock singer than a street preacher, someone who needed to avail himself of his visions stat. But even at his most desperate, he remained achingly funny, turning statements of existential loneliness into the kind of bumper sticker Zen that made him seem like an ordinary guy no matter how highfalutin he could get. “Well, if no one’s fond of fuckin’ me, maybe no one’s fuckin’ fond of me,” he sings on the album-closing “Maybe I’m the Only One for Me,” sounding not all that far off from the George Strait one-twos he reportedly loved. Above all, though, his writing is beautiful, attuned to detail in ways that make ordinary scenarios shimmer with quiet magic. Just listen to “Snow Is Falling in Manhattan,” which turns a quiet night in a big city into an allegory of finding solace in the weather of what comes to us. Shortly after the release of *Purple Mountains*, Berman died, at the age of 52, a tragic end to what felt like a triumphant return. “The dead know what they\'re doing when they leave this world behind,” he sings on “Nights That Won’t Happen.” “When the here and the hereafter momentarily align.”

David Berman comes in from the cold after ten long years. His new musical expression is a meltdown unparalleled in modern memory. He warns us that his findings might be candid, but as long as his punishment comes in such bite-sized delights of all-American jukebox fare, we'll hike the Purple Mountains with pleasure forever.

On his Polyvinyl debut Born Hot, Chris Farren opens with a question he’ll spend much of the album trying to answer: Why do I feel out of place in my own outer space? Telegraphing his inner narrative with a childlike candor, the Florida-born artist lays bare his most intense anxieties and—in the very same breath—documents the mildly soul-crushing minutiae of everyday life: the strange indecency of blasting AC/DC bangers through an iPhone speaker, the inexplicable bleakness of a Starbucks franchise tucked inside a Target. But with his irrepressible sense of humor and utter lack of self-seriousness, Farren defuses the pain of even the deepest insecurity, gracefully paving the way for pure pop catharsis. On Born Hot Farren fully embodies the sensitive-goofball dichotomy found in all his work, especially his exuberant live show: a solo performance in which he plays to live-recorded backing tracks while projecting purposely wacky visuals (his own face duplicated thousands of times, text that reads “ANOTHER PERFECT SET” at the end of each closing song). By the same token, Farren went full-on tongue-in-cheek in choosing Born Hot’s title and cover art—a crudely drawn self-portrait that captures him lounging shirtless, looking every bit the ’70s-pop Lothario. “In my lyrics there’s so much self-examination that teeters on self-loathing, and I like to juxtapose that with an aesthetic that’s completely the opposite,” says Farren. “It’s a defense mechanism, because I feel embarrassed talking about my feelings so very plainly, but at the same time I also just find the idea of having that much self-confidence really funny.” In the making of Born Hot, Farren recorded in his L.A. apartment and worked entirely on his own, embedding his inventive take on classic power-pop with flashes of folk and punk and ’50s doo-wop. On “Love Theme from ‘Born Hot,’” he slips into a sunny synth-pop reverie, bringing bouncy rhythms and radiant synth tones to a heart-on-sleeve message of romantic determination. “I wrote that when two different couples in my life were splitting up, and I felt kind of rattled but also so lucky to have my wife,” says Farren. Moodier and more darkly charged, “Search 4 Me” reveals his struggle to live in the present, articulating his anxiety in pieces of fragile poetry (e.g., “And you glared at me so loudly that I burst into confetti”). And on “Surrender,” Born Hot turns exquisitely melancholy as Farren details the specific hurt of a sudden friendship breakup. “I was friends with their ex, and they told me it was too painful to stay friends with me,” Farren recalls. “‘Surrender’ is about that feeling of wanting to respect someone’s wishes, but also missing that person and just wishing you could talk to them again.” Elsewhere on Born Hot, Farren shifts from exacting introspection to more outward reflection, exploring life-changing matters like the recent death of his father-in-law and his wife’s experience of the ensuing grief. In each moment on the album, he instills his lyrics with the resolute sincerity he’s embraced since immersing himself in songwriting at the age of 17. Originally from Naples, Farren formed his first band when he was 18, later teaming up with songwriter/musician Jeff Rosenstock to co-found the indie-rock duo Antarctigo Vespucci. In 2016 he made his solo debut with an album called Can’t Die, and soon began dreaming up the outrageous spectacle of his live set. “I love being able to entertain in that way,” says Farren. “It’s one of the rare times when I feel confident, just completely in the groove.” Despite the fleeting nature of that confidence, Farren’s music ultimately nudges the listener toward greater self-acceptance—or, at the very least, a more pronounced patience with their own messy feelings. “When I was younger I wanted people to listen to my music and think I was good at making music—now I couldn’t care less about that,” he says. “I just want people to feel good, like they’re understood or less alone, because that’s what the music I love does for me. I want people to come away feeling like, ‘Oh good—I’m not the only one who feels like this.’”

Slingshot Dakota - Heavy Banding PRE-ORDER EXCLUSIVES: comes with immediate download of track "Blood Villain" before any singles are released. FIRST 200 ORDERS comes with Slingy D - "Sunny D" die-cut full color sticker Album cover art TBA w/ the release of first single Pre-view / teaser video here: youtu.be/ojFHvgrmH3E Vinyl Pressing Info: 400 - Pink / White Marble Swirl 300 - Silver Marble 300 - Red UK / EU orders: SPECIALIST SUBJECT RECORDS Japan orders: STIFF SLACK Recorded and mixed by Todd Schied at Spice House Sound in Philadelphia, PA and Five Tails Studio in Wassergass, PA. Mastered by Carl Saff at Saff Mastering. Album art and design by Em Dubin. Slingshot Dakota is Carly Comando and Tom Patterson. All songs by Slingshot Dakota, lyrics written by Carly Comando. Backing vocals on “Louder” and “Day After Christmas” by Kiley Lotz of the band Petal. Backing vocals on “Louder” by the members of Dikembe and Expert Timing, Recorded by David Bell.

“Walker Texas Ranger,” the standout single from DaBaby’s 2018 *Blank Blank* album, is also present on *Baby on Baby*. It\'s a stellar example of the Charlotte native’s appeal—the rapper’s husky delivery weaves in and out of paced bell chimes while rapping about his affinity for guns, his disdain for women with little to offer him besides their bodies, and a newfound potential for stardom. “It ain’t like Atlanta, I came out of Charlotte, that s\*\*t took me some time,” he raps. DaBaby once went by Baby Jesus, and the fact that he doesn’t take himself all that seriously is evident. Throughout a healthy stream of threats and braggadocio on “Suge,” you can hear the smirk on his face when he raps, “You disrespect me and I’ll beat your ass up all in front of your partners and children.” His choice of guests and their varying levels of fame (Offset, Rich Homie Quan, Stunna 4 Vegas) likewise says a great deal about what he values in a collaborator: MCs with energy that matches his own, and who can rap well, of course, but who also make it a point to laugh at their haters.

"Soaring ethereal rhythms and melodies, and the doomed tenderness of where hope and hopelessness dance among the faded soon-to-be ruins of ill-maintained state highways tearing through rural and postindustrial landscapes. The soil here isn’t as fertile as it once was, but sometimes a collective of voices breaks through the frostline. For those who see no future, the future is wide open. This is the landscape from which String Machine emerged. Some of their neighbors are farmers, still pulling what they can from the earth, but more often than not selling off parcels of land to developers who bulldoze off the topsoil, name their housing plan Pasture Place or some such insult, and name the streets after the wildflowers that used to grow there. Those who inhabit these plans live separately from those who live in older, more rural confines. A simple socioeconomic separation. Further along we see the post-industrial wasteland, now operating at a fraction of its capacity, employing contractors and employment agencies and any such measure to ensure they pay the lowest possible wage, avoid providing benefits, and maintain a workforce that can be scrapped as quickly as the barrels of slag stored in the back lot. There is a city to the south. To get there we drive through this romantic memory of family farms and some distant 1970’s era vision of self-liberation through labor and industry, through towns long since conquered by opiates. For String Machine, the decision was simple: reject this life they inherited, move ahead fearlessly with the lessons each of them has learned among the frozen ruins of rural western Pennsylvania (northern Pittsburgh, PA). Originally a solo project, David Beck enlisted a number of friends to help him see his vision through. Soon enough those musicians shared his vision, and String Machine grew into a collective, shared project. They released Threads from the Youth Fossil in 2017. A beautiful debut, really, but perhaps it’s best to speak of this album, Death of the Neon, as their collective debut. Their first conscious effort to make an album as a band, it came with a lengthy period of having to discover how to creatively work as a unit of 7 people. After a busy stretch of playing countless shows and embarking on mini-tours, they self-isolated into their rural Saxonburg home studio, remaining reclusive until they had an album they were collectively happy with. Through the strength of 7 incredibly talented individuals, Death of the Neon experiments with layers of musicality, emotionality, fragility, and an inimitable ability to render avant-garde imagery into relatable terms. The listener feels empowered, yet invited into the band’s personal vulnerabilities. It would be easy enough to make an attempt at some pointless term of categorization: psychedelic folk, indie rock, post-folk, or if this were the 90s they would probably be dumped into that “alternative” catch-all. But to experience String Machine, either live or on Death of the Neon, is to enter a unique musical world, a world where a wall of sound provides joy while wondering if joy is possible, lays bare the musicians’ wounds while soothing yours, and gives us something synesthetic – these aren’t just songs for your ears; they will resonate throughout your entire body." -Jeffrey Schrader

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Melina Duterte is a master of voice: Hers are dream pop songs that hint at a universe of her own creation. Recording as Jay Som since 2015, Duterte’s world of shy, swirling intimacies always contains a disarming ease, a sky-bent sparkle and a grounding indie-rock humility. In an era of burnout, the title track of her 2017 breakout, Everybody Works, remains a balm and an anthem. Duterte’s life became a whirlwind in the wake of Everybody Works. After spending her teen years and early 20s exploring an eclectic array of musical styles—studying jazz trumpet as a child, carrying on her Filipino family tradition of spirited karaoke, and quietly recording indie-pop songs in her bedroom alone—that accomplished album found her playing festivals around the world, sharing stages with the likes of Paramore, Death Cab for Cutie, and Mitski. In November of 2017, seeking a new environment, Duterte left her home of the Bay Area for Los Angeles. There, she demoed new songs, while also embracing opportunities to do session work and produce, engineer, and mix for other artists (like Sasami, Chastity Belt). Reckoning with the relative instability of musicianhood, Duterte turned inward, tuning ever deeper into her own emotions and desires as a way of staying centered through huge changes. She found a community; she fell in love. And for an artist whose career began after releasing her earliest collection of demos—2015's hazy but exquisitely crafted Turn Into—in a fit of drunken confidence on Thanksgiving night, she finally quit drinking for good. “I feel like a completely different person,” she reflects. Positivity was a way forward. The striking clarity of her new music reflects that shift. After months of poring over pools of demos, Duterte, now 25, essentially started over. She wrote most of her brilliant new album, Anak Ko—pronounced Anuhk-Ko—in a burst during a self-imposed week-long solo retreat to Joshua Tree. As in the past, Duterte recorded at home (in some songs, you can hear the washer/dryer near her bedroom) and remained the sole producer, engineer, and mixer. But for the first time, she recruited friends—including Vagabon’s Laetitia Tamko, Chastity Belt’s Annie Truscott, Justus Proffitt, Boy Scouts’ Taylor Vick, as well as bandmates Zachary Elasser, Oliver Pinnell and Dylan Allard—to contribute additional vocals, drums, guitars, strings, and pedal steel. Honing in on simplicity and groove, refining her skills as a producer, Duterte cracked her sound open subtly, highlighting its best parts: She’s bloomed. Inspired by the lush, poppy sounds of 80s bands such as Prefab Sprout, the Cure, and Cocteau Twins—as well as the ecstatic guitarwork of contemporary Vancouver band Weed—Anak Ko sounds dazzlingly tactile, and firmly present. The result is a refreshingly precise sound. On the subtly explosive “Superbike,” Duterte aimed for the genius combination of “Cocteau Twins and Alanis Morissette”—“letting loose,” she says, over swirling shoegaze. “Night Time Drive” is a restless road song, but one with a sense of contentedness and composure, which “basically encapsulated my entire life for the past two years,” she says—always moving, but “accepting it, being a little stronger from it.” (She sings, memorably, of “shoplifting at the Whole Foods.”) Duterte focused more on bass this time: “I just wanted to make a more groovy record,” she notes. The slow-burning highlight “Tenderness” begins minimally, like a slightly muffled phone call, before flowering into a bright, jazzy earworm. Duterte calls it “a feel-good, funky, kind of sexy song” in part about “the curse of social media” and how it complicates relationships. “That’s definitely about scrolling on your phone and seeing a person and it just haunts you, you can’t escape it,” Duterte says. “I have a weird relationship to social media and how people perceive me—as this person that has a platform, as a solo artist, and this marginalized person. That was really getting to me. I wanted to express those emotions, but I felt stifled. I feel like a lot of the themes of the songs stemmed from bottled up emotions, frustration with yourself, and acceptance.” The title, Anak Ko, means “my child" in Tagalog, one of the native dialects in the Philippines. It was inspired by an unassuming text message from Duterte’s mother, who has always addressed her as such: Hi anak ko, I love you anak ko. “It’s an endearing thing to say, it feels comfortable,” Duterte reflects, likening the process of creating and releasing an album, too, to “birthing a child.” That sense of care charges Anak Ko, as does another concept Duterte has found herself circling back to: the importance of patience and kindness. “In order to change, you’ve got to make so many mistakes,” Duterte says, reflecting on her recent growth as an artist with a zen-like calm. “What’s helped me is forcing myself to be even more peaceful and kind with myself and others. You can get so caught up in attention, and the monetary value of being a musician, that you can forget to be humble. You can learn more from humility than the flashy stuff. I want kindness in my life. Kindness is the most important thing for this job, and empathy.”

There’s no stronger case for the sustained relevance of grimy New York boom-bap than the members of Griselda Records, the tight-knit Buffalo-based label formed by brothers Westside Gunn and Conway the Machine. On the seventh installment of his long-running (and rather, uh, provocatively titled) *Hitler Wears Hermes* series, Gunn raps like he just stepped out of a time machine sent from 1994, yet manages to still sound fresh. And for lyrics centered around shooters and ski masks, the beats are surprisingly gorgeous, thanks largely to legends like The Alchemist and Statik Selektah. “Kelly’s Korner” also boasts the best Fat Joe verse in recent memory—it’s all about getting one’s hand stuck in a meat grinder by a mafioso.

In the video for “Walker Texas Ranger,” Charlotte, North Carolina, MC DaBaby sports a weathered leather jacket and a cowboy hat while he drives a pickup truck clear off a cliff. This, along with the clip for “Suge,” where he can be seen dancing in a mail carrier’s uniform (“Pack in the mail, it’s gone”) and donning fake bodybuilder muscles, has led rap fans of a certain age to liken him to animated superstars past like Ludacris and Busta Rhymes. But to let DaBaby tell it, this innate wackiness is as much a part of him as the tattoos and jewelry he sports. “I\'m not too serious for myself,” he told Apple Music’s Ebro ahead of the release of *KIRK*. This album comes seven months after *Baby on Baby*, the rapper’s breakout project and home to the aforementioned “Walker Texas Ranger” and “Suge.” “A lot of n\*ggas are too serious for themselves, and that\'s not even them behind closed doors or off camera. As consumed as your time is in a business like this, being yourself got to be the smartest thing a person could do.” *KIRK* might be more DaBaby than he’s ever been: On “INTRO,” he gets deep into his family history, speaking candidly about losing his father in the midst of his rise. It’s a theme he revisits on “GOSPEL,” a song featuring straight-faced verses from Chance the Rapper and Gucci Mane as well as some R&B support from Florida singer YK Osiris. As past hits would attest, DaBaby is well-equipped to carry a song by himself, but he sounds great in tandem with voices like Nicki Minaj on “iPHONE” (“DaBaby and Da Barbie,” she quips), Lil Baby and Moneybagg Yo on “TOES,” and Migos on “RAW S\*\*T.” DaBaby’s rap style in particular features the kind of endlessly amusing non sequitur most of these artists made their names on. Every verse is a chance to show off, and is usually rooted in some kind of nonlinear storytelling. The chorus of “VIBEZ” takes listeners on an abbreviated journey through a day in the life. “She wanna fuck with me but I don’t got the time/I just hopped off a private plane and went and hopped on 85/Go call my chauffeur, bitch, ’cause I don’t like to drive/We in Suburbans back to back and we gon’ fill em up with vibes.” An aim to come off well as a rapper is something the MC does not take lightly but is also, as DaBaby would claim, just another facet of who he is. “I let the music take me there, but at the end of the day, I\'m just not no dumb n\*gga,” he tells Ebro. “I can walk into a building and have a conversation with somebody that went to school for 10 years and not miss a beat. And have them on the same frequency I\'m on. And vice versa. Then, I go in the hood and talk to any n\*gga in the hood. I\'m just a versatile person. And I got the brains to be able to play around with words.”

Big Thief had only just finished work on their 3rd album, U.F.O.F. – “the celestial twin” – days before in a cabin studio in the woods of Washington State. Now it was time to birth U.F.O.F.’s sister album – “the earth twin” – Two Hands. 30 miles west of El Paso, surrounded by 3,000 acres of pecan orchards and only a stone’s throw from the Mexican border, Big Thief (a.k.a. Adrianne Lenker, Buck Meek, Max Oleartchik, and James Krivchenia) set up their instruments as close together as possible to capture their most important collection of songs yet. Where U.F.O.F.layered mysterious sounds and effects for levitation, Two Hands grounds itself on dried-out, cracked desert dirt. In sharp contrast to the wet environment of the U.F.O.F. session, the southwestern Sonic Ranch studio was chosen for its vast desert location. The 105-degree weather boiled away any clinging memories of the green trees and wet air of the previous session. Two Hands had to be completely different — an album about the Earth and the bones beneath it. The songs were recorded live with almost no overdubs. All but two songs feature entirely live vocal takes, leaving Adrianne’s voice suspended above the mix in dry air, raw and vulnerable as ever. “Two Hands has the songs that I’m the most proud of; I can imagine myself singing them when I’m old,” says Adrianne. “Musically and lyrically, you can’t break it down much further than this. It’s already bare-bones.” Lyrically this can be felt in the poetic blur of the internal and external. These are political songs without political language. They explore the collective wounds of our Earth. Abstractions of the personal hint at war, environmental destruction, and the traumas that fuel it. Across the album, there are genuine attempts to point the listener towards the very real dangers that face our planet. When Adrianne sings “Please wake up,” she’s talking directly to the audience. Engineer Dom Monks and producer Andrew Sarlo, who were both behind U.F.O.F., capture the live energy as instinctually and honestly as possible. Sarlo teamed up with James Krivchenia to mix the album, where they sought to emphasize raw power and direct energy inherent in the takes. The journey of a song from the stage to the record is often a difficult one. Big Thief’s advantage is their bond and loving centre as a chosen family. They spend almost 100% of their lives together working towards a sound that they all agree upon. A band with this level of togetherness is increasingly uncommon. If you ask drummer James Krivchenia, bassist Max Oleartchik or guitarist Buck Meek how they write their parts, they will describe — passionately — the experience of hearing Adrianne present a new song, listening intently for hints of parts that already exist in the ether and the undertones to draw out with their respective instruments. With raw power and intimacy, Two Hands folds itself gracefully into Big Thief’s impressive discography. This body of work grows deeper and more inspiring with each new album.