Album Review: Adult Mom - Natural Causes

I know I can’t live like this, but what if there’s times that I don’t want to live at all

And I am always coming back to this, I suppose. Certainly over the last two years—maybe even longer than that. And maybe I return to it too often—too much. I lean into it too far. Parade it around. I don’t know. You’re told to write what you know. And maybe this is what I know. There was a time when I would have told you that this is maybe all that I know. Because I couldn’t see any way out of it. I don’t know if I believe that anymore, though. 

You write what you know. This is what I know. Still.

You write what you know and even, and if you’ll allow me, early on here, barely over 100 words, to break the fourth wall and address you, the reader, directly—even in something that can be and perhaps should be inherently more objectively analytical, it has become the thing that I come back to. The thing that I use as my way in. That wasn't always the case, I don’t think. This used to come easier, maybe. Or if not easier, it was less personal. I didn’t always need it, or require it to be more personal. This personal. That has something that has changed over time. The last five or six years. This need to write myself in. This need to see unflattering reflections within somebody else’s writing. 

And that is the thing about contemporary popular music. The way we can, if we are so inclined, not “make it our own,” exactly, but look for ourselves in it, and take it with us. Perhaps just for a moment. A specific moment in our lives that it will soundtrack. Or we take it with us through time, as we age, or grow. 

I’m always coming back to this. Probably too often. Too much. You write what you know. This is what I know. What I know, still.

You come back to a moment. You sit on the floor in your bedroom, behind a closed door, clutching your laptop. The whoosh of the white noise machine, and the whirr of the fan in the corner—all an effort to muffle any sound. Your spouse in the guest room. It’s her office now. It’s where she spends eight to nine hours of her day, sometimes more. It’s late October, 2020. Everything feels bad. It is 10 minutes before you meet with your therapist, over Zoom—you’ve only been working with her for five months at this point, and you search a phrase that is cumbersome, or clunky, but it is the only way to describe how you are feeling.

And you no longer know what to do about how often you are feeling this way.

I’m always coming back to this. You write what you know. This is what I know, still.

*

And I am often thinking about who I was, or where I was, at specific times in the past. It is, perhaps, unhealthy to allow the past to beat inside me like a second heart, as I continue to allow it to do so. But maybe it isn’t as bad as I might think, at times—maybe, if anything, it can be used as a metric of growth, or change, over the years.

Sometimes it is helpful. The way I am able to remember things. Minutiae, really. Nearly all of it. But for as much as I have retained, there are the details that have evaded me, as the years pass. 

How do you hear about new music? How do you discover a new artist, or learn about a new release. I’m always coming back to this. How quickly things move. The barrage of information we have access to. It can be difficult, and if not difficult, it may feel impossible to keep up with it all. To investigate, even in passing, everything that could be of interest. A headline or a review. An artist or public figure you admire talking about an album online. 

Sometimes it is helpful. The way I am able to remember things. I sometimes can retain, as trivial as it ultimately is, how I was first pointed in the direction of a new band, or artist, or album. If anything, it helps to build a larger context for me. And I tell you all of that to tell you this—I do not recall how I first heard of Stevie Knipe’s project, Adult Mom. 

And this would have been near the beginning of 2021—early spring, when they had just released Driver, the third full-length under the moniker. And even though I am unable to remember when, or how, I was first introduced to Knipe, and Adult Mom, I can remember, upon my initial listen of the album, being completely entranced by the first two songs—the smoldering sorrow in the opening track, “Passenger,” and then the rollicking, nervy longing in the jubilant “Wisconsin.” 

And we all have certainly lived a thousand lives over the last five years—even within the last four. 

I am not the same person I was in the spring of 2021 when I first listened to Driver, and Knipe is certainly not the same person who made the album.

And I hope I am not speaking out of turn when I say that Natural Causes, Knipe’s fourth outing as Adult Mom, comes as a surprise. A spry nine songs, often connected by recurring themes, it is surprising, at least musically, how dynamic an album it is. This is not to say that there was not dynamism to be found on Driver, but here, the dexterity with which Knipe and her bandmates move through different aesthetics, and seemingly doing it with ease, is just incredible, as it is impressive.

And it is surprising because there was a time when I was uncertain if Knipe would make another record at all—they were diagnosed with breast cancer in 2021—undergoing a long, extremely difficult treatment process, which is among the themes present (unflinching in its depiction) in their songwriting on Natural Causes. 

Calling Natural Causes a “comeback record” implies something—and I am remiss to call it that. If anything, it is a return for Knipe and Adult Mom. As a whole, it is an arresting collection, thanks to Knipe’s lyricism, which often serves as an intelligently written, though extremely bleak foil, juxtaposed against the album’s often buoyant, dazzling, indie-pop slanted arrangements. 

*

And there are songwriting devices, or techniques, that I am always compelled by, or fascinated with. 

The ability to dress up a song is one of them. Because I am, and have been for a long time now, attracted to a kind of sadness, or melancholy, in contemporary popular music. I find myself drawn to things that just sound sad. And you do not always have to hide that sadness, or sorrow, away under a layer or two, as a surprise for the listener. It can be out in the open, and that does, of course, serve a purpose. 

It does take a very specific and meticulous kind of skill, though, or thoughtfulness, to take something that is bleak, or dark, and dress it up. You aren’t burying it. But you are disguising it. Often through an infectious melody, or an arrangement that is big, or bold, or enthusiastic. And in doing so, the core of the song, and its intentions, arrive as a surprise for the listener. They were, perhaps, not expecting sadness. And if they were, they were not anticipating it to have been so well crafted, and set against something serving as a contrast.

This is not a new concept in songwriting But I am always charmed and impressed when I happen upon it.

Knipe really wastes no time on Natural Causes, and I suppose across nine songs, there is little time to be wasted. The collection’s opening track, “Door Is Your Hand,” is among the songs where Knipe writes from an incredibly bleak place, but it is structured around an enormous indie-pop kind of arrangement that, at times, I would say is even putting in the work to sound a little cutesy, and if not cutesy, certainly whimsical in nature, to further create this contrast in something that sound shimmery, but what it depicts is anything but.

Musically, there is an audaciousness to “Door Is Your Hand,” and that makes sense since it is the opening track, and it really does grab you, then, and pull you into the world of the album. It begins with a muffled, clattering drum track that slowly grows closer, but rather than revealing a kind of bombast from before the first words has even been sung, it introduces the twinkling, kind of cutesy melody, plucked out on both the acoustic and electric guitars, before receding, and making space for Knipe to deliver the first verse.

A kind of infectious explosiveness is not a new idea to Knipe’s songwriting—there are plenty of moments like that to be found on Driver, but it is a marvel, regardless. And a song like “Door Is Your Hand” knows precisely what it is doing, or how it is going to unfold to be most impactful in terms of balancing a sense of tension with the bright, shimmery release of the chorus. 

Lyrically, Knipe is both extremely direct, but also surprisingly ambiguous in “Door Is Your Hand, which makes it all the more compelling to listen to, and also to try and unpack in terms of its narrative. 

“Picturing that you were dead is the only way to cope with my head, but it never lasted long,” Knipe explains in the startling opening line. “You’d never let me live with you gone.”

“Crying in my baby’s arms—she tells me she doesn’t know how to shoot a gun,” they continue. “But if she did, I’d never have to think about you anymore.”

This depiction—of both the song’s antagonist as well as of the dynamic described, grows bleaker in the second verse. “You come home mad again—it’s always something I can never mend,” Knipe observes, adding, “You crack your medicine. You step towards me and I start to defend. You hold me in your arms, and then you just let me be. I wait for you to fall asleep, so I can sit comfortably.” 

The chorus to “Door Is Your Hand” is truly ascendent to the shimmering pop heights it climbs to, as all the elements come slamming down, creating a kind of shout-a-long moment that treads such a fine line. Musically, it is fun, or exuberant, and that’s the point—but lyrically, it is just so dark, and it feels a little unsettling to be mouthing the words along with Knipe.

“You take what you want, and you slam the door in my face when I resist,” they bellow. “You picture my head staying put while the door is your hand.”

The narrative is extended through a third and fourth verse—the last of which tries to find some personal resolution for the song’s protagonist, however the third verse is still just as harrowing as the ones that come before it, with Knipe returning to a similar turn of phrase, adjusting it slightly, and making it haunt even more—“I lie and lie and say that I am fine,” they sing exasperatedly. “I wait for you to fall asleep so I can cry comfortably.”

The shift in power comes at the end of the song, with the narrator trying, though struggling, to find the upper hand. “There was nothing I could say that would grab you by the throat except that ‘I am not afraid of you anymore.’”

“Door Is Your Hand” ends with the briefest moment of a revenge fantasy, though there is truly no real resolve within the song itself—“I picture your head rolling off into a dead end.”

*

And there is dynamism, of course, throughout the nine tracks found on Natural Causes—at times, some of the elements within these arrangements are rather surprising. And this is not a fault of the album, or of Knipe as a songwriter and band leader, but there are a few places on the album that—and this may, in fact, be intentional on their part—feel similar, musically. 

This is the case with the album’s closing track, “Headline,” and “Crystal,” which is found near the top of the sequencing. 

And I suppose this is as good a spot as any to pause, briefly, and mention something that I noticed after I had sat with Natural Causes for a few weeks. The album itself, while yes, available digitally to stream, or purchase and download, is only physically available on cassette. This is not the first Adult Mom release to be released on the format—in fact, all of Knipe’s previous full-lengths as Adult Mom have been issued on cassette. 

And maybe I am making too much out of this. I have been known to do that. But with the cassette release of Natural Causes, there is no real side A and B—the album, in full, repeats on both sides of the tape, really giving it no halfway point, or no real break at all within the world of the album. 

It is not unrelenting—not really. But it is heavy. And Knipe wants you to be in this immersive experience from beginning to end. 

“Headline,” is, admittedly, a bit of an unceremonious closing track—but both it, and “Crystal,” find Knipe and their bandmates exploring a twangier, folksier aesthetic, and because of that, there is a bit of a playfulness to the song, at first, as it collects itself and then unfurls into the chorus—a playfulness because of that folksy, twangy adjacency. But, like “Door Is Your Hand,” the lyrics are jaw-dropping in how dark they are. 

Structurally, “Crystal” is working overtime in terms of shifting how it sounds, and how it feels for the listener, as it continues to propel itself forward. It begins with, like, the slightest sense of tension building, and dissonance, before it does take off into a kind of rootsy stomp, retaining an edge thanks to the way the fiddle slices through the rest of the instrumentation. The kind of western-tinged swirling that occurs here, which the band carries through nearly til the end, isn’t frenetically paced, but it moves briskly enough that it does create the sense of urgency—that emergent feeling, within the music, is mirrored in Knipe’s writing, as well as when the song swells to a breaking point near its conclusion.

Like the writing in “Door Is Your Hand,” Knipe’s lyricism in “Crystal” is extremely vivid in what it depicts, but there is shadow of ambiguity that looms in how the narrative unfolds.

“Driving home in your little blue car, you turn the corner and pull off,” Knipe begins. “Cut the engine before the seatbelt clicks out and I answer your call.”

And there is a kind of dark, discomforting domesticity that is portrayed the further along “Crystal” moves—a disconnection between two people, and the things that are left unspoken and perhaps only partially understood, within that discomfort. “I am living I crystal,” they continue. “Two way glass—I can see myself but you cannot see me back.”

There is a rollicking nature to the swelling that occurs within the chorus, and again, like they do on “Door Is Your Hand,” Knipe has created a kind of shout-a-long moment, even though what they are singing is a little funny, yes, or surprising, but also just so pitch black in tone.

“I’ve been stomach sick lately—I fantasize greatly of passing out in a public space,” Knipe confesses. “And the ambulance comes in. They call the next of kin. It’s months before I wake up, and by then, everything is okay.”

The domestic nature of “Crystal” is more prevalent in the writing in the second verse—arriving with a little bit of a disgruntled edge, or sneer. “You look hard at me when you say, ‘You don’t love me, but you better stay,’” they sing. “I tell you I’m sorry,” Knipe continues. “I’ll shield my eyes the next time the pretty girls pass me by.”

And it is after that line is scoffed that “Crystal” does detonate, in a sense, turning from a twangy, folksy inspired jaunt into something much heavier, and crunchier in sound—slowing its momentum down slightly, and raining down torrentially until the end. 

Like “Door Is Your Hand,” there is no real resolution, or even hope, in the final moments of “Crystal,” with Knipe musing somberly, “I wait in line for a better time—breaking the glass comes with bad luck, but it eventually will pass. ’Til then, I’ll try to find safety behind. It’s not you—I need someone who’s more kind.”

*

In a short Instagram post about Natural Causes, on the day it was released, Knipe said so much of the writing for the record was their reflecting on mortality “in a number of ways, and being granted a sense of clarity, anger, and acceptance” when they looked back on moments where they felt unsafe, scared, or lonely. 

It is, of course, an extremely personal and revealing record, but even in how personal and revealing it is, Knipe only reveals as much as they wish to. In a number of cases, there is a vagueness—the hand not entirely ready to be played. 

The most revealing, or maybe the most unflinchingly honest songs on Natural Causes are the ones where Knipe is most open about their cancer treatment—with the sparse, acoustic reflection, “Benadryl,” penned specifically about their first time going to chemotherapy.

With skeletal accompaniment of just the distant strum of the acoustic guitar, and Knipe’s voice in a higher range—intentionally fragile as they unpack this difficult reflection, “Benadryl” is placed third in the album’s sequencing so it does provide a slight reprieve from the more boisterous nature of the first two songs. The emphasis here is on the narrative, of course, and outside of the melancholic chords from the guitar, Knipe is joined by a mournful trumpet, serving as an instrumental bridge of sorts, prior to the final verse.

Many of the songs on Natural Causes are built in a way that follows what you would anticipate in a pop song in terms of structure—verse/chorus/verse. Because of its nature, “Benadryl” is one of the tracks here that does forego that kind of organization, and favors a series of verses, all of which are built around following the rise and fall, and kind of casual or loose nature of the vocal melody.

“Doctor’s office across Mary’s Avenue—I sit cautiously and wish I could look at a semblance of a view,” Knipe remarks in the opening line. “Why don’t they have any windows here,” they continue. “Would it kill them to have something without a gray hue?”

Given the stark reality of the song, and of Knipe’s journey through treatment, they resign themselves to the bleakness of the surroundings. “If this is where the dying go, then perhaps they need to fit the dying mood—and it’s no use.”

“I make the best of what became a bad deal,” Knipe explains later on. “I talk shit with the nurses and clock out hard on IV Benadryl—can’t be scared when you’re asleep,” they smirk. “And for the first of the six weeks I felt like I could barely speak. What would I say, anyway?”

Knipe’s health, as of the release of the album, is still a delicate balance—as one may anticipate from someone who underwent cancer treatment. They had announced a handful of summer tour dates in support of Natural Causes, but unfortunately, they had to pull out, with Knipe explaining that touring is feeling too hard for their brain and body right now. I mention that because even though there is, of course, uncertainty—both at the time the album was written and recorded, and even now, “Benadryl” ends with a small glimmer of optimism.

“I try to see the finished route, but the light at the end keeps getting further out,” Knipe resigns, near the end of the song. “But once again, it flickers and blinks just enough for me to get through it again. Another day, another pain—but at the end of it, I think I’ll be okay.”

Knipe returns to this imagery—of cancer and its treatment, and of mortality, on the album’s penultimate track, “How About Now.” And like they do with the similar, or familiar, twangy, folksy instrumentation on both “Crystal,” and then “Headline,” “How About Now” mirrors “Benadryl” in its spectral arrangement. 

“How About Now” is recorded in a similar way to “Benadryl,” also, in the sense both have an intimacy to them—a kind of “in the room” feeling to how everything sounds. Forgoing a chorus, and focusing again on the introspection of the lyrics and the rise and fall within the vocal melody, the pensive and somber strums of Knipe’s guitar and punctuated by the haunting flourishes of a string accompaniment. 

In their writing, Knipe doesn’t hold back on “How About Now,” in terms of emotion, and the toll that the diagnosis and treatment has taken. The song arrives with less of a sneer, or resentment, and more with just a exhausted resignation.

“You always wanted me dead,” they begin, with a little bit of a smirk. “Well, how ‘bout now?,” Knipe continues. “I’m getting pretty close. If I refuse the treatment, it’ll spread out to my bones.”

They never let up on the unflinching nature of the lyrics, but even in how difficult it might be, there is something so remarkably vivid and literate in some of the descriptions and phrase turns that follow early in the song. “Then there’s no turning back,” Knipe laments. “I’ll be dead before the fall. I’ll be buried next to the mall—the one that’s sinking slowly into a swamp. And I’ll go with it—I’ll decompose next to he place where I didn’t have my first kiss, but wanted to.”

The notion of mortality is, of course, something that is explored throughout Natural Causes, given that a bulk of the material is about it, and given what Knipe has experienced. And it doesn’t happen often on the record, but often enough to worth noting, and is resonant with me, not even analytically, but more personally, and that is when Knipe details, or divulges, a more flimsy relationship with mortality, which is where they end up taking us in “How About Now.”

“I always wanted me gone—well, how about now,” Knipe remarks. “Guess I’m pretty close to the line. Am I enough of a victim to get it off my mind?”

“My world becomes so small between my bed and the hospital,” they observe in the next verse. “I finish up another round then drive five minutes across town,” adding a little later on, “I downplay it to family and friends. No sense in worrying them—but of course, they worry anyway.”

Similar to how “Benadryl” concludes on the slightest glimmer of optimism, “How About Now” ends with a sliver of hope, though there is some skepticism, and pessimism, in Knipe’s writing, where they ask questions that, for even as rhetorical as they may be in the moment, go unanswered. 

“I’ll get through it,” they proclaim. “I’ll survive it. I’ll get through it….but at what cost to me?”

*

For as much of Natural Causes exists in the present, or at least is a meditation on the last few years, it does present opportunities for Knipe to explore the past, or past versions of themselves, with perhaps a newfound understanding and grace. 

Surprisingly much more theatrical or dramatic in how it unfolds in comparison to the other songs on the album, “Matinee,” as Knipe described it on social media, is a love letter to themselves—there is a tenderness to it, yes, but there is also a horrible sense of loneliness that I think comes when you exhume specific moments, or memories, from different parts of your life.

Opening with expressive piano, which is joined by the mournful slices of a string accompaniment—both instruments, then, swirling around Knipe’s measured vocal delivery, before the drums literally come rolling in, creating one of the few truly bombastic moments on Natural Causes—a kind of pomp that is not out of place, exactly, on the album, but is certainly unexpected. 

This extended instrumental build up, or flourish, recedes, giving the third verse a bit of a rollick, or bounce to it, thanks to how the drums slide into a rhythm, with enthusiastic piano chords ringing out over the top—which is how the song propels itself forward, and then ascends, as it reaches its conclusion.

“Matinee” is another place on the record where Knipe, within the structure, works outside of the lines the rigidity of “verse/chorus/verse,” and only really arriving at any kind of repetition of phrasing near the end—the lyrics here, even though they adhere to a melody, are much more concerned with the introspective narrative, and how that should unfold.

Lyrically, yes, the song is Knipe addressing a past version of themself but even if it is a “love letter” of sorts, that doesn’t mean it has to hold back, exactly, or be tender—it isn’t condescending, but it is rather blunt, or frank, in its recollections.

“I think you’re gonna survive this—I think you already did,” Knipe begins. “The hole in your chest was quite the hit but in the end, it was matinee theatrics.”

The imagery, the further the song moves along, comes in a flurry of evocative vignettes. “You’re walking home through foot traffic, trying to weave around the drunken businessmen,” they continue, before the narrative goes from a little anxious and nervy, to bleak. “Your card gets declined so you ask one for a swipe, only to be denied, and left there behind.”

“You go through a phase of hiding inside of dark bars, walking distance from the train,” Knipe details, grimly. “You sink a couple down and hope that no one figures out you came alone, and you will leave the same way.”

The grace Knipe can offer the version of themselves from the past comes in the final verses, and recollections in “Matinee.” “But at least you tried,” they bellow while the music swells. “At least you attended. And your room became a mess with every piece of clothing you tried to fit. You’re standing there in a mirror of full length, with a willingness to pretend enough just to get through it.”

All of Knipe’s introspection converges in the final two verses, and I don’t think there is a question being asked within the imagery and narrative found within “Matinee,” because there is no answer given, really. If anything, I think the song is an attempt at walking back through one’s life and not attempting to “unpack” parts of your history, or the events, or moments, or interactions, that for better or worse, shaped who you are now, but maybe just an acknowledgment or a resignation of sorts, and the opportunity to both see where you were, and who you were, in contrast with who you are now, and where you are going.

“Take it back to the start of the fall, when you got yourself up, just to push who you were further off,” Knipe exclaims near the end of the song, before adding, later, “Take it back to the start of it all,” before offering another small moment of grace and compassion by repeating the song’s opening line. 

I think you’re gonna survive this.

*

I am always coming back to this. 

Certainly over the last two years, maybe even longer than that. And yes, maybe I return to it too often. Too much. I lean into it too far. I parade it around. 

You’re told to write what you know. There was a time when I would have told you that this is maybe all I know because I couldn't see any way out of it. I don’t believe that anymore, though.

You write what you know. This is what I know, still. 

If you’ll allow me, once again, as we near the end, many thousands of words later, to break the fourth wall and address you, the reader, directly—even in something that should be more objectively analytical, it is still the thing I come back to. The thing that I use as my way in. This wasn’t always the case. It used to come easier. Or if not easier, it was far less personal. I didn’t always need to be this personal. I didn’t always need to write myself in and look for the unflattering reflections of myself within somebody else’s writing. 

That is the thing about contemporary popular music. The way we can if we are so included, not to “make it our own,” but to look for ourselves in it, and take it with us.

I am always coming back to this. You write what you know. This is what I know, still. 

You come back to a moment. 

The moment when you search a cumbersome, clunky phrase a few minutes before an appointment with your therapist begins—her face appearing in a window on a dirty laptop screen. 

The phrase, carefully typed into the search bar, is the only way you know how to describe how you have been feeling. And that you are no longer know what to do about how often you are feeling this way.

You come back to a moment. 

It is, like, three years later and you do have a name, or a better description, for what you were feeling, and have continued to experience. It is, at this point, something that happens almost every day. It is, at this point, often the first thing you think of when you open your eyes and hoist yourself out of bed. 

It’s November 2023. A Friday. You spend most of the day crying. At times, you’re uncertain why. Other times, you understand exactly why it is happening. It’s because that feeling—it never really “goes away,” exactly, as the morning becomes the afternoon. The intensity though, or how oppressive it appears at first, usually lessens. But this Friday is different. Because the intensity hasn’t gone away. It continues. It comes in waves. This is the first time you’ve felt scared. 

From the top of the stairs, while struggling to put on your shoes, you call your best friend and you tell her what is going on. You say, “I think something is wrong with me.” 

You come back to a moment.

You are on your knees, in the laundry room, sorting through what you have dumped onto the cold, gray floor—pants, socks, towels, and underwear, darks. You stare at the wadded up clothing and you are overcome with a horrible feeling. You understand that this isn’t sustainable.

You come back to a moment.

It’s the end of 2024. December. You are having lunch with your best friend. Without prefacing, you say, “I’m afraid.” She is surprised but without missing a beat responds, “What are you afraid of?”

You are looking into one another’s eyes and you tell her—barely able to get it out before the tears come and you start to gasp. You say, “I’m afraid that it is going to feel like this forever.”

That is the thing about contemporary popular music. We look for ourselves in it and if you are like me you are often finding absolutely sobering, humbling, difficult reflections when you listen.

Joking about your mental health is a delicate balance—there are moments when you feel like you are allowed to do so. There are other times when it is certainly in poor taste. The same can be said for others making jokes at the expense of your mental health. Maybe even more delicate of a balance to strike. At what point is it okay to laugh at yourself? When it is out of line—even if it is never intended to be malicious.

There is a little bit of a brattiness in Knipe’s voice—or a little bit of an exhaustive scoff, as they sing the first line to “Burned Off.” “I’m placing a call to a 1-800 number I look up on my phone,” they say. “Stranger answers with a borrowed tone,” Knipe continues, before kind of rolling their eyes at the theatrics of it all. “Say, ‘Hello—I’ve been wondering what my scissors can cut besides my hair, and this childish note.’”

“Wondered if I’d even feel it at all,” they ponder. “Wondered if I should have even made this call.”

You come back to a moment. 

And the 1-800 number, among other resources, are the first things that came up when I searched a cumbersome, clunky phrase—the only way, at the time, I knew how to describe how I was feeling. You have to scroll. Not very far, but enough, to find any information of real substance or that will offer you assistance that is less reactionary. 

I am remiss to say that “Burned Off” comes from a bleak place, but it certainly is a song that is representative of a dark time—a time that perhaps felt like it was never going to end. And in a rather sharp and disorienting juxtaposition, musically, “Burned Off” is among the album’s most dazzling or shimmering, and most playful or striking in its arranging, built around an infectious melody within the big and bold chorus. 

The song opens with a distant, chopped up sounding snare drum ping, before a slinky bass groove comes in, and the plunked out notes of the guitar string joining shortly after. This kind of aloof, or jovial feeling is sustained while Knipe takes their time, allowing the words of the first verse to tumble out into just the right places, all before the song swirls up and delivers the iridescent, sing-a-long chorus. 

Knipe, and her bandmates, balance this give and take until the song’s bridge, which is where the contrast between the song’s lyrics and the song’s arranging, or feeling, is most apparent, because there is a real sense of whimsy in the way the guitar plays out a little riff that bounces around gleefully before the chorus kicks back in enthusiastically, and the band rides that out until arriving at the end.

You come back to a moment.

“And I wanna go,” Knipe continues in the second verse, as the music recedes back to a slinking groove. “I wanna hurt enough that makes it real enough—that makes it understandable.” 

And that is the thing about contemporary popular music. You look for yourself in it. And maybe sometimes you aren’t even really looking. But, regardless, you are surprised when you are staring down unflattering, often unflinching reflections in what you hear. 

You come back to a moment. And before “Burned Off” ascends, once again, into the chorus, Knipe sings assuredly, “And I know that I can’t live like this—but what if there’s times that I don’t want to live at all.”

It’s fitting, I suppose. For all of the reflections of myself I have found in contemporary popular music—and the difficult, uneasy reflections of myself I see in “Burned Off,” it’s within the bridge when Knipe, themselves, reflect both literally and figuratively. 

“I catch myself again by the yellow light—beating fluorescent,” they begin. “And I unclench my jaw. And I speak into the phone, and say, ‘I don’t wanna die—just don’t wanna be alone,’ and I always seesaw.”

That seesawing, or oscillation, speaks to something larger, I think, that we, or at least I, experience. “From good to bad and worst to fine,” Knipe observes. “The things I try to justify never seem to stay that long.” And that is the case, isn’t it. The human condition. The thing there is no cure for. The moments we find ourselves in, when everything feels like it is just too much. Like, it is not sustainable. 

That it is going to feel like this forever. 

And the moments in between. Things receded. We tread water. Things are fine. Fine enough. 

For the kind of grace that Knipe shows to themself elsewhere on Natural Causes, like in “Matinee,” or even the tenderness within “Benadryl,” there is a surprisingly scathing and self effacing attitude in the chorus—maybe not surprising, given the conceit of “Burned Off,” but they hold nothing back in sneering at their own reflection.

“If I took apart myself and every piece of me was laid out,” they begin, while the instrumentation does truly dazzle and shimmer. “I don’t think I’d like what I saw. And if I threw a lighted match atop this mountain of filth and mess, I don’t think I’d miss what burned off.”

And through all the recurring themes, or ideas, that Knipe references within Natural Causes, one of the things that is most resonant is how there is little, if any, resolution, or answers, for any of this. The album itself ends a bit unceremoniously, but even in the songs that do inherently hold more weight to them, there is this haunting, lingering feeling within them—something that you do end up carrying with you well after the final, dissonant, cacophonic notes of “Headline” have faded into silence. 

I tell you all of that to tell you this—that within the seesawing depicted within “Burned Off,” Knipe lands on neither side, really, and concludes their rumination from a place of true pessimism by uttering, “Maybe every step I took was the wrong one after all.”

*

And there are the multitudes we contain. The moments we come back to. The moments that feel like they are never going to pass. The relief that comes when they eventually do, however long it ends up taking. 

In all that it reflects on, Natural Causes is less of an album about making peace, or acceptance, but rather, it is about confrontation—not in an antagonistic way, really, but in a way that is unafraid of what might happen in the end, not because it wants to be, but because it has to be.

Across Natural Causes, Knipe not only asks but really implores and in some cases, demands, that if they can confront these things about themself, we can do the same—stare down the unflattering or the ugliness. The moments, however difficult, or harrowing, that we come back to. 

Knipe made it through a cancer diagnosis at a young age, and through treatment, and I am hesitant to refer to this album, and the themes that connect these songs, as one of “survival.” If anything, it is about a refusal, even in the absolute worst moments. Even when you are afraid that it is always going to feel this way. You have to understand that you can always refuse. 

I am hesitant to refer to Natural Causes as an album about survival, though Knipe begins a song by singing, to themself, “I think you’re gonna survive this—I think you already did.” You come back to a moment. The moment passes. You continue treading water. You refuse even though you often understand the allure of giving up.

There is a fearlessness to Knipe’s songwriting across the entirety of Natural Causes—and musically there is an enormity and tightness in both the musician ship of the band assembled for these recordings, including Lily Mastrodimos, a folk artist who performs under the moniker Long Neck on bass, as well as in the arrangements themselves. It is a razor-sharp, human, incredibly thoughtful, and astonishingly bold album—personal and fragile in a way that still welcomes you in for the experience it wants to share. 

Natural Causes is out now on cassette and as a digital download via Epitaph.