Let's Talk About Pinegrove - Music Reviews for the Siblini Journal (2017)

Imagine a six-piece band hailing from Montclair, New Jersey, a quaint town of less than 40,000 residents. Four vocalists, three guitars, a bass, some drums, and the keys. This band has revitalized what precisely it means to be an indie band in today’s ever-changing music scene. This band attempts to transcend genre boundaries, creating music that just is, that needs no category, that doesn’t try to fit itself into any one style. This band is Pinegrove—and if you haven’t heard them yet, you need to.

It all started with Mixtape One. Four songs, self-produced, and released on Bandcamp in January of 2010. Next was Meridian, then &, Mixtape Two, and Problems, all of which came before they were finally signed to Run for Cover Records in October 2015. Now, every song from each of their previous albums has been released on a whopper of a compilation record, titled Everything So Far: an easily-accessible collection of the melodies that have molded Pinegrove’s signature sound.

Take folk-inspired guitar plucking, punk-rock riffs, pop-influenced drumbeats, and caterwauling vocals, then mix in the sounds of a Montclarian backyard, and you’ve reached Pinegrove. Their sound isn’t solely any genre, but rather, pulls from multiple musical repertoires to piece together bursts of individuality and a refreshingly new style that is all their own. Unlike many bands on the indie and alternative circuits, Pinegrove isn’t afraid of wild experimentation. For instance, in “Overthrown," the band spends a minute and thirty three seconds lightly strumming guitars and wailing simple lyrics that symbolize complex thought. Compare that to another song off the same album, such as “On Jet Lag," a much more rhythmic and wordier piece, and the vast range and skill that Pinegrove possesses becomes evident. All of that range, all of the numerous inspirations and sounds this band pulls from, can be found wrapped up in one record: Everything So Far.

Everything So Far cannot be summed up in brevity—the depth and intimacy of the lyrics, the barrage of instrumentals, the ambient sound effects, the agonizing vocals—far too much occurs in the span of this record to digest it all. It speaks volumes on its own, but speaks even more to the individual, as the meanings and messages cater to our own patterns of thought, as if the songs were written just for us.

I can, however, speak on behalf of a few personal favorites. Let’s start with “Size of the Moon.” It takes me back to the living room where I grew up, where I haven’t been in years, and how it felt to move the coffee table and dance around wildly while no one was home. “In your living room / When we made some room and moved ourselves around in it.” It takes me back to my high school bedroom, to sitting with the part-time love of my life, locking the door behind us and playing music for hours without pause. “We had some good ideas but we never left that f*cking room.” It takes me back to reckless nights in autumn, when the moon was full and the air was as bitter as us. “Then we were laughing and crying in awe at the size of the moon.” The lyrics speak the thoughts on my mind, saying, “I don’t know what / I’m afraid of / but I’m afraid one day it all will fall away”; and then it did.

This truly is the core of Pinegrove’s sound: memories. Not just memories of their own, but memories we all can share–memories of the most fundamental human experiences, ones that we all undergo in some form or another. “Angelina,” the second track on Everything So Far, is another prime example of this. Americana guitars carry us into a clap-along type of melody, where vocals crescendo in like a slow gust of wind on a muggy day. At the height of the tune, lead singer Evan Stephens Hall comes to an emotional burst, proclaiming, “I love you like it’s the old days / when I could ask you anything," and then painfully questions: “How’d you get so tangled up in my thinking?” “Angelina” is an intentionally-left-empty summer day spent sprawled out on the sofa while the one you love circles your brain like a hungry bumblebee. It fades out the way you fall asleep, thoughts murmuring to a quiet backdrop.

After Everything So Far, Pinegrove fans were thirsty for more, for new songs with that same established style. And so, in February of 2016, Cardinal was released under Run for Cover: the band’s first assembly of all new music since Mixtape Two. They completely dismantled the sophomore slump trope, further unleashing their eclectic style through musical poetry. A few re-recorded songs from Everything So Far were included on the record, such as “Size of the Moon” and “New Friends,” but otherwise, all the new tracks felt like a continuation of Everything So Far, a further development of their sound and a push to mould it into the nostalgic array of sentiment that has landed their name a spot on the list of major musical innovators.

Track four on Cardinal, “Aphasia,” is a prime example of Pinegrove at their best, at their most honest. It opens with, “So satisfied I said a lot of things tonight / So long aphasia and the ways it kept me hiding,” alluding the feeling of biting your tongue and the freedom that comes when you let the words out of your tightly-clenched teeth. It exposes the punk side of the band, with emo-esque wails from Stephens Hall and guitar breakdowns at the bridge worthy of a 90s punk jam. “Aphasia” radiates self-determination, raw emotion, and truth.

What makes “Aphasia” so great is nostalgia—the same thing that made all of Cardinal and Everything So Far as great as they were. It’s that creeping kind of nostalgia, the one that crawls slowly through your ribcage and wraps itself so tightly around your bones, you have no choice but to sit in it, to just absorb the feeling. Pinegrove knows how to pick and prod at the tiniest of memories, those that have made their way into hidden crevices of the brain, stagnant and collecting dust, pushed away by their owners. Their songwriting brings these old thoughts to life, connecting listeners to the music on planes not all songwriters are able to reach. As Stephens Hall says himself on "Cadmium," “I shine light on edges I tried to unfeel,” and by doing so, Pinegrove turns to the light on us, illuminating all the edges we've tried not to feel.

Soft Spots by Adult Mom - Music Reviews for the Siblini Journal (2017)

Three years ago, in the bedroom of Stephanie Knipe, the puzzle pieces of Adult Mom started fitting together. Knipe, a New York native who identifies as genderqueer, began using music on their journey of self-discovery as a way to formulate their thoughts and make sense of the person they saw themselves to be. This journey eventually led to Soft Spots, Adult Mom’s second studio album with their label, Tiny Engines. The record is a glimpse into Knipe’s private diary, full of musings on life, love, and the formation of self-identity.

The opening track of Soft Spots, “Ephemeralness,” is exactly what it describes itself to be: short moments, stabs of happiness, of clarity, of memory. The song itself is intensely ephemeral, lasting only two minutes and fifteen seconds, but it packs in as many emotional snapshots as it can in such little time. The lyrics wrap themselves around you and emanate warmth; lines such as, “If you feel like nothing / I’ll tell you that you are something / And you’ll believe me instead,” string together a safety nest that mimics the comfort of your loved one’s arms.

In a bit of contrast, up next comes “Full Screen”: the embodiment of everything that is pop-punk. It has the perfect mix of angsty guitars, head bopping drums, and meditative lyrics dripping with a thirst for revenge; all of the components that made you fall in love with pop punk back in the early 2000s. The attitude and instrumentals are reminiscent of young Paramore, who also mixed societal issues with personal gripes through their intricate lyrics. In this spirit, Knipe anxiously questions, “And in romantic comedies / Do you project my genderless body / Onto the girl who loves you / For what you were? / What about me?," prodding at the past and pondering whether or not their lost love experiences this same kind of haunting, relentless pain. Knipe continues, “I wasted the warmer months / Feeling sad about you / But nature doesn’t get to choose,” exemplifying the irresistibility of wrapping yourself in the love of your past, the way it takes hold of you, and makes itself impossible to break. “Full Screen” has the upbeat sound and frustration fueled lyrics that make it the break-up song we all needed to carry us through the warmer months.

Similarly to “Full Screen,” more revenge seeps through with “Steal The Lake From The Water.” Knipe’s hollow voice outlines the anger they are drowned in, how their love doesn’t believe they can’t swim, how they cannot possibly breathe in any more water. “I emerge wet and screaming bloody murder / And you might say I make myself / Into a marginal victim / A baby crying hard until I get what I want.” Knipe knows that they need to be pulled above the surface, that if the roles were reversed, they’d be diving into the abyss to save their love, but their love has no plans to get his hair wet, singing, “Every screaming man gets what / He wants and doesn’t know the difference / Between what he wants and thinks he needs.” He doesn't know what he wants, yet he expects everyone else to.

After “Full Screen,” Knipe moves into the sentimental side of the break-up experience. They remember the good times, the times that perhaps weren’t perfect but felt perfect because of the love that was present. Knipe says, “I got robbed by the J Station / I labeled you as a bad omen / Did you see me hide under my scarf to cry / As you rubbed my back and said / ‘You look beautiful tonight’,” an example of the healing power of words and the person who says them. By the end of the song, Knipe is illuminating honesty, murmuring, “I’ll be sad you were ever in my life in the first place,” revealing how they are still seething with resentment over the entire relationship, how the good times are not worth the struggle that ended them.

The following track, “Patience,” oozes awe-inducing, raw emotion. It is the kind of song that forces you to stop and listen, to engulf yourself in its warmly sincere romanticism and sink into its melody. It chronicles patience; the way love requires attention and time to make itself work, the way the little things build themselves together to create something much larger. “And you yell at cars in the street / But you, you are / Patient with me / And I know, I know / I am distracted easily / But sometimes I swear / You are the only thing I see.” The song hums along like a Keats poem, beating to the rhythm of the heart, pulling at the strings of every fragile artery.

Then comes “Tenderness,” an upbeat lullaby that flows like a children’s book. It’s a Dr. Seuss melody with sing-song lyrics that become more meaningful with each listen—“I feel softness in your eyes / The warmth of brown / I feel softness everywhere.” Knipe’s gentle vocals blend with tender guitars that eventually peel back layers of punk as the song progresses. Backup voices complete the atmosphere of comfort, crafting a fully rounded ensemble that floats seamlessly until the tune finally fades out.

Adult Mom slows it down on the next song, “Same,” easing into a steady acoustic rhythm that rocks the listener into a dreamlike state. It touches the “soft spots” of the soul, the deepest parts that have been forever marked with the footprints of those who walked along our shared paths. “And you took a hard squeeze / At the soft spots of my body / And these spots will remain / Touched in vain / And oh, I will / Apologize until I am ill / And oh, I will / Take the blame / And you will stay the same”—to us, those marks will always stay, but to others, they may fade away.

Questions of self-validation and the shaping of individual identity are raised through the next track, “Drive Me Home.” Knipe prods at self-worth and personal desires versus necessities by asking, “If I’m a man will you hate me? / And If I’m good / If I’m good will you validate me? / And the selfish ways I claim my space / And the violent ways space I can’t make / I am pushed into a place I can’t breathe / I can’t tell if the want justifies the need.” We are all constantly on a search for self-validation, so these truthful lyrics ring with us, and remind us of those moments in which all we have the will to do is strive to be society’s definition of better, to fit into the role the world has set for us. We feel selfish when we claim a space for ourselves, a space in which we can be our true selves, as we are often taught that self-care is the equivalent of being self-absorbed. We need help remembering to hold on to that space, as Knipe explains, “Validate me / And create the space / I can’t make.”

Soft Spots dwindles to its end with “First Day of Spring.” Self-reflective, poetic lyrics purr over dream-inducing instrumentals, inspiring images of snow-covered flowers and cold suburban streets. Knipe confesses how they don’t feel deserving of better days, saying, “It snowed a week ago / On the first day of spring / Like me it was not ready for / The warmth despite all its waiting / I have not felt cold enough / I don’t want the gift.” The song grasps the feeling of underwhelm, of not being enough for someone you love: “I wish I was thawed / I’ll give you all of me / But right now it isn’t much.” It tires itself out at the end, symbolic of winter’s close, when all that is left is exhaustion from the cold. “And the sun burns too hot / I burn myself too hot / The slap of winter is too much / Too much / To recover,” and the warmth of light feels out of place.

If there’s any new band that you’re going to add to your radar, it should be Adult Mom. Soft Spots is a necessary collection of music that touches on relevant and relatable subjects, like romantic turmoil and self-discovery, while forcing us to take a look at ourselves and genuinely think. It asks us to consider how certain experiences help to shape us into the people we are, and how other people help push us forward on our journey of self-discovery. Not only is it a whirlwind instrumentally, but lyrically, this record is pure poetry; opening parts of the heart that could only be unlocked with the powerful sentiments provided through Soft Spots. It is raw, unfiltered, pure honesty.

Prose 2012-2014

Backwards

The sadness, I could see it in his eyes. I think he knew just as well as I did that the end was approaching faster than we’d ever imagined it would. I felt hurt, and I guess he did too, but the underlying problem was that neither of us knew why.

I just remember seeing his smile. Every time his lips curled, I felt as if he was forcing it. That happiness didn’t come naturally anymore. It drove me mad. And slowly, so did every other thing he did. Each little quirk – the noises he made while chewing, the way his breath smelled in the morning, the fact that he constantly picked and pulled at the skin around his fingernails – became, irritating. I almost lost sight of how I ever loved him.

One morning, in late May, I woke up next to a pile of sheets where he should have been. A few strands of my hair secured themselves to my pillowcase with the help of some sleep sweat, but the gentle breeze blowing through the cracked window sent shivers down my spine and relieved the strands. It was 7:32 a.m. And it was summer.

The aroma of banana pancakes drew me into the kitchen, where I found him, haphazardly pulling a breakfast together in hopes that he’d be finished before I woke up. Though shocked and slightly disappointed at first, he smiled when he saw me. And then we enjoyed our breakfast together; it was the last time we ever did.

We decided that it would be in each other’s best interests to move away, to live on our own. So, he moved in with his friends from college into a quaint little townhouse, just south of the apartment I started renting with my cousin. I still saw him often, though, throughout that summer.

Our relationship was growing increasingly simple. We spent the days doing cartwheels in grassy fields, holding hands on our walk to the ice cream parlor, giggling at one another’s childish jokes. Then we’d watch the sunset and dance once the sky was fully illuminated by stars and moonlight. His kisses were light, like the lips of a cloud. He told me that every time our lips met, pure bliss burst inside of him. But every time our lips met, another secret was locked into the vault.

I started to think that maybe I had just not gotten the opportunity to get to know him properly. Relationships take time; they are ever-blossoming and cannot bloom to their full potential if both parties involved do not practice patience, and dedication. So, we went out to dinner. And spoke about our parents, high school, our tastes in music and literature and which type of pasta we preferred. In time, that small talk would lead to deeper conversations where we would reveal things about ourselves that we had told no one before, at least I’d hoped. In time.

Then one evening, around the time the sun turns everything it touches into gold, I was taking the train back home. Someone was staring at me. He had wispy dirty blonde hair that perfectly complimented his faded blue eyes. His facial hair gave me the impression that he’d rushed out of the house this morning and forgotten to clear off the 5 o’clock shadow. But, I liked it. Now I was staring, too. And he noticed.

He was picking and peeling at the skin around his fingernails. He smiled.

So I smiled, too.

Did I know him from somewhere?

---

The Auditorium

Silent. I don’t know a better way to describe being in that room better than saying it was completely silent. To say “you could hear a pin drop” isn’t enough to depict how silent it really was. The room was noiseless. The type of quiet that made your eardrums feel ballooned. After being in the room for what felt like an eternity but was only a few seconds, one could start to hear a faint noise. But the noise was just an illusion, a painful one at that. It was a ringing sound, one that pierced through your brain. It grew louder with each millisecond as the surrounding air escaped the room. You’re at the bottom of the ocean. Floating among the sandy ocean floor, being crushed by tons of sea. The salt water filled your ears and drained all hope of hearing anything but that horrifying ring. Breathing wasn’t an option. You hold your breath only to help yourself hear that ring. That lonely, dreadful, infinite ring.

I shook my head, bringing myself back to reality. Though as I glance about the room, that reality quietly slipped away from me. Being so alone seemed almost like a dream. Just me, silence, and whatever lurked in depths of this dark abyss. This seemed like the perfect chance for paranoia to rear its ugly head. But once I recovered from the initial shock of the quiet, it came to me that this room wasn’t as horrific as I thought. After all, it was a dream, not a nightmare. I had once danced in this room amid my smiling peers and bass-heavy music, sat in the fold-out chairs and listened to the school principal ramble at us like Ben Stein, watched the school thespians belt out catchy tunes as the audience praised them with blank stares, and as I relived each memory I could see it playing out like a movie. I watched myself wiggle with my friends, chuckle at the principal, gawk at the performers, and it was all happening right in front of me.

With another shake of my head, I welcome back reality once more.

Despite the lack of windows or functioning lights in the auditorium, I could still make out the silhouettes of tarnished fold-out chairs and wrinkled papers and wrappers that skimmed the dusty floor. My eyes had to readjust themselves with every fleeting look I made. For the first time since I secured my place by the entrance of the auditorium, I found myself in motion, walking towards the exit. I scuffed my feet through the uncut grass that was dust as I felt my way across the shadowy jungle. Each drag of my foot sounded like sandpaper rubbing against a two-by-four. The path seemed to grow longer with each step I took, but I wasn’t going to let fear take over me now, as I knew the century I had spent in this pleasantly miserable room was coming to an end. I reached the door and opened it just enough to peek my head out, allowing sunlight and the familiar smell the parking lot omitted to flood the void.

“Boots? What were you doing in there?”

“Uh, Dowd told me to look for an XLR cable he thought he left on the stage.” I stepped all the way out, and with the slam of the door I sealed an alternate universe shut permanently.