The self-produced debut from the Chicago-based band recalls the downcast, hazy vibe of Alex G and Soccer Mommy.
Moveys, the self-produced debut LP from the Wisconsin-bred, Chicago-based band Slow Pulp, is a soundtrack for aimless afternoon walks and light existential crises, as the temperature drops and our hours spent outdoors shorten. It arrives into an uncertain autumn, half a year through a pandemic with no end in sight, on the precipice of an unknowable winter. Both cathartic and restrained, the album feels like a prelude to seasonal depression, fueled by internal battles and external tensions.
There’s strength to be derived from Emily Massey’s cool moan as it pierces the warm acoustics, a magnetic resilience that comes through with each word: “If I could treat myself better/I know I’m still getting better.” She sings about the exhausting task of being alive—the load is particularly heavy on the topic of relationships, tracing the longing, the pursuit, the letdown, and the recovery. She’s “holding out for the downside” on “Idaho” and seeing through that self-fulfilled prophecy on the punk-tinged “At It Again.”
Slow Pulp worked on Moveys while on tour with Alex G last year, and his influence is evident. The album is marked by down-tuned guitars and lyrics that don’t paint a picture as much as they set a mood. “Track” is led by a spiraling riff that recalls some of Alex G’s more recent, polished material mixed with cadences reminiscent of Soccer Mommy. “Falling Apart” internalizes the familiar feeling of failure: “Why don’t you go back/To falling apart/You were so good at that...Feeling like a deadbeat / Everything is incomplete.” Violins spin defeat into something vaguely comforting.
For the most part, Moveys is a well-structured album. The tracklist reflects the monotony and fatigue of depression, with alternating textures that keep things engaging, a grungy crooner alongside a triumphant piano interlude. But the final bonus track calls these choices into question. The titular "Movey" is a goofy dance tune—complete with vinyl scratching, bass grooving, and someone yelling “Scram!”—an abrupt follow-up to a song that laments, “I’m a loner with no plans.” While the closer may not immediately resonate with a listener coming down from 25 minutes of introspection, it succeeds in ejecting you from the album, almost as if Slow Pulp is rolling the credits and yelling, “show’s over, folks.” It puts the preceding melancholia into perspective, no longer dire. There’s hope on the other side.
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