Album Review: Hemlock - 444

And I will go to therapy again this Monday evening—talk about how hard it is to strike some balance in this life. And I will leave feeling the same way I felt walking in. 

Or, maybe, with some burden lifted. 

Maybe with some burden bare.

The thing that kept me working with the same therapist, regularly, for, like, 12 years, even after I had determined that I was no longer getting anything out of the hour I spent, once a month, sitting on the creaky old cabriole in her office, was the fear of starting over. And, maybe, fear isn’t the right word—maybe just how, at that time, it was the notion of how daunting, or intimidating it all sounded. 

The idea that, regardless of the fact that I felt my therapist was no longer challenging me, or engaging me in dialogue I considered to be helpful, I was still, at least until February of 2020, willing to go through the motions in part because I could not fathom having to explain it all to someone else—someone new. 

Someone who had not been working with me since I was all of 24. Someone who did not already know about my ultimately tumultuous adolescence, and about my estrangement from my father, and the difficult nature of my relationship with my mother. 

Someone who did not know about the years I spent at the mercy of anxiety, or the grief that I carried around with me like a cumbersome sack of groceries that I was never able to set down and put away. 

Or unpack.

I make jokes, and, if you’re like me, often trying to use deflection, or self-deprecation as a means of coping, and as humor, maybe you have used the expression, “As my therapist would say, ‘Let’s unpack that,” in certain company. 

And I will go to therapy, always, at least at this point, five or six years ago, on one of my days off from work, in the midweek, and there were, of course, the things that I wished to talk about and even the things that I wished I could, with any real kind of confidence and trust, reveal about myself, but instead I continued, for months, emotionally phoning it in, and when the hour was up, I would leave feeling the same way I felt walking in.

I make jokes, and, if you’re like me, often trying to not exactly make light of your debilitating depression, or fractured relationship with your parents, or your own shortcomings as a person, or a friend, or a husband, then maybe, when your spouse sees, on the calendar you share, that you have therapy, and asks you, at the end of their day, how it went, maybe you, too, say something like, “I’m all fixed,” or “I’m good now, she said I don’t have to go back next month.” 

I am remiss to use the descriptor “ghosted,” but that is what I did with the therapist I had been working with, more or less regularly, for well over a decade—at the end of our meeting in February of 2020, she asked me if I wished to schedule something for the following month and I told her no, I didn’t, and that I wished to take a month off, and would get something on the calendar for April.

My attempt, however small, and however passive, to slowly end our work together. 

I remember she did give me a look—not of concern. One of uncertainty, perhaps. Or, surprise, at my wish to take just a single month away. Or maybe she, too, understood what I had come to realize and was sitting on for a number of months. That it just wasn’t working. I was no longer making progress. Our time was no longer helpful in the way that, at one point, it had been. 

In April 2020, only a few weeks into the societal upheaval of the pandemic, I met with her for a single session—virtually. The first time I had ever had a virtual appointment of any kind. And she had always struggled with elements of technology—the tablet she used to take notes during our appointments rarely worked, and she would spend large portions of our hour together futzing with it. 

The start of our virtual session was dedicated to her attempting to angle the camera on her tablet correctly, shouting toward the lens, and asking if I could hear her. 

I think, mostly, we talked about the state of things, because things were bad but it was still all so new then, and nobody knew how bad it was going to get or how long it was going to be bad for. At the end of the hour, she asked if I wanted to schedule something with her for the following month. I told her that I would think about it, and let her know if I did.

I don’t think she ever billed me for that appointment. 

There is, of course, and I have come to understand this more over the last couple of years, comfort in the discomfort. 

It’s easier, or more familiar, anyway, to sit in something uncomfortable, or that is no longer serving us in a way that is beneficial, than it is to make a change. To not even “surrender” to an unknown, but to inch your way towards it. It’s intimidating. Daunting. It’s easier, or more familiar, to remain within what you know, than to have to start again. 

And it is, of course, and I have come to understand this more over the last couple of years, totally fine and perhaps expected in some regards to leave therapy the same way you felt walking in. Because not every session can be poignant, or one where you have some kind of enormous breakthrough. Not everything can be solved in the hour you get. 

And it is, of course, about the work, or “The Work,” that you continue putting into yourself. To grow. To discover. To change. To inch along a little faster and get a little closer to that unknown. But it is work. It isn’t easy. There is, of course, comfort in the discomfort, and it is easier or just familiar to remain in something that is uncomfortable. We put in the work and try to strike some balance in this life.

The burden lifted and the burden bared are often the same.

*

And I have, for a number of years, been fascinated with the idea of the convergence. And I have, for a number of years, found ways to write about that—a convergence, or collision, if you will, and the space that forms when those two things, often dissimilar, meet—within the context of writing about contemporary popular music.

And I think with how I choose to approach writing about popular music, looking for these convergences, like a number of devices, or conceits, that I use, and overuse, I will admit that there are times when it is certainly a stretch. 

In thinking about 444, the second full-length release from Carolina Chauffe’s project Hemlock, what I came to understand is that its 12 songs exist in the space that forms from the slow, very deliberate convergence of patience, and of urgency. 

It is an album that has not hinged itself on the juxtaposition of those two things, or, simply, of two opposing feelings, or concepts. But rather, it is an album that exhibits both of those things, occasionally at the same time. There is an emergent or immediate nature to parts of it, where the songs come together very suddenly and are propelled with real intention; there, in turn, is also a very hushed, deliberate, and patient nature to be heard elsewhere. It is an album that both can, and often does, take its time, and wants you to take your time with it.

And I tell you all of that to tell you this. Hemlock is both a band, and it is not.

It is not, in the sense that it is, primarily, or at least began and still continues, as a solo outing for Chauffe—both in the spectral and sparse nature of their recorded output, but also how they perform live, often unaccompanied save for their acoustic guitar and a large effects pedal.

It is, though, in the sense that the project itself, since its inception, continues to evolve—not into what Chauffe needs it to be, I don’t think, but rather, where it takes them. And there are moments on their debut full-length as Hemlock, Talk Soon, which was originally released in 2022, where there is more instrumentation than just Chauffe’s acoustic guitar string strums and plucks, but the idea of Hemlock as a band, in the more traditional sense of a “band” really can be first heard on the EP Amen!, issued in the spring of this year, and can certainly be heard throughout the more exhilarating parts of 444. 

And I tell you all of that to tell you this. There is the convergence. Or the collision. Between Carolina Chauffe and Hemlock being both a band, where they are the bandleader, or front person, and an inward turned, solo endeavor. The convergence. Or the collision. Between the urgent, and the patient. And 444 is not the sound of both of those things fighting for which one will get the most space, or will be the most important kind of sound, or aesthetic, on the record. 

No. More than anything, I think 444 is the sound of urgency and patience in finding where they overlap or can complement one another in an effort to create an equally bold and thoughtful collection of material. 

*

Ongoing exercise in practicing imperfection—particularly tender. Per usual, be gentle. 

Thank you.

And I did, of course, find a way to write about this within how I framed my reflections on Amen, but it is worth noting again—Chauffe is an incredibly genuine and warm individual. 

It is something that resonates from their in-between song banter on stage, or in the brief exchange I had with them at the merch table after their performance in a coffee shop in Minneapolis; it’s something that I noticed in going through the back and forth we had, over email, years ago, about the availability of an old Hemlock t-shirt design. 

That warmth, and the genuine nature of it, even resonates in a short message within the credits to one of the releases available on their Bandcamp page.

Among the other descriptors Chauffe uses to describe their aesthetic, “phone-fi alt-folk” is perhaps one of the more compelling ones. It does, certainly, make reference to the lo-fi, home recorded nature of a lot of their output as Hemlock, but it is also a very specific nod to the five collections of songs that Chauffe literally recorded on an iPhone. Named after the months they represent—February, December, August, October, and May, spanning from 2019 until just last year, these are all documentations of Chauffe’s song-a-day experiments. 

More ideas, or sketches, than anything else, Chauffe wrote in the credits for the first collection Februrary, “An exercise in consistency, in productive, in practice, in allowing myself to make without the pressure of always having to like it.” 

“Ongoing exercise in practicing imperfection,” they would write, years later, for the October collection of recordings. “Particularly tender. Per usual, be gentle. Thank you.”

And I tell you all of that to tell you this—the dozen tracks found on 444 are all reimagined recordings of material pulled from Chauffe’s song-a-day endeavors, which is, in part, why it is an album that is not at risk, at all, of overstaying its welcome. At 29 minutes total, the two longest tracks—the delicate “Lake Martin” and the swooning, gorgeous “Sky Baby,” sequenced back to back near the end of the record, are not even four minutes in length; the shortest songs all come in at just a little over 90 seconds. 

The length—both the running time of the album, as well as the duration of the songs themselves, also, I think, speaks to something larger, about art—the art we make, or rather, the art we wish to make, and how we develop it, and perhaps, the risks we run in overdeveloping, or putting a certain amount of pressure on ourselves.

Because, in listening to the songs that have been collected, and reimagined, on 444, what is apparent is that if a song, on its own, can exist, and exist well, or thoughtfully, or compellingly, in a world that is, like, around 90 seconds, for example, then the way to develop it into a more robust composition is to work within those constraints, and respect, and understand, that it says what it needs too say, or wishes to convey, within that amount of time, and it does not need, or demand, to be overdeveloped, or mined into something unnecessarily longer, simply for the sake of being longer.

There is a convergence across 444—one that is much more noticeable when compared to Chauffe’s previous output as Hemlock. And, yes, it is the way they are finding the balance between both being a bandleader, and fronting Hemlock as a “band” in the more traditional sense, with using Hemlock as solo output. But it is also in the way Chauffe contrasts extremes within these 12 songs, and that even in those extremes, and even with the way that the earliest sketches of this material come from phone-recorded demos dating back to 2019, there is a startling cohesion within the dynamism of the album as a whole, but also Hemlock, as a project, both comprised of one person, or many.

And, perhaps “extremes” is the incorrect words. Or, if not incorrect, a word that does not, with accuracy, describe the juxtaposition in sound, or varying levels of intensity, that occur throughout 444. Chauffe, in previous releases, has hinted at a volatile nature within their performing—this happens often on the song cycle that makes up Amen, as there is an often unpredictable nature to both the free, or loose nature of instrumentation, and the way Chauffe bends their voice to match. It also occurs at a particular moment in their full-length debut as Hemlock, Talk Soon, on the song “To Carry,” where Chauffe absolutely and unsettlingly howls the line, “Kiss me where it hurts.”

444 is not, of course, upon first listen, yes, and with each subsequent moment you make the time, and space, to sit with it, the sound of urgency and patience fighting for which aesthetic will be given the most attention across the record. It is, really, the sound of those two things finding out where they do overlap or complement one another. 

There is a complimentary nature—the more robust, or even at times, raucous or explosive sounds, and the much more spectral, or inward turned moments, with Chauffe continually thriving as they explore the possibilities in each. 

*

444, in its brevity, is an album that contains a lot—it’s thoughtful, often meditative, and personal in the kind of introspection and observations it depicts. It is it's most personal, perhaps, within the second half, when Chauffe does not break the fourth wall exactly in their songwriting, but does do away with the kind of willing suspension of disbelief that occurs for us, as listeners, in the relationship we have with the kind of narrative a songwriter or performer is relaying to us, by tapping into something that is personal and extraordinarily visceral on “Hazards,” which is the album’s most volatile, cacophonic song, both in the instrumentation, and in the way Chauffe uses a guttural kind of anguishing in their voice as they bellow the lyrics.

The percussion shatters and pummels with each hit of the snare drum or crash of the cymbal that resonates over the top of the crunchy, aggressive distortion on the torrent of electric guitar chords—and with “Hazards,” in the noise, it is the way Chauffe addresses us as the audience. Not directly, but we are let into a kind of inner monologue that captures specific, frustrating moments in time—specifically, here, a car breaking down on the road, on the way home from an auto repair shop that told Chauffe to bring the car back in the next day; in the second verse, it’s a person who is, presumably, a former partner, that used their grocery delivery account without permission. 

Even with the seething nature of what is described in the two minutes of “Hazards,” there is an attempt at finding a resolve when the song tumbles towards its conclusion—“We’re all just going through our shit,” Chauffe reminds themselves, and us, as well. “Whether or not we get over it.” 

The detonative nature of “Hazards” is not indicative of other moments on 444—Chauffe and their band do not reach this level of catharsis, sonically speaking, elsewhere within this collection. But, the surprising nature of the direction Hemlock, as a band, can take a song, is something that is explored in the other tracks where there is more instrumentation, and it is also these songs that often move along with the most urgency coursing through them.

He is certainly not the first to do it, and is not the last, but the Magnolia Electric Company-era work of Jason Molina is something I use as a reference point—not a comparison, really, when I talk about a kind of electrified country and western sound. One that, specifically, has a kind of loose, or free-wheeling feeling to it as it unfolds, which is certainly a sound that Chauffe finds themselves in on “Depot Dog,” which arrives shortly before the halfway mark, and was among the early singles released ahead of 444’s arrival in full.

And along with the surprise of a truly visceral, torrential moment like “Hazards,” along with other surprises, or at least unexpected elements that are included across 444, the playful nature of “Depot Dog,” right down to its title, is among those. And that is to say, of course, that an artist who does, more often than not, find themselves writing and performing songs that lean towards a more serious nature, can’t play against type—the rollicking nature, and infectiousness of the melody, is truly refreshing, and musically, it does find Chauffe and her band, which includes lead guitar from Andy PK, percussion from Jack Henry, and Bailey Minzenberger on bass, setting, almost immediately into an easy-going, twangy kind of groove that they sustain until the final few moments of the song’s 90 seconds, when it begins to naturally slow itself down. 

The playful, or good-humored nature of “Depot Dog” informs not only the music, which literally bounces and shuffle itself along, but it is also present in Chauffe’s lyricism, which does spill out in a stream of conscious kind of way, with their voice being bent, and certain syllables extended out to accommodate the melody, and the natural twang in their voice. Within that stream of conscious delivery, the lyrics themselves find a line between the intention to be taken seriously, and not taking themselves all that seriously at all, which does imply that a song like “Depot Dog” is more about the overall vibe, rather than some kind of poignancy.

There are a lot of vivid images that flash by, quickly, in the song’s brief runtime. “Later the leaves are burning golden like the shimmer in the corner of your eyelid,” Chauffe muses in the first verse. “A throat full of skipping stones,” they continue. “Lately lonely but not alone. Windows down—Cajun music playing on the Bluetooth radio.”

And there is a breathless nature to the way the words are delivered on “Depot Dog,” which does kind of make it so you have to do a double take, occasionally, for specific phrase turns that are more memorable—like, “Surveilled with nowhere to go like a bug stuck on a rearview camera,” or the one that, I think, will resonate with me for a long time, or at least gave me a lot to think about in terms of what it means, or what it could mean—“I’m wearing evening clothes to a matinee show.”

The song does wind itself down with the reference to the titular item—a hot dog from The Home Depot. “A thing of legend, like a hot dog from Home Depot,” Chauffe quietly reflects as the music slows down gradually. “Unlikely truth, like a hot dog from Home Depot. Against all odds—like a hot dog from Home Depot,” which ends the song within the space of another unlikely convergence—subtle humor and earnest introspection. 

*

The spending money’s easy—the making money’s hard

And of the songs on 444 that do include more instrumentation, or a traditional “band” set up of percussion, two guitars, and a bass, not all of them do descend, or ascend, perhaps, into unsettling dissonance and crunch, or a whimsical kind of twangy shuffle. There is space in the middle between those, often a little slower in tempo and more contemplative in nature, and Chauffe and the band explore that as the sequencing heads towards the halfway mark on the moody “Deja Vu,” and the somber, tense “How To Go On Loving (When The Living Breaks Your Heart).”

“How To Go On” takes the twang, or drawl, found in other places on the album—like in “Depot Dog,” for example, or in the breezy and surprisingly sensual “Hyde Park,” but turns the sound much more inward into a place of stark introspection. 

One of the songs that is slightly over three minutes, “How To Go On,” is also one of the slower or more deliberate in its pacing, and its placement early in the record—arriving fourth, sandwiched between one of the noisier songs, and one of the more rollicking, shifts the tone of 444, or if anything, reminds listeners of the dynamism that Chauffe and the band have. Pushed forward through the intimate strums of the guitar and the eventual arrival of brushed, nonintrusive percussion, keeping time and kind of hanging in the silences in between the tap of the cymbal or the pitter of the snare, it is the drawl of Chauffe’s voice, of course, a slow, yet searing electric guitar solo, and the overall melancholic nature, that works to give it the truly western tinge. 

And yes, for as playful as Chauffe can be in their lyricism on 444, there is often a starkness to their observations, and there is a dark cloud of sadness, or sorrow, that hangs low on “How To Go On”—within the first lines, the imagery is staggering in how vivid it is.

I am, for someone who has been writing about music for over a decade, and would like to think they wrote about music thoughtfully for maybe five or six of those years—and someone who, occasionally, still tries to write about things outside of contemporary popular music, I am so often stopped in my tracks by certain phrasings. Like, a well-written line, regardless, even if it’s in a song or a book that I am reading, can and usually does knock the wind out of me. 

There are a number of places across 444 where Chauffe’s lyricism is hyper-literate and emotionally stirring—“How To Go On Loving” is one of them. “She ripped up the scratch off, and threw it in the yard,” they begin. “The spending money’s easy—the making money’s hard.”

The lyrics, then, take a much more personal and reflective turn. “This game wasn’t made to win, baby,” Chauffe observes. “Might as well fold—you’ve got a losing hand…the game wasn’t made to win, darlin,” they continue, before asking the titular question. “Been fixed, and broken from the start. How to go on loving when the living breaks your heart?”

There is a bleakness to it all yes, and certainly in the bridge of the song, where Chauffe pulls her voice in before exhaling and contouring to the notes to fit into the melody, it is perhaps the bleakest, when they sing, “It’s not irony. It’s something more sinister. It’s not bad timing. This is not mercy.”

And there is the question posed at the center of the song. How do we go on loving when living breaks our hearts. And if the stark, arresting phrase “The spending money’s easy—the making money’s hard” is what grabbed my attention, the question from the title does linger or haunt, even in the way that there are other unshakable moments from 444. The spending money, at least for me, is too easy, but it is the making money that is, for me, and maybe for you as well, extremely difficult. How do we go on loving when the living has broken our hearts, over and over again.

Even when a song is more expanded in its runtime, like “How To Go On Loving,” which is closer to three and a half minutes, it doesn’t mean that the world of the song is expanded beyond a certain point—many of these songs occur in wondrous flashes, ending as soon as they begin, and offering no real opportunity or perhaps having no real interest in any kind of resolution. There are no easy answers to the questions, hard or otherwise, asked here, but maybe, like the larger ideas that the album gives consideration to, Chauffe is perhaps not looking for a real resolution.

Of all the aesthetics that Chauffe and the band adopt throughout 444, they find themselves working from within a very dreamy, or swaying place on the hypnotic and tempered “Deja Vu,” which creates a smoldering, swooning kind of feeling almost as soon as it begins through the tone of the guitars as well as the interplay between them that occurs. 

The swooning feeling, as well as the intricate and meticulous work that is subtly executed with the percussion, give the song a quivering, or rippling feeling. The tempo is not off-kilter, but it does briskly move along in a way that is genuinely interesting to hear, and eventually finds a kind of melodic and borderline hypnotic groove when Chauffe’s voice is ricochetting off the snare thumps and in between the lower notes of resonating from the guitar strings. 

“Deja Vu,” all of just a little over 90 seconds in length, crafts an immediate vibe that the band does not break until the very final notes ring out—less about one element over the other (i.e., music v.s. lyrics), both things are working together effortlessly. And perhaps the most fascinating thing about it is that for as downcast and dreamy as it is in arrangement, Chauffe’s vocal performance is honestly very fun. It feels weird to say it, but in the way they bend their voice, there is like this little intentional hiccup that is incredibly playful, or whimsical, in the tumbling delivery of the lyrics, which is replaced by a lower, more even range in the aforementioned hypnotic moments that serves as a refrain, which the repeated expression, “I think about you.”

*

And I will admit that I have not, as of this writing, sat down and given a listen to the five song-a-day collections that Chauffe has made available on their Bandcamp—but in glancing at the album credits of each, prior to beginning my time with 444, and putting my thoughts down about the album, what I noticed is that even in what is inherently a similar experiment each time it was completed, there were minor differences—the final four collections all include song titles for the daily recordings, but the first one, dating back to March of 2019, does not. 

And so it is fitting, then, that the first track on 444, is also the first track from March, and it makes sense to have to simply titled it “Day One.”

One of the more quiet, or fragile, moments on 444, “Day One,” as the opening track, is not entirely indicative of what is to come, though given the shifts in tone throughout at the balance of aesthetics, I am not sure if there really is any one song on the record that does truly serve as a thesis statement, lyrically or musically, for this collection. 

And I did write about this, of course, when I spent time this summer with Amen—going back through the last few years to figure out how I first heard about Chauffe’s project. It would have been the inclusion of the song “Autumn,” or at least an early recording of the song (it would later be included on their debut, Talk Soon) on a compilation CD with proceeds going to benefit an animal rescue in the Pacific Northwest. And while I do find the adoption of a more robust, “band” driven sound to be extremely compelling, and a huge step forward for Chauffe as an artist, it is them with the acoustic guitar, or with minimal other instrumentation, that I do find myself gravitating toward, which is why even in its skeletal nature, a track like “Day One” is meditative and fascinating.

There is an inherent experimental nature to “Day One.” It begins with a little bit of a tape warble noise, followed by the sound of birds chirping nearby as the methodically plucked progression of notes is plucked out on the acoustic guitar. There is a hushed and alluring nature to the way the notes fall—it is beautiful, and gentle at first, but—and, I mean, this is indicative of Chauffe’s songwriting, I think, there is a shift from that beauty and that gentle nature to something that is, albeit briefly, a little more dissonant in tone before it resolves and shifts itself back, and is later accompanied by the quiet plunking of piano keys, and some wordless singing that gives assistance to the vocal melody.

I say that “Day One” is more experimental in the way it is executed because while it is compelling and even in the dissonance, it is gorgeous to hear, the song itself is constructed around two lines that are slowly sung, with the syllables landing with precision into the fabric that the acoustic guitar weaves underneath. And those two lines are repeated, but when Chauffe returns with them, they have multi-tracked their voice and are singing with themselves, though not in harmony or even in unison, but rather, coming in and mirroring what has just been sung, which creates a hypnotic, and slightly unnerving effect.

The words themselves are observational, and introspective. And it is the introspection that I am the most interested in.

“It is strange to be,” they confess, before sharing one of the more outwardly hopeful statements from the record. “But today feels okay.”

And there is, of course, an urgency, or immediacy, to quite a few songs on 444—I think that has to do with their respective lengths, certainly, but also the volatile or raucous nature with which some of them have in their arranging. There is also an emergent nature to the project as a whole. 

Prior to setting out on the road—Chauffe, if you follow them on Instagram, has been touring across the country for the majority of 2024, they and the band spent two days in the studio near the end of 2023, recording 444, with many of the songs captured live, which I think, again, really speaks volumes of the dynamism of Hemlock, both as a band, and as a solo endeavor, because there is a real trust within the assemblage of musicians, or a belief in one another, in taking on something this intensive. If the goal of the song-a-day recordings was to create without pressure or the stress of perfection, bringing a dozen of those songs into this space adds a little pressure, yes, and certainly, you want things to sound a specific way, but it is also about capturing the moment, perfect or not. And among all of the things that it ultimately is, 444 is a very real and beautiful moment that has been captured.

The kind of dedication to the craft of songwriting, and musicianship, is heard in every track included on the album, but you can hear it coursing through the hushed and sprawling “Lake Martin.” Another one of the singles issued ahead of 444’s release in October, it was the final song recorded in the sessions for the album, recorded only once, in one take.

“Lake Martin,” as is the case elsewhere on 444, and throughout Chauffe’s canonical works as Hemlock, is hypnotic in how it unfurls itself. It is quiet—barely rising above a whisper, but it moves briskly, and the lyrics are delivered with a kind of breathlessness, as if they are unable to get all of them out fast enough, which means that there are certain phrases that do stand out more than others, or that linger, during early listens, but it is a song that does beg to be replayed so that all of its subtitles and poignancy is appreciated.

And there is I suppose and irony to how quickly paced “Lake Martin” is, as a song, because lyrically it is about observing things around you, both larger and small, or subtle, and making the effort to slow down and connect. 

“Lake Martin,” again, does find Chauffe shifting back and forth between, and then finding the right balance with a sound that is just a little dissonant, and then something much more melodious. That balance here is not difficult for them to find, or walk, but it is something that is in constant motion because of the relentless nature of the song, with their vocal delivery weaving itself in higher and lower ranges, into the spaces left for it as their fingers pull at the strings of the guitar.

There is a kind of wonder, or marvel, to our surroundings that Chauffe tries to depict in the lyrics to “Lake Martin”—vivid in the way they conjure imagery of the natural world but also extraordinarily thoughtful the further along we’re taken. “What a wonder to be sobered,” they exclaim in the first verse. “Fully dumbstruck by the beauty of it all.”

Then, later, Chauffe remarks, “The sky is bleeding very color—her heart wide open. Air and water pulse with breath—the stillness bustling. All changing surely, all moving subtly. All of a sudden, overcoming—awed and humbled by the beauty of it all.”

The observational nature of the world in a larger sense is present throughout nearly every verse of “Lake Martin”—it forgoes a traditional verse/chorus/verse structure and favors one that allows Chauffe’s words to flow freely, with as many syllables as needed crammed into the space provided, with the slight return every so often to a specific phrase, sung through a familiar melody. Though, within the song’s first half, Chauffe does break, temporarily, from this grander appreciation and focuses on something much more immediate, and a little smaller in scope—in a sense, a small remark on the life of a DIY recording and touring performer. “Everybody’s someone’s dinner here—the show isn’t for free,” they confess. “I pay my due. I tip my server—generosity reciprocal.”

The conceit of “Lake Martin” arrives within the lines that are sung in Chauffe’s higher register—their voice floating just a little above the cavernous reverberations of the guitar strings. And it is among the lines that, across the album, did make me stop, and give consideration to. “It feels like magic to slow down,” they explain. “To feel it all move all around me. To feel it all pass right through me.”

*

My best friend, regardless of if she and I are parting, or if I am driving a considerable distance, will ask me, “Will you travel safely.” That will often be followed up with, “Will you let me know that you’ve traveled safely.”

And it is not done, I don’t think, out of concern for my capabilities or lack thereof as a motorist. But rather, as a small, or gentle way to show care. 

There are, of course, myriad ways to show those we love, and who love us in return, care. That we care. Or how we care. Ways both grand and sentimental, or subtle, and quiet. Ways, or acts, someone may not think to be a big deal, or of importance, but are ultimately rather moving, or effecting. 

The earnestness in me does recognize the earnest, or sentimental tendencies, or actions, in others, and it is something that may not come through in their lyrics, but I would argue that Carolina Chauffe is an earnest individual—humble, genuine, and extremely warm, and is, I think, someone who is looking to make connections with others through that same kind of generosity of spirit, or personality. 

Chauffe has been touring across the country for the majority of 2024 with little if any breaks—Hemlock is, of course, both a “band” in the traditional sense of a group of people working together, as well as a solo endeavor. A large portion of Hemlock’s live shows are Chauffe, performing alone, but when they have fronted Hemlock as a band, they have been very earnest on social media—Instagram, usually, about their admiration and genuine love for their bandmates.

So it is fitting then that 444 ends with an epilogue of sorts, following two of its most stunning tracks. “Thank You Card To Band” is exactly what it sounds like—a brief rumination on the feelings that Chauffe has for their bandmates, and the ways we find connections to others that do often keep us remaining upright. 

There is a tender nature to every element of “Thank You Card.” Chauffe’s voice barely rises above a whisper, and there is a wistful, sentimental quality in the way they sing—the song itself is slow, with both the words, and the contemplative guitar string strums deliberate in how they hang, and tumble forward, before hushed percussion arrives to create a slight rhythm underneath, with the long, rolling bass notes surging through, adding depth and warmth to this hushed, fragile moment.

“It’s two in the morning—you’re on your way out, but I wanted you to know that it heals me,” Chauffe begins quietly. The song itself, similar to other tracks on 444, does unfold like a poem, focusing itself on the lyrics and their intentions. “You wrap up my cables,” they continue. “You lend me your ears. You give me so much of your time for no money.”

“Thank You Card” is a quick, quiet, but poignant final thought on the record—and why I think it is a song that resonates with me so much, is because the earnestness in me recognizes the similar nature in someone else. And it is the kind of genuine depiction of being moved, or feeling touched, by the close relationship you have with another person, and the way that you show how you care, and the ways you are shown care or compassion in return, that I saw very clear reflections of myself, and my relationships with others, in.

“I don’t think I know how to thank you for what you have given me,” Chauffe states near the song’s conclusion.

Chauffe ends “Thank You Card To Band” with a gentle, thoughtful assurance. “Clock in. Drive safe. I’ll see you soon—and you’ll see me, too.”

Regardless of if we are parting ways after spending time together, or if I am driving somewhere that is deemed a considerable distance, my best friend will ask me, “Will you travel safely.” That is often followed up with something that I now have adopted into my lexicon—“Will you let me know that you have traveled safely.

It is not done out of concern for my capabilities as a motorist, and that is certainly not why it is something that I have started asking as well. But, rather, a very small, or gentle, but subtly profound way to show that you care. 

Drive safe. I’ll see you soon. 

You’ll see me, too. 

There is the assurance. 

*

And I have, of course, exhausted a number of analytical devices in the time that I have been writing about music—specifically, in the last five years ago, when the way I wish to write about music has shifted to be longer, or larger in scope, yes, but also done out of a desire to be thoughtful and show care to the artist, and their art.

I of course have written, not at length, but enough, about the difference between a love song, and songs that are about love. Because there is a space where those things do overlap, but there are more instances where they do not.

Given the sentimentality of Carolina Chauffe and the places, in the past, where there have been hints of romance, or affection, mentioned in their lyrics—even elsewhere on this record, there is an ambiguous but sly and sensual nature to the song “Hyde Park,” it should not be a total surprise that there is a song about love featured. Revealed as the last advance single prior to 444’s release, and tucked near the end as the penultimate track, “Sky Baby” is also, without a doubt, one of the album’s finest and most stunning moments.

“Sky Baby,” in the beautiful way that it begins quietly, then grows in intensity very slowly, before ascending within its final moments, is yet another example of the dexterous nature of Chauffe as a songwriter, and Hemlock as a solo outing, or perhaps a more sparse affair, and their work as a bandleader.

And there is an intimacy, of course, throughout 444—the implied intimacy of how it came together over two days in a studio space, and the close connections between Chauffe and their bandmates, and the intimacy within the lyricism, certainly, but there is the very close, quiet feeling of intimacy in the way the album sounds, specifically in songs like this one, where Chauffe’s guitar is closely mic’d, and you can hear their fingers sliding up and down the neck of their guitar, creating a very intentional feeling like you are in the room with them, and the band, as they are working on the song. 

Chauffe’s guitar playing moves along at an even pace—not too slowly, not too briskly, and in the the progression of notes, they do shift back and forth between a more melodious or gentler sound, which is juxtaposed with just the slightest bit of dissonance, all of which works to build a small amount of tensions that is then sustained throughout the song until there is the moment of release after all of the other instruments, including a haunting, beautiful electric guitar, and the tumbling, brushed percussion all swirl around and glisten and soar towards the conclusion. 

“Sky Baby” is one of the album’s more triumphant songs, musically, just because of the continued upward trajectory it takes, but it is also one of the more inherently hopeful, or optimistic songs lyrically. That is not to say Chauffe is a bleak songwriter or that 444 is a hopeless album. Far from it. But this is a place where the kind of starkness that is often found in these songs gives way to something genuinely tender.

I am remiss to say that there is a desperation in the way that love or affection or adoration is presented in the lyrics to “Sky Baby,” but there is most certainly a sense of urgency, and within that urgency, there is a palpable feeling of longing, and yearning. 

An intensity and a need—with that intensity, and that need, growing until it explodes.

“If you were a garden, each flower a song,” Chauffe begins. “I’d plant you boutquets-full our whole springtime long. And if you were a mountain, I would be your fog. Wrap round you each morning—share our every dawn.”

“If you were a dove, dear, please make your tree,” they implore later. “My branches your cradle—build your nest with me. And if you were the moon, love, I would be your tide. Following soft and surely, all trust and gentle pride.”

The tension is then released, albeit gently, as the intensity grows in the final verse, and then the repetition of a singular phrase. “If I am the setting sun, you are the sky,” Chauffe exclaims. “I’ll kiss you with the ripest color ’til the evening draws nigh—you are the sky.”

And there is, of course, this intensity, or this want, and the hope that the person who is the recipient of this affection will meet it, as best as they are able. And there is a comfort in that, I think—as there is a comfort in the way the song swirls and ascends with the gentle words repeated that create a different kind of affection or long for a different kind of connection. 

You are the sky.

*

And I will go to therapy again this Monday evening—talk bout how hard it is to strike some kind of balance in this life.

And I will leave feeling the same way I felt walking in.

Or, maybe, with some burden lifted.

Maybe with some burden bare.

The thing that kept me working with the same therapist, regularly, for, like 12 years, even after I had determined that I was no longer getting anything out of the hour I spent, once a month, in her office, was the fear of starting over. 

Maybe fear was never the right word. Maybe just how, at that time, it was the notion of how daunting or intimidating it all sounded. The idea that, regardless of the fact that I felt my therapist was no longer challenging me or engaging me in a dialogue that I considered to be helpful, I was, and again, at this time, willing to go through the motions, in part, because I could not fathom having to explain it all to someone else. 

Someone new.

On Twitter, a few weeks ago, Chauffe joked that they was going to ask, during a virtual session with their therapist, how tall they are, because they had never met in person. 

It made me realize that I, also, had no idea how tall my therapist was, because she and I had never met in person either—she laughed when I asked her. She’s 5’5.”

I started working with a new therapist in May of 2020. And, yes, sure. It was a little daunting, during those first sessions. The starting over. Daunting. Intimidating. But not impossible. 

And yes. Sometimes you do leave a session feeling the same way you felt walking in.

Sometimes, depending on what you discuss, you leave feeling worse.

The burden lifted. The burden bare. 

I’ve found they are often the same.

And yes, it is perfectly fine to leave a session feeling the same way you felt walking in because not every conversation is going to be poignant or offer some kind of clarity or breakthrough. Sometimes, you do not wish to unpack the emotional abuse of your childhood and how that impacts you to this day and your relationship with others. Sometimes, things are going poorly for you at work. Sometimes, you wish for some potential guidance with a relationship lament. 

Not everything can be solved in an hour. 

Not everything can be solved.

And it is, of course, regardless of how you feel after your hour is up, about the work, or “The Work” that we continue to put into ourselves. To grow. To discover. To change. The work is not easy. Because there is comfort in the discomfort and sometimes it just easier, or just familiar, to remain in something that is uncomfortable rather than stare down change or an unknown. 

We put in the work. We try to strike some balance in this life. 

And I mean, I would say that from beginning to end, 444 is a relatively hushed or at least a quiet affair, but that does not mean every song has to practice that kind of sonic restraint. Because there is the surprising, volatile ferocity of “Hazards,” and there is the snarling, distended, and howling "Drive and Drive,” placed near the top of the record’s sequencing, and was the first single issued from the album when it was announced near the end of June. 

Admittedly, because it was the first thing I heard off of the record, at the time, I wondered how much of 444 might sound like this—with Chauffe turning up the volume and really leaning hard into the notion of Hemlock as a band—one that finds itself on the more cacophonic side of things.

At all of 100 seconds in length, to describe “Drive and Drive” as unrelenting in its nature undersells the intensity that courses through it from the moment it begins until the final notes ring out and the distortion of the guitar hangs in the air. Opening with the crunch of the strummed electric guitar, the rest of the band comes slamming in at the start of the second verse, with the percussion bashing out a rhythm and the bass line surging through the sound of Chauffe’s voice, which, in this case, is one of the rare times it is raised, and the torrent of the electric guitars. 

And with the song’s unrelenting nature, it does feel like it is moving faster, or naturally finds its way to a little quicker of a tempo, the closer it gets to the finish line, and I suppose there is a risk with that—the ramshackle kind of feeling it has, that it might not be able to hold itself together. But even as the intensity grows to nearly explosive levels, with Chauffe, through gritted teeth, repeating the final line over and over, it keeps itself together before collapsing. 

“Drive and Drive,” too, lyrically, is similar to the kind of personal, or breaking of the fourth wall, writing that Chauffe used in “Hazards,” where the conceit of the song isn’t cloaked in any kind of vivid, poetic imagery. It’s still very vivid, yes, but here, it is very real, and kind of gritty or at least unglamorous about their day-to-day, which is used as a means to both reflect on their life as a DIY touring art and performer, and more importantly, searching for meaning, or assurance, within something much larger.

“How does anybody get out of bed before 11,” Chauffe asks with a sneer in their voice the instant the song begins, with the chug of their electric guitar coming down underneath. “Have I lost my way again,” they implore. “Have I lost it?”

“Drive and Drive” moves quickly—it really has no time to waste, and the song is designed to say what it wishes to convey and has no interest in sticking around any longer than it has to. And how quickly it moves is really propelled forward by the relentlessness of both the distorted clanging of the guitars and the thudding of the drumming, adding just a little bit of order to the rhythm. “Or maybe I’m just built to drive, and drive, and drive to a new city every day and sleep in someone’s guest bed every night,” Chauffe continues, detailing the inevitable monotony of life on the road—though they follow that with a line to explain that even in the monotony, the life of independent art is not to be taken for granted. 

“People are so generous—it’s true,” they muse. “People are so kind. And I can count on change—its consistency, its malleable dependency.”

Lyrically, all of “Drive and Drive” is personal, and it is outwardly personal. But there is a shift as the song continues, moving from a kind of observational narrative about the never-ending rise and grind of earning a living as a DIY artist, with a sudden, and resonant turn inward. 

“And I will go to therapy again this Monday evening—talk about how hard it is to strike some balance in this life,” Chauffe explains. “And I will leave feeling the same way I felt walking in. Or, maybe with some burden lifted—maybe with some burden bare.”

“And I will do the dishes that I meant to do this morning. And I’ll brush my teeth, and go to bed, and try again.”

The song careens, then, towards its conclusion, with Chauffe repeating the expression, “And try again,” nine times total, before a final exhale of, “And try.”

It’s funny. Well. Maybe it isn’t. But the more I listened to “Drive and Drive,” the more I saw reflections of myself within this latter half specifically, because yes, of course, once a month, I find myself sitting in various locations in my home, with my laptop resting on various surfaces, gazing at the screen of the virtual waiting room that my therapist provides before our appointments. Because yes, of course I am always putting in “The Work” with the hopes of some kind of improvement or betterment or discovery though not every session is going to end with a breakthrough or something poignant being said.

Because yes, of course I am trying to strike a balance in this life, but it is hard. 

I am trying.

It’s the final lines of “Drive and Drive” that I felt connected to the more I listened.

It’s the idea of trying.

It has been a number of years now but there was a point when I found I was writing a lot about just the idea of trying. Sometimes not our best. But just showing up as we are able, with the hopes it will be enough. And it has been a number of years now but there was a point when I realized how often the idea of trying occurred in the lyrics of Jason Molina, and how I ruminated on that until it began haunting me.

I still look for it in places. That connection. When I hear a song where there is a mention, or a reference, to trying, and how we must, or we are encouraged to do so, I look for even the flimsiest way to thread it back to Molina’s lyricism. It’s something I did over the summer when I spent time with Josaleigh Pollett’s In The Garden, By The Weeds—and in an exchange we had, they said it was an homage to Molina, and the way it sounded like he was pleading with himself, always, and pushing himself to try.

I still look for it in places. That connection. And when I stared at the lyrics to “Drive and Drive” on my screen, seeing the word repeated over and over, I asked Chauffe about the potential for a connection. They said Molina was not conscious inspiration for that line but, “I do believe Jason and I have a kinship in our trying.”

Sometimes, it does get to be all too much. Doesn’t it. If you’re like me, then maybe you understand. Maybe if you aren’t like me, you still understand what I mean. The moments when you find yourself in the kitchen, overwhelmed by nothing in particular, but just, like, the daily minutiae of it all—the dishes to be washed, the dinner to be prepared, the large pitcher of filtered water in the refrigerator that needs to be refilled for the third time within the day, the laundry to fold or hang up, the companion animals to feed or walk or care for, the errands to run. And sometimes, it does get to be all too much. Doesn’t it. If you’re like me and you find yourself in the kitchen and you close your eyes and your lower your elbows onto the counter and you press your hands to your face.

And if you’re like me you find it within and nobody is really sure how you do it and you are, often, not even sure how you do it, or where you find it, but after you take that moment with you hands covering your face, you open your eyes. You try again.

And if you’re like me, and there are the days when you cannot find it within. Because you can really only push yourself so hard, or so far.

You go to bed. You try again.

You try again.

*

To describe 444 as a beautiful artistic statement or a huge sonic leap forward for Carolina Chauffe would be underselling the gravity of these 12 songs. The concept behind the record’s construction, too, is experimental, yes, but it is also extremely impressive, daring, innovative, and compelling. 

It is a record that can be poetic, haunting, and stunning in its beauty, and the way it often juxtaposes that beauty with bursts of dissonance, but it is also incredibly human, and the thing that the songs have in common, regardless of where they fall in sonic extremes, is that they are Chauffe’s experiences, yes, but there is room for all of us, as listeners, in those experiences as well. 

We are asked, by ourselves but more than that, by others, to try. To go to therapy and put in “The Work” and find the space where the burden lifted and the burden bare converge and become the same thing. 

But it is about more than that. About trying. Or the kind of desperate running towards something that always seems just out of our grasp. It is about the connections we make. And the love that we have or feel toward others. About caring enough to tell your friends that you do not know how to thank them for what they’ve given to you. About telling someone that if you’re the setting sun, they are the sky.

For the frenetic day-to-day that is depicted at times, or that lingers in the end, that is contrasted, and smartly so, with something Chauffe sings in “Lake Martin.” 

It feels like magic to slow down.

And I’m sure it does. I am confident it does. To be present. And to feel. 

It all gets to be too much though, does’t it. And if you are like me, in the moments, when you find yourself in the kitchen and you are overwhelmed by the minutiae of it all, and you close your eyes and you lower your elbows onto he counter and you press your hands to your face and you wish that you could slow down but if you are like me, the moment passes. You remove your hands from your face and you open your eyes.

You try again and try again. 

444 is self-released and available now on CD-R and cassette.