The Berlin-based artist’s first full-length solo release in over a decade is a stylish, sexy record where not much happens.
Just over a decade ago, Annika Henderson debuted with an album that was riveting, freaky, and lo-fi in an almost extreme way. Anika sounded aqueous, like it was recorded in a nightclub bathroom on a tape-deck found in the garbage. After the release of Anika, Henderson further explored the limits of lo-fi on a 2013 EP and later joined the art rock supergroup Exploded View, where her velvety alto ping-ponged off drums and synthesizers. Her first full-length solo record since her debut, Change is just as sparse as her past work, but it’s slicker and less urgent. What once seemed like abrasive, outsider minimalism now sounds slightly anemic.
Change is a sexy record where not much happens. Time moves slowly. The emphasis on these songs tends to be Henderson’s chilly, cosmic voice. She sounds similar to Nico, and a more contemporary analog would be fellow Berliner Molly Nilsson, or Circuit des Yeux’s Haley Fohr. On “Critical,” synthesizers bob like a little wooden boat. Henderson steers the ship; her voice is clear and stoic, expansive in its ability to conjure feelings of longing and loneliness. Like her best work, this song makes you feel like you’re alone with her in a quiet and intensely intimate space. She can make it feel like she’s staring at you.
These songs gain their power from subtle textural flourishes. Henderson’s lyrics are like a little lemon zest sprinkled on a really nice cut of fish. When done well, they enhance the experience, but not in a particularly noticeable way. The title track is gorgeously modulated, krauty and languorous. The words are like vignettes; they filter through the song like slats of light in a coral reef. But when Henderson struggles with her lyrics, her choices can seem a bit goofy, a touch too dramatic. On “Rights,” she sings aimlessly about power and “raucous screams.” It’s meant to incite passion, but instead it rinses over you. The arrangements are so sparse that you’re forced to engage directly with her words, which are often absent of connective tissue.
Anika’s songs are soft, ambient, dreamy. But they also feel like they could be much bigger, compositionally. It can sound like pop music, but instead of bursting and blooming and moving through peaks and valleys, Change flatlines. In the past, Henderson has gone weird and raw: Change is pleasant and breezy, a cozy place where she can explore the outer limits of her voice. Listening can feel like walking into one of those gallery shows with just three sculptures, where everyone is wearing a tweed jacket and a pair of mustard-colored slacks. It sounds cool, and you feel cool listening to it—but that’s about as much as you feel.
0 comments:
Post a Comment