Album Review: Boygenius - The Record

I spent portions of last year, on and off, writing a lot about change.

In each instance, it was, however flimsy or thin the narrative devices wound up being, in the end, always related to music analysis—and always w/r/t two songs, specifically. But in sitting down to write about the album, or the song, in question, writing about change, and everything that comes with it, was not entirely done out of want, or even out of necessity. 

But, in each case, the further along I got, writing about change, and everything that comes with it, was, more than anything else, done out of a need, or a reluctant acceptance of something I was most certainly trying to avoid. 

There is a lot that does come with writing about change, and an acceptance (reluctant or otherwise)—you end up writing about growth, and about resigning yourself to let go of something, regardless of how difficult, or uncomfortable it might feel, or how fearful it may make you.

You write about friendship and platonic love. 

You, and maybe you don’t write about it, and maybe it’s just something that you begin to think about as the words wind up on the page, but you end up second-guessing a lot of things that, in the past, you tried not to, but still find yourself returning to and ruminating on more than you’d care to comfortably admit. 

I spent portions of last year, on and off, writing a lot about change, and, you see, my friend, this is my third attempt at this. 

Because writing—writing about music, or really, just writing about anything, thoughtfully, in general, the way I do it and the way I have been doing it for a number of years now—my friend, none of it is easy. 

But that’s the trick, then, isn’t it? 

The trick is that, in the end, when you’re reading this and my job, at least for now, is finished—this is all supposed to seem quite effortless. 

You are never supposed to have any real idea, or ever truly see, how much these pieces are just fucking labored over—written, re-written, edited, punched up, whatever, until I drag it over the finish line that is, if I’ve done my job right, the conclusion that I wanted, and earned along the way.

For a long time, and it’s not something that I think about much anymore, but there were a number of years when I was writing something I had deemed “very important,” and in getting into it, there were times when I would get ahead of myself, and already know how I wanted it to end. It was the getting to that ending, though—that was the challenge. I needed to write in such a way that I felt like I had earned that conclusion.

This, originally, in the first draft, was going to be about how every love story is a ghost story. 

This, originally, in the second draft, was about, among other things, a time I wound up second-guessing myself about something that, in the past, I had tried not to. 

You’ve never done me wrong except for that one time that we don’t talk about…

It will probably, inevitably, still be about both of those things. 

But I don’t know how this is going to end yet.

*

And I think, by now, the mythology, or origin story, around the formation of the band Boygenius, is relatively well known—three young women, all relatively close in age, all singer/songwriters, all kind of orbiting around one another within the earlier days of their respective careers, two of them (Julien Baker and Lucy Dacus) connected to the same label (Matador), and all of them releasing full-length albums within the same span of, like, six or seven months.

A co-headlining tour, in 2018, between Baker and Phoebe Bridgers, with Dacus slated as the “special guest” opening act, is plotted; a collaborative single between the three, with the intention to release it in conjunction with the tour, is proposed; the collaboration turns into a proper band, the single turns into a six-song EP.

The self-titled EP is played, in full, as an “encore” at the end of every show on the tour.

And I think, in the press cycle surrounding the group’s reconvening and the release of their full-length debut, aptly titled The Record, the mythology, or endearing anecdote, on how the members of Boygenius came back together, as a group, is relatively well-known—shortly after Bridgers’ released her second album, Punisher, in the summer of 2020—she wrote the song, “Emily, I’m Sorry,” and in sending it to Baker and Dacus, asked, “Can we be a band again?”

What I think, though, is more compelling than the origin of, and reuniting of this group, is the fact that after five years, just how much has occurred over that time—like, overall, to the world, but maybe more importantly, what Julien Baker, Lucy Dacus, and Phoebe Bridgers have all accomplished on their own, and that they were able to collaborate again, and do it so astonishingly well.

This, originally, in the first draft, was going to be about a how every love story is a ghost story—and how one of the love stories—the main one, I guess—the one that is not yet a ghost story, is about the seemingly unbreakable bond between the three core members of Boygenius, and how The Record, across its 12 tracks, is an often blistering and regularly devastating testament to each other, as individuals, but also to the dynamic formed when they are working together toward larger than themselves.

*

This, originally, in the second draft, was about, among other things, a time I wound up second-guessing myself about something that, in the past, I had tried not to. 

You already hurt my feelings three times in a way only you could

It will probably, inevitably, still be about that.

And if you continue to thread and pull enough narrative devices and overextended metaphors throughout something, it means you do, eventually, have to tie them all together somehow at the end.

But I don’t know how this is going to end yet.

*

Like the Boygenius EP before it, when The Record was announced in January, said announcement was generously accompanied by three singles—“$20,” “Emily, I’m Sorry,” and “True Blue,” each of which features one member, respectively, taking the lead within the song. 

And this is, I suppose, as fine of a time as any, to discuss the dynamic and distribution within Boygenius. 

The album’s liner notes are, perhaps intentionally, left vague w/r/t who, exactly, contributed what to The Record—names of musicians, like Lucy Dacus’ lead guitarist Jacob Blizzard, or Phoebe Bridgers’ drummer Marshall Vore are mentioned, along with Autolux’s powerhouse drummer Carla Alazar, and you can, if you are so inclined, make assumptions about which songs certain folks were involved with, but overall, like the idea of Boygenius itself, it is a truly collaborative affair.

The songwriting credits, too, are left intentionally vague, but in how vague they are, it makes them inclusive: Dacus, Bridgers, and Baker are all credited as songwriters on every track—even when it is a song where one member is featured in more of a leading role than where they lean into the idea of the give and take of the ensemble. And structurally, the balance between “group songs” and, for lack of a better description, “solo songs,” is remarkably even. This balance was, maybe, a little easier for the group to reach on the self-titled EP, when there were only six tracks, but across a full-length, it never runs the risk of tipping too far into, or becoming too obvious in its favoring of one member over the others. 

This, originally, in the first draft, was going to be about a how every love story is a ghost story—and how one of the love stories—the main one, I guess—the one that is not yet a ghost story, and that within that love story, and if you are following my rather flimsy narrative device here, The Record is that story, you can really hear how much fun Bridgers, Dacus, and Baker are having with one another, even when they have written a song that will break your heart and leave you in a heap.

The love story is in their friendship, yes, but it is also in the respect that they have for one another and what they do outside of the group—and within the group setting, there is a palpable, contagious energy bursting out of The Record. They are all happy to contribute in a collective way, but they are maybe even happier, or just as enthusiastic, about hyping one another up when someone else briefly takes the spotlight.

*

I spent portions of last year, on and off, writing a lot about change. 

And each time I did, it was not entirely done out of want or even out of necessity but, in each instance, the further along I got, writing about change and everything that comes with it was, more than anything else, done out of a need, or a reluctance to acceptance of something I was most certainly trying to avoid. 

There is a lot that does come with writing about change, and an acceptance that is reluctant or otherwise—you end up writing about growth, and about resigning yourself to let go of something, regardless of how difficult, or uncomfortable it might feel, or how fearful it may make you.

This, originally, in the second draft, was about, among other things, a time I wound up second-guessing myself about something that, in the past, I had tried not to. 

I can’t hide from you like I hide from myself.

It will probably, inevitably, still be about that.

One would think that I would know how this is going to end, but even if I did, there is the question of if I have truly earned that ending when I have arrived at it.

*

And what is among the most noticeable things, right away, about The Record, and is among the more impressive elements to it as a whole, is how the growth and maturation in sound that the members of the group have experienced within their own output over the last five years, has impacted what they’ve brought with them in reconvening as Boygenius—specifically, Julien Baker and Phoebe Bridgers, who have had, perhaps, the most noticeable growth, or shift, in their overall sound frame one album to another. 

Baker, upwards of eight years ago, with the release of Sprained Ankle, was working from within the most skeletal of textures—favoring mostly acoustic guitar and piano; then, upon signing with Matador Records and releasing her second full-length, Turn Out The Lights, she began to include more depth and texture—stirring string accompaniment, and playing with tone, and volume, of the electric guitar. Her open-armed embracing of a “full band” sound, including a rhythm section and layers of atmospheric keyboards, on Little Oblivions, released around two years ago, should not have been that much of a surprise to listeners who were paying attention—she had been slowly, and subtly dabbling in these elements on the one-off singles she had issued in 2019, most notably the stunning “Red Door,” and the visceral and effacing “Tokyo.”

The shift in Briders’ sound, too, between her debut, Stranger in The Alps, and its dense and cathartic follow-up, Punisher, is a little less obvious in comparison, but still worth noting—specifically in the production and mixing of the record—like the, at times, murky soundscapes, robust use of string instruments within the arranging, and the muffled or subdued, then snappy sounding drumming from Marshall Vore—all kind of find their way into the way The Record ends up sounding in certain corners. 

And certainly, Baker and Bridgers singing lead vocals on songs like “$20” or “Emily, I’m Sorry,” respectively, reveal the hand of who had a more creative stake in the creation of each track, but their arranging and production, too, provide strong indicators. 

Baker’s “$20” was one of the three singles originally released from The Record—and actually, and a bit surprisingly, the three singles released in tandem with the announcement of the album itself, are in sequential order within the first half of the record. “$20,” following a very brief, and very endearing intro track, more or less kicks off the album, and it does so through the kind of bombast, and snarling, electric guitar-driven ferocity that Baker really leaned into on Little Oblivions. Musically, between the pummeling snare hits from the rhythm and chugging, fuzzed-out guitar riff, it is unrelenting in its exuberance.

Lyrically, throughout The Record, there are moments, as one might expect from an album featuring Lucy Dacus, Julien Baker, and Phoebe Bridgers, that are extremely personal and harrowing—“$20,” though, is not one of those moments, and in the way it’s written, it, more than anything else, is more vivid in the imagery Baker creates, though she plays the meaning within the narrative close, keeping a lot of it just ambiguous enough.

Baker, famously, often writes about violence—and she’ll get to that later on in the album, but here, there are images that are both rather bleak, or desolate (a motorcycle on a front lawn, a T-Bird graveyard, a Chevy on cinderblocks), but within those flashes, there is a palpable sense of urgency—a little self-destructive, a little mischievous—to run, and if not to run, then to thrown yourself head first into the experience, however temporary, of something other than what you know now.

The opening line is a warning to herself, but one she ignores just as fast as it is given—“It’s a bad idea, and I’m all about it. Give it one more chance, and then I finally had it—when you wake up, I’ll be gone,” Baker announces, then later, is already on the run within the second verse. “It’s an all-night drive from your house to Reno to the T-Bird graveyard where we play with fire—in another life, we were arsonists.”

The closing of the song is less of a convergence between the three voices, layering themselves singing different parts, and more of a collision—“Take a break, make your escape,” Dacus encourages, while Baker, perhaps, is facing the consequences of her actions: “Run out of gas, out of time, out of money—you’re doing what just making it run,” while Bridgers, tapping into the larynx shredding howl she used in the final moments of “I Know The End,” on Punisher, continues to not so much to ask for, but rather demand to be given, the titular amount of money.

Later, in the second half of the record, on the more collectively written and performed “Satanist,” the band returns to this kind of noisy, cacophonic enthusiasm—with searing and distorted electric guitars, strummed with precision and intention, and thundering percussion—especially when the song reaches its explosive climax. And there is, of course, a winking thrill from hearing Baker, famously rather spiritual (and famously writing about her struggles with faith and belief into her lyrics), uttering the song’s opening line: “Will you be a Satanist with me?”

The Record’s penultimate track, and one final torrential inhalation, is the Baker-lead “Anti-Curse,” which shifts the tone to something a little more serious, both in her lyricism and with the kind of gloomy shadow cast over the arranging. Musically, the group still lets it, and wants it to soar, but there is a feeling of restraint, or stark tension, that keeps it from flying as high, or just cutting as loose and almost going off the rails in comparison to a number of other moments on the album. 

“Anti-Curse” is, allegedly, an anecdotal reflection on a near-drowning Baker experienced at the beach, which she plays off in an interview about the song, and the creation of the album, as being not that bad of a way to go. And in the song’s lyrics, she spends more time on the self-reflection in the aftermath of her experience more than the actual act of almost drowning in the ocean itself—“Makin’ peace with my inevitable death,” she sings, before turning inward with unsurprising poignancy. “Tried to be a halfway decent friend—wound up a bad comedian,” Baker sings with an effacing sneer. “An honest fool with more bad habits than you can count.”

The songs on The Record, at times jubilant or exciting in their sound and execution, certainly, are often rather sad, or dark, in unpacking the lyrics, which should not be a surprise to anyone listening. However, even if it is not the most optimistic record, it is also not entirely hopeless in its observations about the self—one of Baker’s final thoughts in “Anti-Curse,” as she recovers and both figuratively and literally swims back to shore, is “You don’t have to make it bad just ‘cause you know how.”

*

Phoebe Bridgers, regardless of if it was wanted, or not, is the member of Boygenius who has probably received the most attention over the last five years—Some of that attention was, obviously, because of her career. There was her involvement in the now seemingly one-off project with Bright Eyes himself, Conor Oberst—the Better Oblivion Community Center, and the self-titled LP they released near the top of 2019; and, of course, there was the success she saw following the release of Punisher in June of 2020—and the subsequent EP issued at the end of that year, Copycat Killer, which reimagined four tracks from the album through complex string arrangements from Rob Moose. 

Bridgers, though, has also been in the public eye, or at least the subject of internet speculation, because of her romantic involvements—which is, honestly, nothing new for her, given how very apparent her breakout single “Motion Sickness” was about her brief, toxic relationship with former alt.country singer and notorious sexual predator Ryan Adams. Notably, Bridgers was engaged, for a time, to actor Paul Mescal—and upon the announcement their relationship had ended, there were rumors she was allegedly involved with comedian Bo Burham. 

The song “Emily, I’m Sorry,” isn’t about either of those men, though.

It’s about a girl named Emily.

Striking a tone similar to the moodiest, and most somber moments from Punisher, like the absolutely devastating “Moon Song,” for example, “Emily, I’m Sorry” is, yes, the impetus for Boygenius getting back together, but it is also an incredibly stark reflection, both of the self, and of circumstances, from Bridgers.

The speculation about the titular Emily, per the song’s annotated lyrics on Genius, as well as the Boygenius subreddit, is that it is about Emily Bannon, an actor with whom Bridgers was friends, at one point, but also was seemingly in a perhaps tumultuous relationship with that ended, presumably, prior to the release of Punisher. 

The details are, honestly, difficult to follow—and may, or may not, involve a polyamorous relationship and an eventual defamation lawsuit filed (then later dismissed) against Bridgers—like I said, the details are difficult to follow, and I stop short of saying they are not important to understanding the heft of the song itself, but it is also not, like, imperative.

By the title alone, it is apparent that “Emily, I’m Sorry” is an apology, but within Bridgers’ lyricism, she depicts both the apology, yes, and not the moments that necessarily lead up to it, but of an, at times, difficult and complicated relationship, how she was navigating it as best she could at the time, and of a wish, or want, for things to maybe be different from how they are—not better, but just different, our much less challenging to navigate.

The tempo, and overall demeanor, of “Emily, I’m Sorry,” doesn’t destroy the early momentum of The Record, following the onslaught of “$20,” but it is quite a reversal—not so much turning things inward, but pulling them, hard, and then making you, as the listener, sit with Bridgers as she tries her best to sort through her difficult feelings.

And there is the juxtaposition in tone between The Record’s second and third track, certainly, but there is also the contrasting that Bridgers does within “Emily”’s first verse, where she describes the scene of what she presumes to be the titular character asleep in the backseat, however, the dream depicted is one of “Screeching tires and fire.” And, just a few lines later, an even bleaker contrast: “When I pointed out where the North Star is, she called me a fuckin’ liar.”

The arranging to “Emily” is like quick, bright flickers that then quickly fade into the darkness—the deep resonance of Bridgers’ electric guitar is present throughout as she dedicated strums, with the muted, subtle percussion coming in within the second verse, just underneath the layers of gentle atmospherics and impressive and effective production techniques—like the reversed textural elements and the literal flickering and quivering sound that occurs before the first thud of the drums arrives. The quiet nature of the song’s instrumentation is seemingly done not only because it is just so, so sad, but it puts the spotlight on the haunting, gorgeous vocal arrangements from Baker and Dacus, who allow their harmonizing to drift, rise, and fall, echoing what Bridgers sings in the chorus, as the music swirls around them all a snowglobe that has just been stirred. 

Bridgers, in the song, apologizes to the titular Emily, but within the world of the song, she does not receive a reply—that lack of resolve is, in part, what makes it such an impactful song, as she continues to both lament what has come and gone, and what that means for her now, quietly singing one of the most devastating lines: “I can feel myself becoming someone only you could want.”

The Record certainly returns to this kind of Punisher-adjacent sound in its final, stirring track, as well as at the halfway point, on “Revolution 0”—a Beatles reference which ultimately took the place of the song’s working title (another Beatles reference), “Paul is Dead.”

Musically, there is less of a density to the texture of “Revolution 0,” than there is to “Emily, I’m Sorry”—focusing mostly on gentle, finger-picked acoustic guitar work, until the song gently lifts off and swoons in its latter half, and the emphasis, outside of the possible duality of Bridgers’ lyricism, the emphasis is really on, again, the gorgeous harmonizing backup vocals provided by Dacus and Baker. 

Even though he had passed away roughly 14 years prior to the arrival of her debut full-length, Elliott Smith has played a huge role in Bridgers’ life, in terms of influence and inspiration, as well as the kind of “rightful heir to the throne” of someone writing incredibly dark and sad but often beautiful and sonically complicated songs. Smith is, of course, a character in Punisher’s title track.

I take it, maybe, as common knowledge that Elliott Smith’s birth name was, in fact, not “Elliott,” but his full name was Steven Paul Smith—and there are allusions within “Revolution 0,” outside of the abandoned working title, that leads one to believe at least part of this song is a continuation of Bridgers’ connection to the deceased singer and songwriter.

“I’ve been making music since you told me to do it,” Bridgers proclaims in the song’s first verse, before the lyrics take a surprisingly violent turn. “I just wanna know who broke your nose,” she continues. “Figure out where they live so I can kick their teeth in.”

The duality, or at least intentional contrast in the off-stage character she’s addressing in “Revolution 0,” is speculated to allegedly be her former fiancé, Paul Mescal—again, the song’s working title points to this. And there is an exasperated quality to the way the rest of the song unfolds when it is, very clearly, no longer about Elliott Smith.

“If this isn’t love,” the trio sings in the song’s chorus. “Then what the fuck is it? I guess just let me pretend.” Then, following the shorter second verse, “If you’re not enough, then I give up—and then nothing is.”

With less than two minutes left in the song, a gentle, measured rhythm from the drum kit comes in, while a sting arrangement begins to swirl just a little more frenetically, and the members of the group carry a wordless tune until the closing thoughts, which resonate long after the song has come to an end: “I used to think that if I just closed my eyes, I’d disappear.”

*

The way I respond to criticism of things that I like has varied over time—in college, I wasn’t more passionate about music than I am now, but I was more passionate and much more obnoxious about other people appreciating everything that I did. There was more the one occasion where I introduced someone to an artist and famously prefaced it by saying, “If you don’t like this, I don’t know if we can be friends.”

I am thankfully no longer that person. And if I am being frank, I have a hard time fathoming a version of myself that had that much enthusiasm, or excitement about something.

I can remember, once I was pointed in the direction of reading reviews and perusing the news on Pitchfork, in, like 2004, I was mortified at their review of Damien Rice’s debut O, an album that, in 2004, I absolutely adored, and could not believe that anyone would not be able to see the merit in it that I did.

When I still worked in the newsroom for the local newspaper, I remember my editor bellowing out, for whatever reason, “Opinions are like assholes—everybody’s got ‘em,” which is, in a sense, an allegory for the discussion and dissection of music on the internet. Over the last decade, for sure, I think I made efforts at becoming a little more tolerant or understanding when I read an opinion, either in an album review, or from some other corner of the internet, that I disagree with, but lately, I feel I have, at least in some regard, lost my sense of humor.

I, recently, without even batting an eyelash, unfollowed someone on Twitter for a single, kind of disguised statement I took as slander against the opening nights of Taylor Swift’s long-awaited Eras tour—and, on the weekend of The Record’s release, I did the same to someone badmouthing the lyricism on the short, strummy, humorous song “Leonard Cohen.” 

At less than two minutes in length, I am uncertain who to truly attribute the song to, if anyone—it is not one of the songs that is a very obvious group effort, with Lucy Dacus singing the lead vocals on it, but its length—similar to the album’s intro—makes “Leonard Cohen” feel like a sketch, or an interlude, more than anything else.

The thing about the song, in the anecdote it relays, is only partially about Cohen, as a person, and an artist; it is mostly about the members of Boygenius on a road trip where, when Phoebe Bridgers did, truly, commandeer the car’s stereo by announcing, “If you love me, you will listen to this song”—the song in question was the 2004 Iron and Wine track, “The Trapeze Swinger,” whiz, in its rumination on time and mortality, is roughly ten minutes in length and is just a sequence of verses with no discernible chorus. 

So there was, according to the story behind the song, no time or opportunity for anyone else to interrupt and mention they were heading in the wrong direction on the freeway, and so the song ultimately added an hour onto their trip.

And like the album’s introductory track, and The Record as a whole, is an ode, or a love story, if you will, to the friendship at the heart of Boygenius, the first half of “Leonard Cohen” is a charming story, retold for the listener, but the second half, even in the ambiguity that Dacus uses to drape over it, can either be a continuation of that exploration of the dynamics of their relationship. Or, it could be about something, or someone else, entirely.

“You said, ‘I might like you less now that you know me so well,’” Dacus sings, slyly at the moment that bridges the first and second verses, where she introduces the titular figure. “Leonard Cohen once said, ‘There’s a crack in everything—that’s how the light gets in,’” she states, before getting to one of the more surprising lines on the album that, at first, I was uncertain how I felt about it—much like the now infamous “sexy baby” lyric in Taylor Swift’s “Anti-Hero,” but like that, I came to appreciate the humor and earnestness here.

“And I am not an old man having an existential crisis at a Buddhist monastery writing horny poetry—but I agree,” she sings, straight-faced, as the song continues to clip forward towards its ending, before capping it with, “I never thought you’d happen to me.”

And for a song that clocks in at less than two minutes, and within the second half of it alone, it does truly give a lot to think about—such a brief moment that, after it's gone, you find you are still sitting in it—not immobilized, exactly, but the weight and wonder, but really giving thought to the layers within.

I had a professor during my final year in college—in the English Department (but of course)—who tried to get me into Leonard Cohen. He gave me a cassette tape of Cohen’s to listen to, and at all of 21, I tried, but at that time, it didn’t seem like it was for me, even though I was aware that Cohen was an important figure in contemporary popular music, and even though, at this time, there was one of the many resurgences in his penned “Hallelujah”—the storied cover by Jeff Buckley was having a moment thanks to its usage in the first season finale of the program “The O.C.”

But between then, and now, and I cannot say that I really gave a lot of effort to it, but I found no real easy access point to Cohen’s catalog, despite how important and influential some of his albums seem to be for many—and in a discussion I had with someone in 2022 for an episode of the Anhedonic Headphones Podcast, she had picked a Leonard Cohen song, only because it was representative of a part of her life where she found herself, if I’m remembering this correctly, hanging out with a lot of boys at the time who really liked his music, and it was the one song of his she appreciated.

She added that it was okay to have never found an access point for him, and that at this point in my life (my late 30s), that ship had maybe sailed. Maybe that is for the best if he is seemingly all too easily described, even partly in jest, as a horny old man having an existential crisis. 

Regardless, there is some lingering poignancy to the line Dacus borrows here—“There’s a crack in everything—that’s how the light gets in.” The metaphor itself is pretty obvious, I think, and in this context, I am thinking of how it applies to the dynamic within the members of Boygenius—specifically their bond as friends, and how it is something to stop and reflect on, in terms of how, and how much, of the light of others we are able to let in through our own cracks, and in turn, how much of our light is coming through into somebody else we feel a connection to.

And I am hesitant to say that Lucy Dacus is “underutilized” throughout The Record, because that is not the case, but her role within the context of the band, as well as the growth between her 2018 LP Historian, and its ambitious and complicated follow up, Home Video, in 2021, are not as apparent as her bandmates’. 

Dacus, as a vocalist, is the most inherently soulful, but there is a kind of quiet, or a reserve, and a fragility to that soulfulness and how she works that into these songs—specifically in the moments where she is not the lead singer. And comparatively, between her first and second full-length albums, there was certainly growth in terms of arranging and orchestration, but it is difficult to articulate: the scope of Home Video is just much, much larger—everything sounds a lot more robust and thoughtfully developed. 

And where her Boygenius bandmates brought their current aesthetics into the studio, Dacus’ material is not indicative of where she is currently—sonically speaking, if that makes sense at all. 

One of the finest songs on the album, which also happened to be one of the three original singles issued upon The Record’s announcement, is a song where Dacus takes the lead—additionally, the tender ballad tucked within the final third, “We’re In Love,” is another where she is the featured vocalist, and it is, of course, easy to get wrapped up in the hushed arranging of the song, and haunting way she sings, but it is the lyrics themselves that are absolutely stunning and can stop you in your tracks.

“We’re In Love,” by its title alone, is a “love song,” but it is not the kind of love song about adoration, or affection, that you may anticipate—or maybe, because it is within the context of this album, you were anticipating a reflection on the more difficult, or tumultuous aspects of love, and loving someone, which is exactly what you get: “You could absolutely break my heart—that’s how I know that we’re in love,” Dacus begins, her voice already walking the line between somber and fragile. “I told you of your past lives,” she continues. “Every man you’ve ever been—it wasn’t flattering, but you listened like it mattered.”

And it is not a surprise, by any means, that The Record is full of difficult lyrics, many of which can make a listener, such as myself, feel both seen and attacked, but the further “We’re In Love” goes, the more devastating and bleaker it becomes in its depictions. “Will you still love me if it turns out I’m insane?,” Dacus asks. “I know what you’ll say, but it helps to hear you say it anyway.”

As Dacus herself, in her vocal performance, delivers these words in a voice that effortlessly moves between sorrow and delicacy, the writing, too, moves between two extremes—heartbreak and flashes of hope. 

“Some October in the future, I’ll run out of trash TV, and I’ll be feeling lonely, so I’ll walk to karaoke,” Dacus predicts for herself in the second verse. “Sing the song you wrote about me, never once checking the words,” she continues. “I hope the two one sings along. I hope that I’m not a regular.” 

And there is, at that point, a kind of breaking of the fourth wall between the narrative, and Dacus herself as she crafts it, remarking to both herself as much as the listener, “Damn, that takes me sad. It doesn’t have to be like that,” before delivering one of the album’s most lasting phrases: “If you rewrite your life, may I still play a part?”

Dacus returns to the idea of past, and future, lives in the final verse of “We’re In Love,” which is where there is that brief flicker of hope. “In the next one, will you find me?,” she inquires. “I’ll be the boy with the pink carnation pinned to my lapel, who looks like hell, and asks for help. And if you do, I’ll know it’s you.”

*

At all of 80 seconds long, The Record opens with “Without You, Without Them,” which is very endearing, yes, but also, more than anything else, serves as an intro track before echoing out in distortion and sliding into (at least on the vinyl mix) the thrashing first notes of “$20.” It by no means is a conceit for the album as a whole, but can be seen as a brief, charming reflection on the bond these three artists share with one another.

This, originally, in the first draft, was going to be about how every love story is a ghost story.

This, originally, in the first draft, was going to be about how one of the love stories—the main one, I guess—the one that is not yet a ghost story, is about the deep connection and admiration Julien Baker, Phoebe Bridgers, and Lucy Dacus have for each other. 

Somewhere—probably on Genius, in a user-submitted annotation on “Without You, Without Them,” it was pointed out how the feeling and vocal arranging of the song is very similar to the closing track of the self-titled EP, “Ketchum, ID,” which concludes with the trio layering their vocals and repeating the phrase in a gentle, swaying way, “I am never anywhere, anywhere I go. When I’m home, I’m never there, long enough to know.”

And on the tour supporting the EP, during the “encore” set where the group performed all six songs featured, they always closed with “Ketchum,” often doing it without using microphones, or any amplification on the acoustic guitar. So, in a sense, yes, it does pick up with the feeling that the band left listeners with at the end of 2018—one of a number of small winks or callbacks to other songs or lyrics from both the self-titled EP as well as their respective solo outings. 

Regardless of this connection, or not, the way the song is produced (it sounds like it was recorded on an extremely antiquated single microphone), the old-timey layering of their vocals, and the meaning of the song itself make it a quick, but impactful moment before the curtain properly rises on the 11 songs that follow.

The sentiment of the song, and it is very sentimental indeed, is that even with the allegedly tempestuous or at least complicated relationships the three members of the group have had, at times, during their lives, with their families, Boygenius, and these friendships, would not exist as a group without those family members.

“I want to hear your story and be a part of it,” the trio sings together. “Thank your father before you and your mother before him—who would I be without you, without them?”

And certainly, there are moments that are noteworthy or are of interest from the songs that are built around one of the members more than the notion of the ensemble, but it is the first two real “group moments” on The Record, placed near the end of the first side, that are both among the most impressive of this set, but are also in a surprising contrast, in tone, to one another.

Apparently, and perhaps coincidentally, borrowing a melody from Simon and Garfunkel’s “The Boxer,” (Simon is thanked in the album’s liner notes though the similarities are maybe a bit of a stretch), “Cool About It,” musically is a return to the kind of rootsy, folksy sound that Boygenius occasionally tap into—most notably on the stunning and devastating “Souvenir” from the self-titled EP. Built around a minimal and shuffling arranging featuring the acoustic guitar and gently plucked banjo, “Cool About It,” gives each member a chance to step forward and take a verse and chorus, with each pushing along a similar though unique narrative experience.

The song itself, in each verse and subsequent chorus, is about the difficulties navigating a relationship after it has already fractured. “Ask you easy questions about work and school,” Baker sings in the first verse. “I’m trying to be cool about it—feeling like an absolute fool about it. Wishing you were kind enough to be cruel about it,” she continues. “Telling myself, I can always do without it, knowing that it probably isn’t true.”

Baker is the only one who utters the titular phrase in her portion of the song, with Dacus, later, saying, “I’m trying to forget about it,” and Bridgers coming in the final verse with, “But we don’t have to talk about it, I can walk you home and practice method acting.” And both Bridgers and Dacus give a wink to the listener by subtle callbacks to lyrics from songs within their solo output—Dacus, in her line, “I came prepared for absolution if you’d only ask. So I take some offense when you say, ‘No regrets.’ I remember that it’s impossible to pass your test,” which echoes some of the sentiments from her breakthrough 2018 single, “Night Shift.” And Bridgers, seemingly recalls the imagery of the harrowing “Moon Song,” from Punisher, both in how she references walking someone home, but also in the line that follows: “I’ll pretend being with you doesn’t feel like drowning—telling you it’s nice to see how good you’re doing, even though we know it isn’t true.”

“Cool About It,” at three minutes even, never runs the risk of overstaying its welcome, and sequenced immediately after the initial three songs that feature one member, over the others, it is a gentle, playful way to ease into the more group-oriented moments, like the song that follows—“Not Strong Enough,” which, outside of being the fourth single released in advance of The Record’s arrival in full, is the one of two songs included that are among its absolute finest and most powerful, and without a doubt, among the finest and most powerful of 2023.

And I have, in the past, become interested in the idea of, within the context of a pop song, how one would create an environment that sounded, and ultimately felt, like someone running both toward and away from themselves as fast as they could. Muna did this incredibly well in a number of places on their self-titled album from last summer, and it is a feeling, exploding in a moment of pure, chill-producing catharsis, that Boygenius manages to pack into roughly four minutes on “Not Strong Enough.”

There have been times when, in describing a song, or in some cases, an album—almost always pop music—I have said it’s more fun than legally allowable. And overall, how I feel about The Record is that, even though you can clearly hear how much fun Dacus, Bridgers, and Baker are having together, it is an album that is more devastating and emotionally upsetting than should legally be allowed—but even when it is devastating, or upsetting, and the lyrics to “Not Strong Enough” aren’t, like, light by any stretch of the imagination, those lyrics are contrasted against music that is so god damn triumphant sounding I cannot even believe it—from the second it starts, it soars higher than any song ever should be allowed to soar, and all you can do is grab on and hope you do not plummet as it continues ascending.

And the song soars to such towering, powerful heights within seconds of its beginning, simply because of the dual guitar tones—a big, strummy acoustic, and a shimmering, textural electric, neither of them fighting for supremacy within the song, but rather swirling together to create something both on the cusp of being enormous, and being emotionally manipulative. 

Lyrically, “Not Strong Enough,” and yes, the title is a direct reference to the Sheryl Crow song of a similar title,” finds each member of the group unpacking not only their respective anxieties, but what they see as shortcomings, or difficult traits that can, and often might, lead to conflict within a relationship, witch each verse ending on the line that gives an assist right into the chorus: “I don’t know why I am the way I am—not strong enough to be your man.”

Bridgers, in her verse, details the lack of energy she has to pick up around the kitchen and set all the clocks in it to the same time, which is an unflattering depiction of something that is rather relatable, it is Baker’s verse that, before the song reaches its stunning middle section, is the standout, where she returns briefly to the lyrical depictions of violence she has a knack for working into her songs—“Drag racing through the canyon singing ‘Boys Don’t Cry,’” she sings, creating an evocative portrait with just a single line. “Do you see us getting scraped up off the pavement? I don’t know why I am the way I am….”

The beauty and power the song holds collide in the extended bridge, which is where “Not Strong Enough” does literally erupt after a smoldering burn leading up to the moment of blinding catharsis, with the haunting and poignant line, “Always an angel, never a god,” repeated like an incantation, building, and building until the detonation that leads back into the final, short, and howling verse from Dacus, before the song recedes—not abruptly, but maybe faster than anticipated given the towering heights just climbed. 

It is tough to do both, sometimes—craft a song that has an infectious melody, or a huge sing-a-long moment, and still be emotionally eviscerating within its lyrics. “Not Strong Enough” manages to do both of those with grace and charisma to spare.

 

*

This, originally, in the second draft, was about, among other things, a time I wound up second-guessing myself about something that, in the past, I had tried not to.

But I don’t know how this is going to end yet. You think I would have an idea with how far along we are, and you see, my friend, I spent portions of last year, on and off, writing a lot about change.

In each instance, it was, however flimsy or thin the narrative devices wound up being, in the end, always related to music analysis. But in sitting down to write about the album, or the song, in question, writing about change, and everything that comes with it, was not entirely done out of want, or even out of necessity, but rather it was done out of a need, or a reluctant acceptance of something I was most certainly trying to avoid. 

There is a lot that does come with writing about change, and an acceptance (reluctant or otherwise)—you end up writing about growth, and about resigning yourself to let go of something, regardless of how difficult, or uncomfortable it might feel, or how fearful it may make you.

You write about friendship and platonic love. 

You, and maybe you don’t write about it, and maybe it’s just something that you begin to think about as the words wind up on the page, but you end up second-guessing a lot of things that, in the past, you tried not to, but still find yourself returning to and ruminating on more than you’d care to comfortably admit. 

But what do you do with that, when you find yourself in that place? What do with those feelings, or the memory of something that is never really been resolved to the point you’d like it to be.

You’ve never done me wrong except for that one time that we don't talk about…

“True Blue,” placed fourth in the album’s sequencing, is the Dacus lead song that had been issued among the three singles upon the announcement of The Record, and for as exorcising as “Not Strong Enough” is in the way it simmers until it bursts, “True Blue” is much more reserved—holding onto a slow-burning tension that Dacus, and her bandmates, never want to release, and in doing that, craft a song with no real resolution as it fades out, but also the album’s most affecting tune. 

Musically, it relies on a steady, grand-sounding sweeping rhythm that plays into the emotional lyricism of the song—there, in the verses, you can hear just the hint of a build up, or Dacus pulling back on something and letting it go—albeit gently, as the song swoons into the stirring, sincere, and ultimately heartbreaking chorus.

Lyrically, there are clever lines that are almost dropped in as asides to the listener—never used as a punchline but also moved past so quickly they aren’t intended to be ruminated on, in the moment, too intently, like “You were born in July ’95 in a deadly heat—you say you’re a winter bitch but summer’s in your blood,” or, in the second verse, “When you don’t know who you are, you fuck around and find out.” 

Something I find myself thinking about often and, in turn, writing about quite a bit, is the idea of a difficult love—and the love I speak of here is open-ended. It can certainly be romantic, but there is room for it to be both familial and platonic. But it, whatever it is and whatever your relationship to the other person could be, is the feeling of affection you have toward someone that does not make it easy for you, or on you, to always be that affectionate, or to show it. 

There is a tension at the center of “True Blue,” and the song is Dacus’ attempt not to find her way out of it, because sometimes there is really no exit, but rather it is her attempt to figure out how best to navigate it given the circumstances. In her writing, she is intentionally ambiguous about the off-stage “you” that serves as the song’s antagonist, of sorts—it is unclear if it is, or was, a romantic partner, or if it is just someone that she has been close friends with for a very long time. 

And it ultimately does not matter, or really have any bearing on “True Blue”’s emotional gravity—because, aside from the “off-stage” you that Dacus is addressing in her narrative, the other character, and perhaps this one is the real antagonist, is that of change, and the fear, or the uncertainty, that comes with it. 

“When you moved to Chicago, you were spinnin’ out,” Dacus explains in the second verse as she continues to paint the portrait of this person, and her dynamic with them. Then, just a few lines later, “When you called me from the train, water freezing in your eyes—you were happy, and I wasn’t surprised.”

The emotional stakes throughout the unraveling of “True Blue” are surprisingly high—the weight and history of this relationship, whatever it is, coupled with the difficulties of understanding how and when to let go of someone, with the hope that there is still something keeping the two of you tethered together, and the things that go unspoken—or the times where you are second-guessing something from the past you’ve tried not to. 

The tumultuous, and maybe at times even volatile nature of this relationship can be seen, and certainly felt, in quick flashes within how Dacus begins setting the stage in the first two verses, but there is a big reveal in both the third verse, as well as bridge: “You’ve already hurt my feelings three times in the way only you could,” she confesses before the song, once again, slides into the chorus. 

And there is a slight rise in the soulful and fragile nature of Dacus’ voice, as well as in the gentle sweeping of the arranging underneath, during the bridge, which is perhaps, outside of the chorus, the most telling turn of phrase in “True Blue”—“You’ve never done me wrong except for that one time that we don’t talk about, because it doesn’t matter anymore,” she explains, both to herself but also, perhaps, to the “you” that she is addressing throughout. “Who won the fight? I don’t know—we’re not keeping score.”

It doesn’t always have to be a fight, though, you see, my friend—like, where there is real animosity or anger, or yelling and screaming at one another. It can be a small disagreement, or a misunderstanding where there is no clear resolution for either person. It can be a dismissal of feelings—something that, regardless of the size or the cause, can slowly begin to sever the connection.

It’s the time when you wind up second-guessing yourself about something that, in the past, you tried your hardest not to. 

This unspoken, unresolved tension, though, doesn’t sever the bond completely—it just puts a strain on it that one person may acknowledge, or feel the effects of more than the other, but even within that tension, or that thing between the two of you that is not spoken about, there is, hopefully, the eventual understanding that dynamics do change, and have to change, over time, but the connection is still present, which is what Dacus arrives at in the glistening and ascendant chorus. “It feels good to be known so well,” she says. “I can’t hide from you like I hide from myself. I remember everything when I’m with you—your love is tough, your love is tried and true blue.”

*

Near the end of the gorgeous, slow-burning conclusion to The Record, the members of Boygenius bellow what is, perhaps, one of the more audacious lyrics found within—“I wanna be happy!”

It is, of course, something that I think we all want, especially in moments when we find ourselves outwardly and openly admitting the opposite, for whatever reason, or reasons, that might be.

If the Julien Baker lead “Anti-Curse” is a kind of gasp, enormous, noisy, exuberant gasp for The Record, the album ends with what serves as a bit of an epilogue or exhalation—the melancholic, biting, and complexly layered “Letter to An Old Poet” is a further turn inward that leads us to the end. 

The song, both sonically and in who takes the lead on the first verse, appears to be a Phoebe Bridgers track—musically, it seems to share a number of similarities and is even an intentional callback to the centerpiece from Stranger in The Alps, “Killer,” which was structured around a cavernously echoing piano that, in ringing out, the sound was pulled both forward and backward, crafting an eerie, yet gorgeous soundscape for her delicate vocals. The same thing happens here on “Letter,” which, as Dacus has confirmed apparently, is a direct reference to the Rainer Maria Rilke book of poetry, Letters to A Young Poet—though, who the “old poet” here is, and the recipient of Bridgers’ vitriol is up for speculation, though you, like I, have some ideas of who the more pointed lyrics here might be directed toward.¹

“Letter,” in its arranging, begins like a whisper, before growing stronger and stronger—not to place of a shout, or a yell, but there is a deliberate ferocity with which the instrumentation builds alongside the tone of the lyricism.

With a quiet, dramatic sense of tension, Bridgers crafts a very vivid narrative, though for as vivid of a portrait of someone, and her potentially unstable dynamic with this person, she plays some of it rather close in terms of disclosing just enough for us to understand, but still keeping us mostly in the dark. The narrative is vivid, yes, but it is also terribly harrowing in the disintegration of a relationship that it details.

“I said, ‘I think that you’re special,’” Bridgers begins in a hush. “You told me once that I’m selfish. And I kissed you hard, in the dark, in the closet.” And it is here where the picture she is painting of this individual becomes more damming, and a lot harder to hear, and reconcile with. “You said my music is mellow—maybe I’m just exhausted. You think you’re a good person because you won’t punch me in the stomach.”

And before “Letter” begins to swirl and lift off toward its attempt at hope and purification, Bridgers, then joined by Dacus and Baker, gently coo, “And I love you—I don’t know why. I just do.” The music, and the vocal arranging suddenly, and rather emotionally, build—“You’re not special, you’re evil—you don’t get to tell me to calm down,” the group sings, with Bridgers, especially, through gritted, exasperated teeth. “When you fell down the stairs,” she continues, with a series of lyrics that were rather startling upon my initial listen. “It looked like it hurt, and I wasn’t sorry. I should have left you right there with your hostages: my heart and my car keys.”

The verse ends with the line, “You don’t know me,” which, outside of being a cutting thing to say to someone in the heat of the moment, is one of the many lines throughout the album that become self-referential—it cannot be a coincidence that in “True Blue,” Dacus sings, “It feels good to be known so well.”

And as surprising as Bridgers’ turn toward spite and violence is to hear, what is even more surprising, but makes total sense, is the way “Letter” glides into lyrics, and a melody (albeit much more theatrically arranged) that serves as a continuation of the Bridgers song “Me and My Dog,” from the Boygenius EP—it is here, in that reveal, where the band sings, “I want to be happy,” a hopeful turn from the original’s similarly structured moment of, “I wanna be emaciated.”

And this admission of wanting happiness near the end of “Letter,” as it continues its ascent, is also the moment that is the most hopeful—or at least there is a flash of hope for the future, and the understanding, however reluctant or resigned to it is, about trying to accept, and let go, and change.

“I’m ready to walk into my room without looking for you,” the trio continues. “I’ll go to the top of our building and remember my dog when I see the full moon.”

The last line of the song, and the final line spoken on The Record, is “I can’t feel it yet, but I’m waiting.” And on the version of The Record available to stream, or download, the song rises in a rush to a crescendo in dissonance before evaporating—the album, coming to an end, in a breath. But on the vinyl pressing, like the little bit of studio trickery that serves as a segue between the first and second tracks, literally blurring the space between them, “Letter to An Old Poet” ends in a locked groove—meaning that the needle spins indefinitely on the record—hypnotic and unsettling, the last little moment before the song ends, but the ending never comes. It just goes on, forever, until you get up and stop the record yourself. 

It’s a little self-aware—a wink to the listener, certainly, but it is fitting because so much of this is intended to go on forever.

So much of this isn’t meant to cease when the song ends, or the record stops.

* 

This, originally, in the first draft, was going to be about how every love story is a ghost story. 

This, originally, in the second draft, was about, among other things, a time I wound up second-guessing myself about something that, in the past, I had tried not to. 

I didn’t get very far into either before I realized neither of them was working the way I wanted, or needed them to be, but what I can appreciate about those two other attempts that I abandoned rather quickly is that they each provided me the opportunity to think a little more about what I needed to get me to where I wanted this to ultimately go. 

Because it was kind of still about both of those things, in a way. In the way that it could be.

We’re so close to the end, but I still don’t know what is going to happen. And when it does happen—it has to, doesn’t it—I don’t know if I’ll have really earned it. 

Five years ago, in an act of trying to process my grief, I got the phrase “Every Love Story is A Ghost Story” tattooed on my forearm. The artist who did it complained during a large portion of our time together because he thought the font I had chosen was entirely too fine, and, therefore, was really difficult for him to do. 

I have a lot of tattoos, and many of them are on my arms, so I see them regularly, and don’t take them for granted exactly, but I often forget that to someone else, they are a source of curiosity. Because the “Every Love Story is A Ghost Story” is on my right forearm, and extremely visible the second I roll up my sleeve, it is the one I am most frequently asked about.

Every Love Story is A Ghost Story, you see, my friend. 

It makes sense, to me, if you think about it. 

You think about what you love. And what you loved. And what part of that love still lingers.

And how it still lingers.

We never really let go, do we? Not really. Not fully, like the way we allege we want to. 

In spending parts of last year writing about change, you write about the things that come with it, like a reluctant acceptance of something you have been trying to avoid, or of growth, however difficult, or of resigning yourself to let go of something, regardless of how uncomfortable it might feel or how fearful it may make you. 

Every Love Story is A Ghost Story, and, you see, within The Record, there are the love stories throughout that have come to their natural end, and become ghost stories—the stories of what happens in the wake of a chaotic break with someone, and part of that love, or that relationship, still lingers. 

There are love stories throughout but the one that survives until the end is the deeply rooted and genuine love and admiration that Julien Baker, Phoebe Bridgers, and Lucy Dacus have for one another—the support they show one another as individuals, and the intelligence and good-humored nature connection they have when working together as a band. 

During my first week with The Record, and even into the second week, as I was giving it the time and space that I could, the idea of writing about it was honestly rather overwhelming. That happens, occasionally. The trick, of course, if I have done my job in the end, is to make this all appear effortless and that you, the reader, have no idea how much something like this has been labored over, again and again, to get it to the point where I say that it is finished, or that I simply am unable to continue stringing together narrative devices, metaphors, descriptors of guitar tones, and throwing words onto a blank page. But sometimes, when I put so much of my own emotional weight into an album upon its release, trying to organize those thoughts into a way that makes any sense at all, at times seems not impossible, but extraordinarily daunting. 

And it was during that first week, and maybe a little into the second, when I found I was still wading out into the waters of The Record, trying to fully understand and appreciate it as a whole—because that is what the intent is. That can be a big ask of a listener in 2023, I understand that. And yes, the four singles released ahead of the album are arguably its most accessible material, or the songs that can stand alone outside of the context of the rest of the tunes included here—that is why they were the songs selected to be shared in advance, but that doesn't and shouldn’t negate the rest of The Record. 

It is diverse, and its dynamism is ever-shifting, but it is something that is rather extraordinary to take in as a whole, from beginning to end, looking for the subtitles that are gently placed within each song, and finding those threads where certain elements connect to one another. 

And there is still so much to say about The Record—details that I was not able to really find the right place for, like the fact that it sounds like a million bucks and may, in fact, have been allotted that much for its budget—co-produced by the members of the group alongside Catherine Marks, it was recorded at Rick Rubin’s Shangri La studios, and, in perhaps the most surprising thing of all about the return of Boygenius and the release of The Record, was issued through Interscope Records, and not either of independent (though quite large for independent) labels the members are respectively associated with, or even Bridgers’ own imprint, Saddest Factory. 

If the growth in sound and ambition for Julien Baker, Phoebe Bridgers, and Lucy Dacus over the last five years, is what they’ve brought to the table in working on The Record, where the album was recorded and where it found a home for release speak to the size of the following they have built in that time, and the importance they have within contemporary popular music. 

This, originally, in the first draft, was going to be about how every love story is a ghost story, and in the second draft, it was going to be about, among other things, at times, I wound up second-guessing myself about something that, in the past, I had tried my hardest not to. 

I first heard the word “brinkmanship” around twenty years ago—the “art or policy of pursuing a dangerous policy to the limits of safety before stopping.”

I’m sure that I’ve mentioned it before, at some point, over the last couple of years. If not, it seems like it should be pretty obvious how it has informed a lot of what I’ve been doing, and how I have been doing it. 

The trick, though, in the end, is that when you read this, and after my job is finished, this is all supposed to seem quite effortless, and nobody is supposed to know how manic, or frantic things feel, and how difficult this all really is to do.

In spending parts of last year writing about change and all the things that come along with it, what I found, regardless of how difficult it could be, was that it offered me opportunities to, as much as it could, get a little better understanding about something specific. And this, originally, the second draft was going to be about a time I wound up second-guessing myself about something that, in the past, I had really tried not to.

You’ve never done me wrong except for that one time that we don’t talk about.

The resolution, or the kind of understanding that is come to, at least in “True Blue,” is that this instance that isn’t talked about ultimately doesn’t matter, and that a true blue friendship is more important than a moment that uncomfortably lingers that neither party wants to exhume, revisit, and try to work through again.

We’re close now, but that is not how I thought it would end—it isn’t the ending I wanted for it, or even for me, but maybe it is the ending that it, and I, deserve.

Throughout The Record, there are the hints of hope, or of optimism, but a lot of the conflicts that are depicted go unresolved. In “Not Strong Enough,” after the hypnotic and climactic build and release of the repeated “Always an angel, never a god,” and after Lucy Dacus’ brief, soulful, and stirring contribution within her concluding verse, the song quickly arrives at the finishing line, and the protagonists continue to see themselves as the ones who are always going to be the problem, or the one who is “difficult” in a relationship. 

Throughout, there are hints of hope, or of optimism, like the somber second chance alluded to in the stunning “We’re in Love,” but nothing is guaranteed.

It is audacious, yes, the way the members of Boygenius say, “I want to be happy,” during the big reveal of “Letter to An Old Poet,” but the longer I have thought about it, I understand—we all sit in a sadness, or an unhappiness, so much of the time, and the juxtaposition of that in extremes is startling, but it also makes sense.

There are hints of hope and of optimism, and the last line of the album either is held until it comes to a sudden end before total silence, or it echoes on forever eerily and beautifully, depending on how you're listening to The Record. “I can’t feel it yet, but I’m waiting.” But my question is, how long do we wait, and do we know what we are waiting for. 

1- The speculation is either Ryan Adams or Conor Oberst. Allegedly. 

The Record is out now in a number of different vinyl color variants, as well as on CD and as a digital download, all via Interscope.