Album Review: Gracie Abrams - Good Riddance

And I, as I often find myself doing, am, again, thinking about all of the ways in which I feel both seen and attacked by pop songs.

This is something that I have written about, at times extensively, in the past—specifically within the last four years, when the concept of simultaneously feeling seen and attacked—in jest, of course, but also most certainly in earnest—first inserted itself into my lexicon, and I was finally able to put a name or description to what I had also referred to prior, more formal or poetic in sound, as catching “unflattering reflections of myself” in a song’s lyricism. 

The understanding of, or resignation to, this concept came to me when I was listening to, of all things, a bulk of the Lana Del Rey album Norman Fucking Rockwell—lyrics within the album’s opening, titular track had famously sent me reeling: “Goddamn man child,” she sighed at the start of the song’s second verse. “You act like a kid, even though you stand six foot two.”

That’s me, I thought. That is how tall I am. I am the man-child. 

Then, in the song’s swooning chorus, “You’re just a man, all through and through—your head in your hands as you color me blue.”

And I, as I often find myself doing, am again thinking about all of the ways in which it is difficult to love someone.

Specifically, how, more often than not, it must be extraordinarily difficult for someone to love me.

Because there is, of course, a reason why the first few lines of Kississippi’s single, “Big Dipper,” are something I regularly find myself ruminating on during my most quiet, contemplative moments—“There’s no need to say sorry, so you say to me. But I know it ain’t easy to love me. It’s harder now to breathe.”

I know it’s not easy to love me.

My head in my hands. I color you blue.

Because there is, of course, a reason why I find myself thinking about how, in the breathlessly delivered bridge section of “Coney Island,” where Taylor Swift and The National’s Matt Berninger take turns rattling off memories of their own failings within a relationship, Berninger, before a moment when the song briefly swells, mumbles in his baritone, “Did I paint your bluest skies the darkest gray?”

And the thing about living with debilitating depression—or any mental illness, really, and the thing I did not fully understand, or comprehend, until a number of years ago, when it was finally pointed out to me, was just how insular and selfish it can make you. 

How insular, and how selfish, you may become, at least for me, anyway, was never intentional—it is just something that happens, slowly, without even realizing, because in being pulled so far down into the depths of your own darkness and despair, just trying to tread water as much as you are able, you are completely oblivious to how your mental illness is impacting others.

In being pulled so far down, you ultimately and inadvertently push so many others away.

I know it’s not easy to love me.

It, more than likely, is extraordinarily difficult to do.

In the years prior to 2019, before sitting down and immersing myself in the sad girl persona and lamentations of Lana Del Rey and Norman Fucking Rockwell, and feeling inherently seen and attacked—before all of that, when I would see those unflattering glimpses or stark reflections of myself in the mirror that a pop song held up to my face and forced me to stare into, the moment that comes to mind is not when I first heard “Guilty Party,” by The National, from their 2017 effort Sleep Well Beast, but when I first understood its personal gravity.

“I say your name,” Berninger begins in the song’s chorus, while the layers of instrumentation from the band swirl and build around behind him. “I say, ‘I’m sorry.’ I know it’s not working—I’m no holiday.”

I’m no holiday.

In being pulled so far down into the depths of your own darkness and despair, just trying to tread water as much as you are able, you are completely oblivious to how your mental illness is impacting others. 

How your sadness, or unpredictable irritability, can be so deeply upsetting to someone else.

I know it’s not easy to love me.

It, more than likely, is extraordinarily difficult to do, and I am still uncertain where anyone is able to find the bottomless well of patience it must require.

*

And up until somewhat recently, I had not considered—not, like, serious consideration, anyway—to the possibility, or notion, that there might be an implied age limit for specific corners of contemporary popular music.

Okay—maybe that is not entirely accurate. 

Perhaps, throughout time, as I have aged and grown, and certain bands, or artists, that I listened to during specific periods of time within my life, did not age, or grow, in any sense, along with me—and were, in fact, still making the kind of music that just seemed to attract a new crop of young listeners—maybe it was within instances such as this, where I became aware of a type of age limitation that can occur within contemporary popular music. 

I, and perhaps you, too, often grow out of something. 

But what I have come to understand is that this notion, or idea, is a bit of a two-way street, in a sense. And if it is truly not a two-way street, though, then someone—in this flimsy metaphor, that someone is me—is behind the wheel, barreling uncontrollably the wrong way, head first into oncoming traffic. 

I, and perhaps you, too, often grow out of something, but can you then, at least in pop music, find your way into something that is maybe not intended for you at all?

It was within a short conversation between myself and my friend Alyssa, where the question was posed, if either of us ever felt—mostly me, though, I think—not welcome within certain corners of contemporarily popular music, or simply just too old to be listening, in earnest, to certain artists—an artist that, in this case, is much much younger than we are.

What does a young performer—literally almost always a sad, or melancholic young woman, have to say within her songwriting that a man, pushing 40, finds compelling, or can identify with in any way?

*

Gracie Abrams was born in 1999—the year that I turned 16, got a driver’s license, and started working at my first job. Abrams, currently, is 23 years old, and there has, within the last year or so, been a lot of discourse about the concept of the “nepotism baby” within the entertainment industry—occasionally, it pertains to a musician, sure, but more often than not, the collective ire is aimed toward actors, directors, or screenwriters.  

Abrams is not a nepotism baby—not really. In the Pitchfork review¹ of Abrams’ “debut”² full-length, Good Riddance,” writer Jane Bua opens by referring to Abrams as a “two-fold industry baby,” (another description that is a source of contention, certainly) and is quick to point out that her father is filmmaker J.J. Abrams³, and that “her mothers are Taylor Swift and Phoebe Bridgers.”

And yes, sure, one of these things is true: J.J. Abrams—co-creator of “Lost,” producer, writer, and director of two of the three most recent Star Wars films, is Gracie’s father. However, stating that Swift and Bridgers are her “mothers” was, maybe, meant to be a backhanded compliment, though I would argue that it is a line that is just more backhanded than complimentary—it is dismissive, and the kind of attitude that works overtime to dramatically sell Abrams as an artist, and Good Riddance as an album, relatively short, regardless of if you consider her to be an “industry baby” or not. 

Gracie Abrams was born in 1999—the year that I turned 16, got a driver’s license, and started working at my first job. And what does a young performer—literally almost always a sad, or melancholic young woman, have to say within her songwriting that a man, pushing 40, finds compelling or can identify with in any way?

I know it’s not easy to love me.

It, more than likely, is extraordinarily difficult to do, and I am still uncertain where anyone is able to find the bottomless well of patience it must require.

*

I am uncertain at what point within the last year, or so I would have first heard the name Gracie Abrams—perhaps it was near the end of 2021 when she was tapped as the support for the first handful of dates on Olivia Rodrigo’s 2022 tour⁴ in promotion of Sour; or, perhaps it was even before that—one of her early singles, maybe, or something from her debut EP, Minor, turning up on a suggested mix or playlist generated by the algorithm. 

I am uncertain at what point within the last year, or so I would have first heard the name Gracie Abrams, but when, as we neared the end of 2022, by the time she was included among the myriad artists slated to open for Taylor Swift on various dates of the upcoming Era tour, her’s was a name that I vaguely recognized, though had little if any real context, or at that time, connection to.

And it is both surprising and not, I suppose that Abrams had already worked with Aaron Dessner in the past—he is credited as co-writer and producer on four of the 12 songs featured on her 2021 “collection,” or effort, This Is What It Feels Like, and it was ultimately through Dessner—relatively inactive on social media so when he does share something to his Instagram page, it is usually something I take note of—that I became much more aware of Abrams, of Good Riddance, and the level of his involvement with the album when it was announced in January. 

And as he had done with his work on Taylor Swift’s Folklore and Evermore, Dessner appears to play the role of a collaborator more than anything else within helping bring Good Riddance to life, credited as producer and co-writer on all 12 of the tracks, included. 

And there is, of course, a small part of me that is still surprised by Aaron Dessner’s involvement in producing and co-writing for artists such as Taylor Swift, or Gracie Abrams, or perhaps even more startling, the announcement of his contributions to Ed Sheeran’s forthcoming new full-length, Subtract.

Surprised or startled, yes, sure, but it is his involvement with these artists is what ultimately bridges the gap between the various, and often rather far apart, corners of contemporary popular music, for someone like myself—inadvertently making a space that might have, at one time, seem unwelcoming appear a little more accessible.

And it is Dessner’s unexpected and often impressive work with Swift on both Folklore and Evermore that has slowly turned him into a go-to producer for other artists operating within the “pop” arena of contemporary popular music, but it is also his work on those albums that I fear anything else he works on will ultimately be compared to, often unfairly or without merit—e.g., his production and instrumentation on Canadian singer and songwriter Hannah Georgas’ fourth full-length, All That Emotion. The album itself was more than likely written, recorded, and completed well before the slow rollout of singles and promotion of it that began in March 2020. 

However, the album in full arrived two months after Folklore’s surprise unveiling, allowing for unwarranted comparisons in reviews of All That Emotion—Hannah Jocelyn⁵, in her review for Pitchfork, wrote, “The stylistic balance of the album tilts in Dessner’s favor, which can mean that All That Emotion sounds like Taylor Swift’s Folklore sounds like Eve Owen’s Don’t Let the Ink Dry sounds like Trouble Will Find Me. The one-size-fits-all approach leads to the occasional clash….”

I hesitate to refer to Dessner’s capabilities as an arranger, multi-instrumentalist, songwriter, and producer as “one-size-fits-all,” though he has, for a number of years, developed a trademark sound—you can hear a version of it coursing through the latter day albums of his band The National (Sleep Well Beast, I Am Easy To Find, and presumably their forthcoming LP, First Two Pages of Frankenstein), and as you might anticipate, he does bring many of his hallmarks to his work with Abrams on Good Riddance, along with a number of the musicians he regularly works with, including National drummer Bryan Devendorf, and Thomas Bartlett, who spent a handful of years in the mid to late 2000s making three very thoughtful and idiosyncratic “insomnia pop” records under the moniker Doveman.

What makes Good Riddance such a compelling album, though, overall, is the way Dessner and Abrams work together to create pop music that seems to thrive in a place of quiet tension with small, impactful moments of release or spaces that allow for flourishes—though it should be noted, and this seems like the place to do so, that there are a few places where I cannot help, as an analytical listener, hear the intimidating traces, intentional or not, of Swift’s 2020 output. 

These songs arrive within the second half of Good Riddance, and at no point are they derivative enough of Dessner’s work with Swift, where you would be told “We have Folklore at home,” by one of your parents if you were to ask them for the album, by name, if you were at the store, but these songs, primarily based around Dessner’s dexterous work on the acoustic guitar, lean very heavily into the implied “folk” influence of Folklore—creating a portion of the record that generates mixed results in how successful the song ends up being.

“Will You Cry,” the final song of Good Riddance’s first half, clips along with an immediacy thanks to the way Dessner’s quickly plucked acoustic guitar strings swirl and spiral, and the hypnotic repetition of the lyrics, “You don’t move me—I see through you,” sung with a hint of anguish and exasperation in Abrams’ voice isn’t enough to make it one of the more memorable or impactful. 

“Amelie,” though, which begins the second half, and was the second single released ahead of Good Riddance’s arrival at the end of February, is one of the album’s finest in terms of Abrams’ capabilities as a storyteller within her lyrics, and Dessner’s understanding of the type of gentle arranging to best compliment the bittersweet tone of the narrative.

Like its predecessor, “Amelie” also clips along through the intricate propulsion of Dessner’s work on the acoustic guitar, though there is a lot less of a sense of urgency here—replaced with a palpable and melancholic slow burn, punctuated by the subtle, ethereal layers of synthesizers, and the gentle, somber plunks of piano keys coming from Thomas Bartlett’s contributions. It is, though, Abrams’ use of emotional phrase turns here that truly allows the song to arrive at the place where it both haunts and smolders.

“I met a girl once,” Abrams begins, her voice barely rising above a borderline raspy and mumbled whisper. “She sorta ripped me open. She doesn’t even know it—she doesn’t know my name.”

There is something surprising about the amount of ambiguity in “Amelie,” but it is not surprising how effective that ambiguity is in the story being told—blurring fragmented imagery that, like the music rippling underneath it, keeps moving forward, with the lyricism growing more curious and evocative the further along Abrams takes you into the song. 

“We sat on the sofa,” she continues. “She asked me a million questions. I answered, and by 11, memorized her face.”

It is in the second verse where Abrams reveals just slightly more, but still remains vague enough about the portrait she’s painting of both herself, as well as the song’s namesake. “She had her hair up. She cried about her obsessions. But she doesn’t know I’d let her ruin all of my days.”

The question asked at the heart of the song also serves as its conceit: “Where did you go Amelie, Amelie, Amelie, where did you go?,” Abrams pleads in the chorus before doubting herself and her experience. “Or, were you all in a dream?”

And what is, I think, most impressive about “Amelie,” outside from how delicate and gorgeous Dessner’s arranging is on the song, is the way Abrams plays with the idea of identity and memory in the lyrics—throughout, yes, certainly, but she steps up to the edge of much larger themes in the first lines of the second verse, only to slowly back away from them without feeling like she has to play her hand. “Why’d it feel louder when all of it went unspoken? All I can do is hope that this will go away.”

*

I am remiss, of course, to agree entirely with the aforementioned assessment of Dessner’s production of All That Emotion as “one-size-fits-all,” or, from Jane Bua’s write-up of Good Riddance, her feeling that his work with Abrams remains “mostly inside the box,” and later adding in knowing what he is capable of in terms of co-writing and arraigning, his “input feels muted.”

And there is, of course, a bombast and familiar kind of energy that you can almost anticipate will be surging through Dessner’s work when he is behind the boards as producer for the band he’s been a part of for well over two decades—at one time, the earliest day of the band, he was one of The National’s guitarists (alongside his twin brother Bryce), but Aaron Dessner has used that time to grow in confidence as an arranger and an instrumentalist—with his work than growing in tandem in terms of its complexities. 

Parts of that bombast, and energy, are present in his work with Swift, certainly, but I think in terms of his role as a collaborator in these seemingly intimately made records, it does behoove Dessner not to continue to make the same record, or bring exactly the same sonic palate to everything he’s involved in. I am remiss, of course, to agree with his work on Good Riddance sounding “muted,” or “inside the box.” It is a quiet album—far less dazzling than Folklore or Evermore, or even his work on Sleep Well Beast and I Am Easy to Find, but that’s the point, I think.

It isn’t muted so much as it is reserved, or restrained, and Dessner has fostered an environment in his co-writing and arranging that allows whatever tensions present in Abrams’ lyrics to flourish in the way they need to. Good Riddance isn’t a big, or bright album—the blurry, black-and-white photo of Abrams, seemingly scowling, already lets the listener know how more or less somber of an affair it is going to be. If anything, Dessner’s minimal approach to the production of the record lets it dazzle, or shimmer in subtle, appropriate places, staying true to the emotional tumult that Abrams’ lyrics are often written from—the ill-advised but extremely identifiable urge just to keep it all inside until you feel like you might burst.

Good Riddance isn’t entirely front-loaded with its best or the most compelling material—it is, as a whole, even with the few places where it stumbles slightly, enjoyable or at least thought-provoking from beginning to end, but it does open with a rather impressive run of four songs that do really show how well Dessner and Abrams work together, and create a tone that is carried through until the conclusion, albeit not as strong, or as emphasized, in other places.

I hesitate to say that, even with the title of the album being what it is, Good Riddance is a “breakup album,” but it does spend a majority of its 12 tracks oscillating through the various corners of a broken heart—or simply just the conclusion of a relationship. And in a bit of a surprising turn, and perhaps Abrams playing slightly against type in terms of the “sad girl making sad music” sub-genre, the album’s opening track, “Best,” is an indictment of herself, or the part she played in the demise of a relationship.

Abrams, on “Best,” begins by both pointing out, then eventually reflecting on the more unflattering facets of her personality, then takes stock of how that, as it inevitably does, impacts her dynamic with a romantic partner, and the toll that ultimately took on their relationship. 

“I was bored out of my mind,” she begins, again, in a voice that seems so fragile and hushed that it is on the cusp of breaking, while delicate string instruments pluck and circle behind her. “Lost my whole appetite—when I could come to life, I didn’t.”

Her admission of acceptance comes as she is about to head into the simple but effective chorus: “You fell hard, I thought ‘good riddance.’ I never was the best to you,” then later on, as the song builds and swirls in the bridge section, “And I destroyed every silver linin’ you had in your head. All your feelings—I played with them…we were too different, you were so sensitive—gave me the best of that; I was so negligent. Now, I feel terrible ‘bout how I handled it.”

The album’s second track, and the third single released from Good Riddance, “I Know It Won’t Work,” is where Abrams and Dessner begin to let up, just slightly, on the simmering sense of musical tension that they hold throughout a good portion of these songs. “I Know”’s foundation is built around National-esque sounding work on the electric guitar, subtle washes of synthesizers and other atmospheric noises, and then clattering, precise percussion echoing through once the chorus arrives—which emphasizes the growing and eventual breathless urgency with which Abrams delivers her lyrics.

“I Know It Won’t Work,” at least in its depiction of the demise of a relationship, doesn’t put Abrams on either side of it—the one who decided to end things, or the one who is left feeling devastated in the wake of somebody else’s decision, but rather, it finds her trying to navigate the tumultuous and complicated nature of when both people understand that things are not working, or healthy, but are both unwilling to admit it, or take the steps toward any kind of resolution. 

“Part of me wants to walk away ’til you really listen,” she sings in the chorus, her voice starting to rise above the whispered range it usually resides in. “I hate to look at your face and know that we’re feelin’ different. ‘Cause part of me wants you back, but I know it won’t work like that, huh.”

Even within the restraint, or reserve, that Good Riddance is crafted within, and often remains firmly rooted in, there are plenty of subjectively big moments, or moments where things rise up just enough—the chorus to “I Know It Won’t Work” is a great example. But within those “big” or at least attention-grabbing moments, there are also more minor details—often within Abrams’ writing, that are perhaps more captivating, like the way she deadpans earnestly a line within “I Know”—“I’m your ghost right now, your house is haunted,” or the metaphor she uses in the third track, “Full Machine,” which is where at least musically, perhaps the kind of quiet tension and the glitchy swooning elements of Dessner’s production and arranging begin to converge. 

“I’m a shameless caller—you’re a full machine,” Abrams quietly sings in the second verse of “Full Machine”—a phrase and a specific reference that is honestly a little surprising given her age. “But won’t you answer tonight and say somethin’ nice to me,” she continues, allowing her voice to gently and carefully sway along slowly with the steady, rattling rhythm, warm, woozy electric piano keys, and the thick, dissonant guitar string noodling. “Full Machine,” like “I Know It Won’t Work,” is another song where Dessner and Abrams hit a stride with how they manage to release the tension that has been stored—here it’s the bridge section where things really take off: “But do you think we could talk?,” Abrams uncharacteristically howls with urgency. “‘Cause I’ve been trying to tell you how you’re the one I turn to.” 

The more time I have spent with Good Riddance, it is pretty clear why the fourth song, “Where Do We Go Now?,” was picked as its first single, released shortly after the announcement that the album itself was imminent—it is the most infectious, or at least objectively infectious, specifically in its shimmering, quickly paced chorus, which is rather beautiful and effective in its simplicity—just repeating the titular phrase a handful of times while the instrumentation gorgeously swirls around in the background.

It is also in “Where Do We Go Now?” where Abrams and Dessner continue to perfect the kind of formula that works best for them as collaborators in terms of the give and take in how the arranging is structured—the chorus, as you might anticipate, is where the song really lifts off and how they subtly build up to those places, but as a whole, Abrams focuses on the retention of a melancholy and regret in her lyricism—the first verse, itself, is quite stark in its depiction of discourse between romantic partners: “24th street—where you held me, grabbed my arm,” she begins, slowly and rather cleverly revealing the malicious intent with which she was being held on a city street. “What a mental fire alarm. ‘Cause, a lot of that felt wrong. Like, I miss you,” she continues. “But when I kissed you back, I liked. You don’t know how hard I tried—had to fake the longest time.”

The momentum and perhaps immediacy of the album as a whole does slow down a little once Good Riddance really begins making its way into its second side and wading out toward its conclusion—“The Blue,” the album’s penultimate track, is a highlight from the latter portion. Among the longest songs on the album (an even five minutes total), Abrams and Dessner use the time and space to let “The Blue” slowly unfurl and grow—and on an album that is inherently about heartbreak, it is the one brief flicker of hope, as Abrams sings, with both excitement at the possibility of a romance working out, but also her concerns that it’ll end poorly. 

The song, like a number of them elsewhere on Good Riddance, smolders up until just the right moment when Abrams and Dessner decide to let go just enough—it is, of course, in the chorus, that soars and is quite effecting in just how emotionally stirring it is, as Abrams confesses to this off-stage character, “You came out of the blue like that. I never could’ve seen you comin’—I think you’re everythin’ I’ve wanted.”

*

And I, as I often find myself doing, am, again, thinking about all of the ways in which I feel both seen and attacked by pop songs. And, in doing that, I am thinking, again, about all the ways in which it can be difficult to love someone—specifically, here, how extraordinarily difficult it must be for someone to love me. 

I know it’s not easy to love me.

I’m no holiday.

Arriving shortly after the beginning of the album’s second side, and sequenced right after the gentle and harrowing “Amelie,” “Difficult” is, perhaps, the last song that does really adhere truly to the formula that works so well for Dessner and Abrams—the glitchy, skittering instrumentation that circles and often sways in a holding pattern during the verses, then lifts off to a place they are both comfortable with it reaching during the chorus; “Difficult” is also, perhaps, where there is the most immediacy or desperate urgency within that lift off.

And while there are moments throughout where one could, if they were so inclined, to catch quick, but unflattering, reflections of themselves in the mirror that Good Riddance holds up, it is within “Difficult” that I was both surprised and not to see the most of myself.

To feel seen. To feel attacked.

It’s not easy to love me.

Good Riddance is, ultimately, an album about heartbreak, or at least the challenges a young person faces when navigating both themselves as well as a romantic relationship—on “Difficult,” as she does in a few other places on the album, Abrams alludes to how close she is to her family, and how the passage of time, and her growing up and entering the world on her own, is something she continues to struggle with. 

“Difficult,” at its core, is not about that—not really. But it plays a role. The song, overall, is about a lot of things, but I think the heart of it lies in understanding how difficult Abrams believes herself to be, and how difficult it must be for someone else to love her, or care in any capacity, and how those emotions, and thoughts, inevitably take their toll on her.

“It’s no one’s fault,” Abrams explains, quietly, as the song begins, with a quickly paced, chintzy-sounding drum machine rattling underneath her. “It’s just my terrible condition.” Then, later, perhaps intentionally (or perhaps just coincidentally) echoing a similar phrase turn to both Taylor Swift and Lana Del Rey—“Was it something that I said that colored you blue?”

But it is in the dazzling, frenetic chorus to “Difficult,” where the conceit of the song is located, with Abrams holding herself back as much as she can before she bursts in an effort to make sense, as she can, if she can, of the human condition. “I know spiralin’ is miserable,” she begins, before almost accepting a kind of defeat. “I should probably go back home—why does that feel difficult? I hope I wake up invisible,” she continues. “I’d be someone no one knows. I guess I’m just difficult.”

And even if Abrams is aware that spiraling is, in fact, quite miserable, she continues to do so—it is, after all, sometimes impossible to stop—in the bridge: “I’ve been drinking, and staying up too late, reliving my bad decisions,” she confesses. “I thought, eventually, my ranting here would fix it. I really think sometimes there’s something that I’m missing.”

And that’s the thing, though, isn’t it. Not the entire thing, But certainly a large part of it, and something that, within the last couple of years, I have not been able to answer clearly. 

Maybe I never will be able to.

But, if we do—we, meaning, at least myself, and Gracie Abrams, live within a space where we believe ourselves to be difficult—difficult to love, difficult to be around, etc.—the question is what, if anything, are we missing. 

How much of my difficulties are a “me” problem, and how much of them are caused by circumstances, or situations, or individuals, that are out of my control.

And how much of an overlap forms between those two things.

It is both surprising and not how much of myself I saw reflected in the pulsating, glistening chaos of “Difficult,” with Abrams and Dessner working diligently and effortlessly to find the pathos and beauty in the space that forms in the convergence of the things that are out of your control completely, and the parts of yourself that you are still attempting to work on, because that work never ends.

*

The criticism of an album like Good Riddance, or at least in the review featured on Pitchfork shortly after its release, is that it subjectively cannot escape the “clichés of confessional songwriting,” and that Abrams is ultimately one more sad girl singing sad songs for sad people in an overcrowded marketplace of similarly minded artists and that, at least for writer Jane Bua, is why it is difficult to fathom what sets Abrams apart from the rest.

Abrams, as a singer and songwriter, has only really been in the public eye for roughly four years—her first EP was released in 2020, with its follow-up arriving the following year, and what Good Riddance does, aside from providing her the opportunity to release what she has deemed her debut full-length, is take what worked the best, or was the most successful, from her previous outing, and not exactly “run with it,” but certainly develop it further. It is an album that does admittedly stay in its comfort zone—the kind of arranging that Dessner has provided is truly what was the most successful and interesting from her 2021 collection, and admittedly, in remaining within what worked for roughly an hour, the album can, at times, become a little stagnant musically—but specifically, in listening analytically, it’s stagnant. As an album, to put on, and enjoy for it what it is, it isn’t flawless by any means, but it is quite enjoyable. 

Abrams, though, as a songwriter, continues to grow—for all of the overextended metaphors she uses in a song like “Full Machine,” (she wears the “I’m this, you’re that” trope extremely thin), there is a maturation throughout Good Riddance, and a thoughtfulness, perhaps fostered by her work with Dessner, that can’t be ignored.

One more sad girl singing sad songs for sad people is, also, not the worst thing in the world to be described as—it is the kind of way I would honestly describe Abrams, in jest, or out of convenience, in conversation with someone who was unfamiliar with her, but it is disdainful to write her off so quickly within a critical assessment that way, or not see, or appreciate, the potential, as well as how thoughtful of a collection Good Riddance really is.

And I had not, up until recently, considered the possibility that there might be certain corners of contemporary popular music that I, perhaps, that I did not feel welcome within, or if not unwelcome, simply just too old to be listening in earnest.

There is this line that I think about from the song “Gasoline,” by the Haim sisters, where Danielle Hair, in the opening of the second verse, howls, “I get sad. You know I get sad—and I can’t look past what I’m sad about.”

Because what does a young performer—specifically, here, Gracie Abrams—a melancholic young woman, have to say within her songwriting that a man—specifically, here, me, who is pushing 40-—finds compelling, or can identify with in any way?

I can’t look past what I’m sad about.

It’s not easy to love me.

I’m no holiday.

I guess I’m just difficult. 

A song, or songs, from any number of artists, performing what could be categorized within any genre, can be written in such a way to make one, such as myself, feel seen, or attacked, or catch unflattering glimpses of myself in the reflection from the mirror the song, or songs, in question, holds up to my face. 

Sadness, or at the very least, melancholy, or difficult self-reflection, are more or less universal, and regardless of the myriad other sad singers writing sad songs for sad listeners (such as myself) that I favor (many of them are deceased, which you should not be surprised to hear), within the last three of four years, I have found myself in a space that I, maybe, do not necessarily belong in—or, if anything, would feel out of place. 

But I don’t. Not really. 

I, in the past, have used the phrase “youthful exuberance,” in writing, often in describing the kind of palatable feeling that an album from a relatively young artist radiates. Good Riddance is not exactly an exuberant listen, and even when it falters, it is still full of youthful charm and potential, among other elements that assist in how compelling it can be. Aaron Dessner’s collaborative involvement makes Good Riddance welcoming and accessible to a listener like myself—appreciative of his previous efforts as a producer and arranger, as well as a 15+ year fan of The National, and the sentiments of Gracie Abrams’ lyricism, and the gritted teeth honesty with which she shares her sorrows, resonate, at times very loudly, regardless of the age of the ears that are listening.

^{1- In the year 2023, I am uncertain why I both still regularly read reviews published on Pitchfork, and why I let them bother me as much as they do. There was a time, upward of 20 years ago, when I would be furious with the site if they were overly critical or dismissive of an album, or artist, that I enjoyed; I have since grown and have come to understand that not everyone (especially music critics) will like or appreciate the same things that I like and appreciate. However, specifically with pop music, while I have been surprised and am grateful to an extent that Pitchfork, as an entity, has branched out and provided coverage to artists like Gracie Abrams, for example, or Carly Rae Jepson, these albums regularly receive somewhat low to mid-range reviews, and pretty low scores (usually a 6.something) and it seems like the writers go into it predisposed to dunk, as much as they can, on an album, and not give it the time or perhaps the consideration it is deserving. I guess what I am saying is that maybe Pitchfork should pick a lane and just stay in it, rather than doing what they have been.} 

^{2- This is just a point of clarification that, much like artists within the sphere of rap music, will often release mixtapes or unofficial efforts before a “debut full-length” arrives, Abrams alleges that This Is What It Feels Like, even though it is technically long enough, in material, to be considered a full-length album, is not her debut LP, but rather either an EP, or a “project,” so that, per her Wikipedia, “she can become more famous before releasing her debut.”}

^{3- I did not realize that J.J. Abrams is, himself, a nepotism baby—both of his parents were heavily involved in the entertainment/film industry.}

^{4- Hey, so, like, a couple of things here: first, just anecdotally, I had tried pretty hard to get a ticket to see Olivia Rodrigo as she was touring in support of Sour—going as far as to subject myself to the “Ticketmaster Verified Fan” pre-registration process. Ultimately I was not selected to receive a code to gain access to the pre-sale, and by the time, I think, the general on-sale date rolled around, all the tickets were gone. Additionally, I looked a few times at secondary markets/re-sellers maybe a month or two before the concert, and was mortified by the amount of money people were attempting to charge. Secondly, I had gone into this review, of the Gracie Abrams album, with the intent, at least early on, to discuss Rodrigo as another artist who I, perhaps, am not in the correct age demographic for listening to—regardless, I still love her, and Sour, and a big part to the conceit of the review I wrote of the album after it came out was about the lyric, “I loved you at your worst,” from the song “Traitor,” and about the idea of what it is, in fact, to love someone when they are, perhaps, at their worst—crafting another flimsy narrative thread to that, a quote from writer C.J. Hauser from her memoir, The Crane Wife, and Abrams’ self-describing herself as being “difficult.” Ultimately, I found I had reached, like, a logical point to end this review, and didn’t exactly forget to write this into it, but it seemed like it was going to be a little difficult to figure out a way, and a place, to force it in and really like maybe drive home a point that has already been conveyed. So here it is. As a footnote.} 

^{5- I am hesitant to criticize the critic, and I know that Hannah Jocelyn does not provide the numerical score given to albums she reviews on Pitchfork, but the albums she’s written about in the past—Hannah Georgas’ All That Emotion, Matt Berninger’s solo album Serpentine Prison, Tomberlin’s I Don’t Know Who Needs to Hear This, she’s given middling reviews to, and then they ultimately receive a very mediocre score, and I feel like they are all albums that deserved a lot better of treatment from the site.}

Good Riddance is available now through Interscope.