Recorded with an ensemble of Toronto musicians, the fun and referential second album from Josh Korody’s indie rock project feels like a big, messy collage.
For Only Up, the second album from Josh Korody’s indie rock project Breeze, the Toronto musician enlisted an entire scene. With his usual collaborators unavailable, Korody took the opportunity to upgrade the intimate jangle of his 2017 debut, record, into a heavier sound built for stadiums. Working with more than a dozen collaborators including members of Broken Social Scene, TOPS, and Orville Peck’s band, Korody condenses several eras of British rock into a fun, referential mix that celebrates the idealized hedonism of his favorite records alongside his community.
The highlights of Only Up tap into the UK’s Second Summer of Love, an era when bands were embracing the psychedelic possibility of the studio and the sounds of house, techno, and hip-hop imported from the United States. “Ecstasy on Keele Street” makes the party atmosphere explicit: “These drugs are really kicking in,” Korody sings between tambourine breakbeats and a wordless refrain. The closing track, “Only Up,” climaxes with a mellotron playing beneath beneath Korody and guest vocalist Tess Parks’ harmonies: It sounds a bit like the horn section from Primal Scream’s “Loaded” on the comedown after a long night.
On “Come Around,” Korody channels the slightly flat bellow of the Stone Roses’ Ian Brown to sing about a looming presence—be it divine, romantic, or chemical—over a towering two-chord vamp and a distorted drum loop. In a guest verse, rapper Cadence Weapon references psychedelic icons like Brian Wilson and Syd Barrett and rhymes about getting so high he can text God to drop a pin. “Don’t Cry” is even more anthemic, with strings warbling over commanding snares that land a half-beat early, a combination that conjures the Verve’s “Bitter Sweet Symphony.” The arena rock sound is a contrast to the lyrics about a personal grievance. Castigating a former friend who refuses to confront their misdeeds, Korody sings with a palpable sense of disappointment: It is his finest moment as a frontman.
Korody’s songwriting stumbles at higher tempos. “Let It In” feels like a re-work of a Beck pastiche of 1970s funk. When Korody sings “Usually the first idea’s the best,” he may be summing up the spirit of the recording sessions, but in this moment, it sounds more like an excuse for the band’s wilted groove. The scratchy guitars and vocal processing on “Our Scene,” meanwhile, resemble the early 2000s approach from the Strokes and LCD Soundsystem, two bands that were ripped off plenty when they were new, and Korody’s pondering about “whatever happened to our scene” lacks the dry wit of their respective frontmen.
Only Up succeeds in the moments when the songs feel like the product of a real ensemble: when the band sound like they are jamming at an idyllic countryside cottage or an abandoned Manchester factory as opposed to the studio. At its best, Only Up evokes a communal feeling of watching a band utterly locked-in, their intertwining parts echoing across a large, open space. Korody never quite conjures the chemistry necessary to transcend his influences, but, like a teenager decorating his bedroom wall with torn-out tabloid photos, he creates a messy, lovable collage.
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