Album Review: Pillow Queens - Name Your Sorrow

No, I’m not sad. No, I’m not sad. Let’s just play some rock and roll music.

And that is the thing. Isn’t it. What we push down, or hope we can ignore. Or look beyond. Or hope that others won’t notice that something is inherently wrong. 

Or that it won’t make something more difficult to accomplish. 

Or that it won’t make it impossible to focus.

No. I’m fine. It’s fine. Nothing is the matter. I’m not sad. Let’s just do the thing that we were going to attempt to do. 

Let’s hope that, once we begin, this might feel better. And that you can forget about, or let go of, at least temporarily, whatever it was. The thing that we push down, that ultimately continues to rise to the surface no matter how hard and how long we try to hold it under. 

*

When you talk about heartache, or loss, in contemporary popular music, you think of the “breakup song”—songs that are often written about a relationship that is on the cusp of coming to an end, potentially a sudden end for at least one party involved; or, songs that are written in the wake of a relationship’s end—again, potentially a sudden end, with the songs not always, but often, coming from a place of remorse, or regret. 

And one can, if one were so inclined, assemble a collection of breakup songs—or songs that are, at the very least, connected through the loose, recurring idea of heartbreak, or loss, or reflection on the end of a relationship, whether it was sudden or not, and form an entire album. 

Often, and aptly, referred to as a “breakup album.” 

However. And, I mean, a divorce is, most certainly, a breakup. And there is probably no shortage of albums that were inspired, in part or in full, by a divorce. But there is something that seems much more severe, or urgent, about the description “divorce record.” 

When I think of that expression, the first one that comes to mind is the 1978 double album from Marvin Gaye—Here, My Dear, and I will be open and honest, and say that I know more about the lore surrounding the recording and release of, than the actual music on the album itself.

Gaye, in November of 1975, throughout 1976, and into 1977, was going through a tumultuous divorce from his then already estranged wife Anna Gordy Gaye. During the proceedings, Gaye was convinced by his attorney to give, as settlement for what he owed in alimony and child support, half of the percentage of album royalties from whatever he recorded and released next, to her. 

Going into the recording studio to, quite literally, phone it in with a record that he was quoted, originally, as saying was going to be a “quickie record—nothing heavy, nothing even good,” Gaye became fascinated with the idea of writing an album for his ex-wife, and ultimately decided to create a record out of what he said was “deep passion.”

The subject of more insightful and positive reevaluation well after its release, Here, My Dear, was received poorly by critics and audiences when it arrived in December of 1978. Deemed uncommercial and simply “bizarre,” its failure to connect with listeners upset Gaye, and he refused to promote it—his label, Motown, also ceased to promote the album within months of its release. His second marriage was already falling apart, too, I guess, by the point, and Anna Gordy Gaye was, based on the lyrical content of Here, My Dear, considering a lawsuit for invasion of privacy, but reconsidered.

It’s a largely instrumental track, placed near the end of the album, but its titular phrase—a question, really. Well. Two questions, posed together—it’s the one thing that Gaye’s voice does sing in it. 

When did you stop loving me? When did I stop loving you?

In a breakup. Or a divorce. Or the end of a relationship. Potentially, at least for one party involved, sudden. These are questions that might be asked. And these are questions that might not have an answer—easy or otherwise.

Near the end of the Pillow Queens’ third full-length, Name Your Sorrow, the quartet’s guitarist and lead vocalist, Pamela Connolly sings in “Love II,” with a frankness in her voice, “I was in trouble—things could be worse. I lost myself in the divorce.”

When did you stop loving me? When did I stop loving you?

No, I’m not sad. No, I’m not sad. Let’s just play some rock and roll music.

*

And maybe, you are like me, and regardless of how much time passes, or how much you did enjoy something, at some point, or perhaps still do enjoy that something, if you have even the slightest negative experience associated with it, or unfortunate memory of the time adjacent to it, it can ultimately, whether you want it to or not, impact your feelings, overall, and create a barrier that is difficult to find a way around.

I first heard of the Irish group the Pillow Queens near the start of 2021—their debut full-length, In Waiting, had been released in Ireland toward the end of 2020, and through a virtual interview, and well assembled, pre-taped performance of “Liffey,” the band made their North American television debut on “The Late Late Show” with James Corden.

As 2021 came to a close, the Pillow Queens had signed with the Canadian label Royal Mountain, and reissued In Waiting all while prepping their sophomore album, Leave The Light On, which arrived in the spring of 2022. 

And I will, of course, ask for your forgiveness in advance here, as we approach nearly a thousand words, and I, as I so often do, break the fourth wall and address you, the reader, but I also continue the slow—some would argue, and they might be right, too slow—build up to when I do, in fact, begin to discuss the album in question.

And I could, as I am certain that I have in the past, when I turn the idea of the album review into something that, more and more resembles a personal essay, or an album review that I insist on writing myself into as a character or protagonist—some would argue, and they might be right, an antagonist—go into more detail than necessary, and pull you, the reader, further and further into the weeds before I lead you back out.

The short version, if this will even be short at all, is that at the beginning of 2022, I was between jobs—which is a nice way of saying that I had, in fact, left the job that I had for over five years, at the end of 2021, because my mental health had, at the time, plummeted to its absolute lowest, and I was attempting to show myself some kindness, and compassion, by taking a few months before beginning something new. 

I spent a lot of time, in the mornings, in coffee shops—both looking for potential new employment, but also trying find more opportunities to write.

The short version, if this will even be short at all, is that at the beginning of 2022, I came across a music news and review website that, at the time, had an application available to submit information to be a contributing writer. 

In the application process, there was a space to answer the question of what you would like to write about if given the opportunity—at the time, I had said I was interested in a 10th-anniversary reflection on Perfume Genius’ Put Your Back N 2 It, and a review of the then forthcoming second full-length from the Pillow Queens.

The short version, if this will even be short at all, is that I did not hear back from anyone, and after maybe a month, I followed up.

The short version, if this will even be short at all, is that following up eventually got things moving, but it was, a quickly discovered, a mistake for me to have submitted my information, and expressed interest. The short version is that this site, which has been in existence for 25 years now, was not the right fit, at all, for me, and the kind of music writing that I do.

The short version is that, yes, I did have a chance to sit down with Leave The Light On in advance of its arrival in April of 2022, and, yes, I did write a piece on it and submit it to the editors for the website in question, and yes it was published. But I was extremely unhappy while writing it, and extremely unhappy with the piece when it was finished—unhappy, and disappointed with my experience with the site, as a whole. 

The short version is that I tell you all of that to tell you this—I gave Leave The Light On a relatively high numerical score within the piece itself. An 8 out of a possible 10. But the disappointment and frustration of this experience did, unfortunately, make it so that the album regardless of how much I did like it when I was writing about it, made it one that I was rather remiss to return to.

In my review of In Waiting, which is, comparatively much less heavy and aggressive tonally to both Leave The Light On and Name Your Sorrow, I refer to the album as being “fun,” and “invigorating,” and “exciting”—and, if I can remember correctly, it was that kind of fun or exuberance that I heard within the first few songs on In Waiting that drew me to the band in the first place after watching their soaring, haunting performance on “The Late Late Show.”

And it might not come as a surprise to you that with a title like Name Your Sorrow, it is not exactly a “fun” or “enthusiastic” listen. It is not entirely void of that, though, either. There are moments—I stop short of saying moments of joy, because there is little, if any, to be had of that. But there are moments of exuberance and the soaring quality to their music that the Pillow Queens perfected so well early on in their career is still present in a number of these songs. 

The Pillow Queens weren’t exactly a brand new band when they released their debut in 2020, but they had only formed maybe four years prior to that, so there is a kind of ramshackle youthfulness, and at times even playfulness and sense of humor to the songs on In Waiting. And they are a band, less than a decade into their career, that has continued to grow with each subsequent release, as bands, or artists, should.

Even with the high marks I felt compelled to bestow upon Leave The Light On, and regardless of the negative experience, I cannot seem to shake surrounding my attempt to write about the album, something that I do know about it, and recognize about it, at the time, and even now when I do feel compelled to revisit, is just the sheer enormity of it—if anything, and this is not to say that it is a good or bad thing. But. It is so big at times—potentially too big. Not for its own good. But just, perhaps, the sound of a band that threw themselves into a much more expansive sound faster than one would have anticipated. 

This is all to say that Name Your Sorrow is just as large, in sound and in scope, if not larger, than its predecessor. However. In the two years that have elapsed since the release of Leave The Light On, the Pillow Queens have continued to grow, and this size, or the ambition of it all that you can hear surging in this collection of songs, makes more sense, or they have grown into it more comfortably and confidently. It, as you might expect with a title like Name Your Sorrow, is an inherently dark record—angry, often ferocious, beautifully and terribly visceral, walking the line between two extremes—lust and sadness—and treading carefully in the places where they intersect. 

*

Prior to arrival of Name Your Sorrow in full, mid-April (the same release date as Taylor Swift’s The Tortured Poets Department, though I am not sure how much of an overlap there is in the two audiences outside of myself) the Pillow Queens began releasing singles in advance, starting in November of 2023, with the moody, brooding “Suffer,” then the explosive, cathartic “Gone,” just after the new year began. 

In an interview conducted with Atwood Magazine (full disclosure, I do occasionally contribute to Atwood, as I am able), the members of the group, when discussing the album, imply that it is meant to be listened to in one sitting, as to get the full experience of a tumultuous journey out of the album’s dozen songs, and that the sequencing of the album’s tracks is very intentional.

And there are examples throughout the album’s first side alone of that intentionality, but it is most apparent within the way the tone and energy of the album shifts between the final song on side one, and the bombastic way side two begins.

Opening with a jagged, harsh burst of electric guitar, and thundering, yet jangly percussion, “Gone” is among the album’s most visceral and ferocious in both its sound, as well as in its lyricism—as well as one of the angrier, or at least embittered moments on the record. 

The album, as a whole, does walk that line of lust and sadness, but there are other emotions in there as well that will often boil over to the surface—a scowling, self-effacing hurt is what is at the center of “Gone,” specifically in the song’s soaring, tension releasing chorus, where Connolly howls, and later in the song, is joined by the otherworldly wails of multi-instrumentalist and vocalist Sarah Corcoran, “I’m gone—I’m someone else’s sun. I’m gone…I’m someone else’s problem.”

Then, in the song’s anthemic bridge, Connolly continues to ruminate within both her heartbreak and her anger—“Tried to be your rock, but I’m just your fool,” she observes. “I could make it stop, but I’m not that cool. I was in your top five things to do—I’m bored with it.”

If the explosive heights that “Gone” reaches ultimately are among the noisiest or at least the harshest on Name Your Sorrow, “Suffer,” placed near the top of the album’s tracklist, is assembled in a way that it creates a stark contrast as the song unfolds—juxtaposing a dark trudge with a slow motion, shimmery tumble.

The song’s are not exactly, lyrically, arranged in a way that it tells the story of this relationship falling apart in a truly linear way—but, I mean, from both the hypnotic bleakness depicted in the album’s stunning opening, “February 8th,” and into “Suffer,” you get the idea that things are not going well, but there are places where things do not seem as dire, or grim, or there is at least a little bit of hope. And even with a title as scathing as “Suffer,” it is a moment where Connolly has hope, however fleeting that might feel.

“No matter how long we suffer,” she begins over an ominous-sounding stomp. “Still can’t keep it off my mind. Keeping this home together, despite your appetite to lie.”

The dark tone of “Suffer” is offset in the chorus, which switches the affect to one that glistens with shimmering guitar and crisp, sharp percussion. “Still gonna love you. Still gonna fight,” Connolly announces. “Still gonna try to catch a glance of your eye.”

After Name Your Sorrow had been announced, it isn’t that I was uncertain that I was interested, or that I would like the album, or find something about it genuinely interesting—though, admittedly, “Gone” is a much more compelling single, and better-executed song when compared to “Suffer.” But. It was the third song released ahead of the album, and the album’s third track, the slinky, playful, and lusty pleading of “Like A Lesson,” that I found I was much more excited at the dynamism it offered when compared to the other two songs the group had shared.

A little more restrained, and much less dark, “Like A Lesson” is structured around a snappy, jangly rhythm, a searing electric guitar riff that courses throughout, and the steady strum of an acoustic guitar, which gives it a lighter feeling, tonally.

The rhythm itself, less serious, and much more subdued nature, is reminiscent of the kind of looseness that the group built a number of the songs on their debut around. And the melody, tempo, and overall feeling that “Like A Lesson” has does distract, slightly, at least upon initial listen, from the lyrics. Certainly not the darkest, or most self-effacing song on Name Your Sorrow, it is a song that, yes, is lusty, or at least outwardly sensual. But it is also full of a kind of pleading desperation, and the combination of the two emotions, or states, creates a kind of unnerved, or anxious feeling that is palpable while the music swoons, and build, around Connolly’s vocals.

There is an inherent longing, but also an uncertainty or a trepidation that is explored as “Like A Lesson” unfolds. “You treat me like a lesson—you treat me like a test,” Connolly muses. “I thank my lucky stars you don’t treat me like the rest. And I wrapped it around my fingers—wrapped it around my head,” she continues, slyly guiding the song from the longing into a place of outward lust. “Wrapped it around and round, and now I’m wrapped around your legs.”

That lust, or the desperation and need for some kind of physical, certainly, and emotional connection, is what converges in the chorus where Connolly bellows the show-stopping line, “I don’t wanna ruin my life, but I want to go home with you.” 

“It’s the shapes that you make—and your body is safe,” she, her voice pushed into a higher register, creating a moment that is both tender and honest, yes, but also surprisingly urgent.

The song, though, is not entirely longing, or lust—there is still a tumultuous undercurrent that ripples to the surface. “You said you’re sorry. You’re not enough to keep me happy,” Connolly observes early on in the song. “It’s just a cliff—no one can stop me. We’re so predictable.”

“I really do love you,” she assures, near the end. “But nobody believes me.”

*

For as dark, or as low as Name Your Sorrow gets, and for as bleak as it is implied to be, given the title of the album and what the conceit that holds it together is, it isn’t entirely hopeless, either. Though the flashes and glimmers of hope are few and far between, arriving within the later half of the record—one of which is the meditative closing track, “Notes on Worth.” However, even with Name Your Sorrow ending with a brief moment of optimism, there is a final exhalation of sadness and remorse to work through on the dreamy, though downcast “Love II.”

Opening with a shivering, distended-sounding electric guitar, before the sharp, crisp-sounding percussion from Rachel Lyons comes in, keeping time as the interplay between the guitars and bass creates a hazy, swooning, all-encompassing feeling, contrasting the snarl of the opening guitar tone, with something a lot less jagged—all of it surging and pooling together and intersecting somewhere that results in a surprising (given the dark tone of it all) a slithering kind of groove that naturally rises up to small, but explosive peaks before receding again.

There is certainly a lot of reflection that occurs throughout Name Your Sorrow, but “Love II” is perhaps the most reflective or at least the most obvious in Connolly tracing her way back through the demise or this relationship and in doing so, attempting to reconcile with it, and the conflicted feelings she has.

“I was always up for the yearning,” she confesses as the song begins. “In the morning, I can’t breathe. I was always humming and hawing. All of a sudden, I can’t see.”

There is a plea, and a want, that is found at the center of “Love II”—one that is rooted in a bit of disbelief. “I was hoping you’d come back around,” she exclaims. “Thought that that was someone you’d be. I just thought that I’d feel better now,” Connolly continues. “I don’t. Tell me if you feel my disease,” she adds, deprecatingly, before a sad, but impactful aside. 

“I hope you keep a bit of me.”

The desperation, or longing, or the need for connection that is found elsewhere in the album also is present in the second verse to “Love II.” “Some kind of woman helping me land,” Connolly recalls, with both a fondness and a bittersweetness. “I was enjoying just holding her hand. Some kind of woman tells me I’m nice—stand for the encore of Sisyphus’ sighs. I was in trouble—things could be worse. I lost myself in the divorce.”

I lost myself in the divorce. 

When did you stop loving me? When did I stop loving you?

No, I’m not sad. No, I’m not sad. Let’s just play some rock and roll music.

Name Your Sorrow ends with the slow burning, seemingly hopeful, but also honestly kind of sad,  “Notes on Worth,” which is not the lustiest, or most sensual moment on the album (that is the searing “One Night”) but this song, as a bit of an afterward to the album’s narrative, finds Connolly reflecting more on herself, and more importantly, her self worth, as an effort to move forward.

“Suddenly, you’re all I needed,” Connolly exclaims. “Craving that one night wife—I don’t want to go home alone this weekend. I think I’m worth the time.”

And I was going to say that, in the past, the Pillow Queens have not been outwardly lusty, or really explored sensuality, or sexuality, in their lyrics. But. I realized, rather quickly, in looking back at the writing of the opening track on the band’s debut, that that isn’t really the case at all.

On “Holy Show,” within moments of the first notes coming in, you can hear Connolly’s voice sing, “I’ve got your eyes and cheeks in front of me filling the space between my thighs.”

The next line was just as forward—“I’ll roll you up and crack you open. We look like a couple of teens.”

Sequenced within the final third of the album, “One Night” is Name Your Sorrow’s lustiest, most sensual moment, and it is also, in its explosive and hungry nature, its most jubilant, in its lyrics, and in the smolder, then, the anthemic fury of the way the music is arranged.

Structurally, “One Night,” fittingly I guess, considering the writing, kind of writhes or undulates within the verses, with lower, distended, fuzzy guitar tones, and a thundering rhythm—then bursts to life, ascending to towering heights within the chorus. 

In the writing, Connolly doesn’t have time to waste, and gets right to the point, or at least the sensual nature of the narrative within the first few lines. “I got my hair wet—I let it wash all over me. It soaked me through the skin you see..every hunger that I’ve tried to feed,” she explains. “And you’re so good at that.”

The Pillow Queens, as a group, in their growth over the last four years and change, and the expansion of their sound, were never a humorless band—there were subtle winks and smirks to be found, at times, on In Waiting; less so on Leave The Light On. And given the serious nature of the through line of Name Your Sorrow, the songs included here leave little if any room for a sense of humor, or a clever play on words, but I guess given the nature of “One Night,” lyrically Connolly cuts loose in the song’s chorus in such a way that is surprising at first, but does, even with the clever, knowing wink to the listener, really work well.

“One night’s not enough,” she howls as the bombast and exuberance of the song’s arranging detonates underneath her, and the depictions of seduction and lust grow. “I’ll chew through two or three. I’m all for a fifth time to cut your teeth on me. When I smell like whatever you smell like,” she continues, then delivering perhaps what I found, at first, a startling, then genuinely compelling and honestly alluring line. “You can fuck me clean.”

*

Tell me how I’m gonna dissolve this body quicker

And there is, of course, the very intentional way that Name Your Sorrow is both structured, and how the overall theme unfolds through each song. Avoiding a linear path, it smartly opts to sidestep a more traditional or perhaps expected “beginning” in the sense that there are no songs included on the album written from the place of when things in the relationship that is depicted were, like, good, or functioning. And as it continues to shuffle through vignettes and fragments within the slow, painful decline, the first side is bookended with potentially its bleakest or most harrowing songs—which also happen to be Name Your Sorrow’s finest, most thought-provoking, and its darkest sounding moments.

The creeping, cratering, ominous, and very deliberately paced “February 8th” really does set the tone for the rest of the songs that follow—musically, in terms of the group’s use of a brooding, more dissonant sound, and lyrically, it does begin to reveal, albeit through ambiguous but evocative imagery, the details of a relationship’s demise that fuel a bulk of the writing.

Beginning with the sharp, distorted, and seemingly backwards sound of bent, and manipulated guitar feedback, “February 8th” takes shape the moment that the jittery, steady rhythm comes clacking in, and the low, rumbling, sustained bass line—musically, it also, right away, works from a place of building tension with no sign of release. Even when the song reaches its chorus, there is no deviation from the gloomy, somber tone it strikes in the opening moments. It never is allowed to rise, even slightly, remaining in an unnerving holding pattern.

A descriptor for songs that I feel like I, potentially, overuse—or have become at least aware of how often I rely on it, is referring to the “groove,” if the song in question does happen to find its way into one. This kind of feeling—one that does move through your body and then does, in turn, ask you to move your body along in time, happens in a few places on Name Your Sorrow. And that is not surprising. Even for a guitar-driven, mostly traditional in instrumentation and sound kind of “rock band,” the members of the Pillow Queens are aware of pop songwriting and sensibilities in terms of crafting huge, often infectious hooks.

And I am remiss to refer to something as stark sounding as “February 8th” as “infectious,” but it is memorable in the sense that it does work its way into you, and through you—the stuttering, clattering, and unrelenting rhythm, coupled with the low rumble of the bass, weaving effortlessly with the fuzzed out snarl of one guitar, and the whirring, twisting backwards bending noises from the other—all of it does, surprisingly, create the subtlest of grooves that does, shortly after the elements tumble together, take you over.

It reaches this point, too, with Connolly’s vocal delivery—not exactly talking, not exactly singing, the words slip out of her with sharp precision, falling into place, within the rhythm, at just the right moment, writhing and slithering with a near “come hither” allure that gives way to the darkness that casts a long shadow over the song.

“I don’t like that. I don’t like that. Let’s see how long I can do it,” Connolly says as her voice works its way into the intricate sounds swirling around. “Just a kiss here and a bruise there. I’m a cool girl—let’s see how I can prove it,” she continues, before picking up the speed and diction of her delivery a little more within a seemingly fragmented, stream of conscious association. “Write it all when. Cola vape pen. Six weeks is not gonna do it.”

“No I’m not sad. No I’m not sad. Let’s just play some rock and roll music,” she assures before sliding into the chorus, where her voice, in a lower register, delivers one of the more harrowing and vivid lines from the entire album. 

“Tell me if I’m gonna wake up. Tell me how I’m gonna dissolve this body quicker.”

Intentional in how fragmented it is, and even a little disorienting, in the way it blurs a narrative with heavy ambiguity, “February 8th” smartly sets the tone, lyrically sure but also musically in terms of the fuzzy snarl the band effortlessly conjures, for the songs to come, and what the Pillow Queens will be attempting to unpack and work through—the lines between anger and resentment, remorse and anguish, and denial, which Connolly treads on later. 

“I’ve already forgotten the pain,” she exclaims hear the conclusion. “So if you leave, you’ll come back again…you’ll come back again.”

*

When did you stop loving me? When did I stop loving you?

Save all your money. Sell off the memories. Buy back your life.

And there is, of course, the resentment that comes—certainly within the moments, or the moments surrounding the dissolution of a relationship. But, there is also, the resentment that can still linger, even years after the fact. 

The anger, or sadness, recede over time, obviously. Or at least, if anything, those feelings are not as raw, and always at the surface. But. There can still be, regardless of who initiated the ending of the relationship, a palpable feeling of regret, and yes, resentment, can, and often will, still be there, like a specter.

Placed at the halfway point, closing out the first side of Name Your Sorrow, before the bombast and sneer of “Gone,” at the top of the second side, the slow-burning, seething “The Bar’s Closed,” finds Connolly writing from that resentment and regret—still very fresh, comparatively, to where you, or I, might be if we do ever find ourselves ruminating about how a previous relationship came to an end. Powerful, honest, terribly sad, visceral, and desperate, it is the album’s finest moment—certainly a high-water mark for the Pillow Queens, as a band, and their canonical works, but one of the most effecting songs of the year, without question.

Beginning with a slow fade of dissonance and feedback, “The Bar’s Closed,” at least at first, is one of the more reserved and gentle sounding songs as it tumbles together. The percussion, during the verses is delicate, with a strong and complimentary bass line surging through and finding is place within the fabric, as a distended but muted guitar melody plays over the top of it. 

In the way it is constructed, “The Bar’s Closed” is incredibly deliberate in the tension, and restraint it shows, before pushing itself into noisy places of release and exhalation—a give and take that is perfectly executed in how it exemplifies the upheaval and torrents of emotion that build up to a breaking point—that build, certainly reaching a peak during the chorus, becomes even louder, and more chaotic in the song’s final moments—with Connolly’s voice sounding strained and desperate, like the whole thing is trying to claw its way out of itself while everything is collapsing at once.

And, like the music itself, in the way it is paced to slowly reveal more and more emotion, Connolly’s lyrics do the same—beginning, and churning in a place of self-deprecation, before rising to a boiling point.

“I’ve been watching you lose your light,” she begins quietly. “Caught up in someone to destroy your life. Keeping it ’til the last goodbye. Wish I was someone who you thought of that night.”

“The Bar’s Closed,” as it begins gaining momentum, and the further we are pulled into the narrative, the inevitable convergence of the sorrow and the resentment, continues to grow—within the moments before the chorus, and within the haunting, furious words at the end of the second verse. 

“So save all your money,” Connolly demands, sounding dejected. “Sell off the memories. Buy back your life. You learned your lesson. September confession—I was your wife,” before reaching the conceit of the song about when we are deep in self-destructive behavior, it is hard, if not impossible, to find a way out.

“When the bar’s closed, the high road seems so high.”

And there is, of course, something so harrowing and very human about how effacing the writing is, up to a certain point in the song. But, that gives way to a different kind of harrowing and human realization. “Go find yourself in a peak to climb,” Connolly sneers. “You’re not my life anymore. You’re not my life,” before changing the final word in that phrase and letting it hang in the air for just a moment, allowing the weight of it all to hit you. 

“You’re not my life anymore—you’re not my wife.”

*

And it is something that is worth noting that Connolly does sing—snarl, really, with a seething ferocity, near the end of “The Bar’s Closed,” and it is something that is perhaps adjacent to the larger through line of Name Your Sorrow that does recur throughout the album, but within the final moments, and, I mean, yes there are a lot of lines within that song along that are extremely resonant, but there is one thing, in particular, that not a lot of time is given to, and I think that it is intended to be more than just an aside.

“When you undress me, I hate how I feel.”

I am remiss to say that there is a lot of talk about bodies, or how one feels about their own body, on Name Your Sorrow, but it is something that I, and perhaps it is because I do have misgivings and admittedly complicated relationship with own body, picked up on, or was more apt to notice the longer I spent with the album.

And I think it is, perhaps, just how loudly the line is said at the conclusion of “The Bar’s Closed,” as the song itself is descending into a cacophony, that made me truly take note before realizing that this idea, however loosely integrated it is, with flashes of it elsewhere, but then appearing again, in “Notes On Worth”—“I think I’m worth the time,” Connolly attests. “I can feel my body beating—I hated it all my life. I don’t want to go home alone this weekend.”

Along with this additional element within the larger narrative, there is yet one more that is maybe a little less subtle, and that is the way, lyrically, the group plays with the idea of gender or gender roles. Distilling the Pillow Queens down as a “queer indie girl group” seems dismissive and disrespectful, but they are four queer women making indie rock—and the queer identity, which has been at the forefront since their full-length debut, does give them freedom to write lyrics that do blur, or at least muddy gender constructs. “Give up the guise of fine,” Connolly sings on the jangly, jaunty, and ascendant “So Kind.” “I was a one-man guy.” 

This element of the writing is most prevalent in the downcast, gritty “Heavy Pour,” which was the final single issued prior to the album’s release. “Bet on the belief that I was a better man,” Connolly sings in the second verse over the song’s brooding instrumentation. “Whisper your weakness—you’re softer than anyone.” All of this before the song builds toward the aggressive, thunderous mania, “I want more, but I’m not man enough—man enough.”

*

When did I stop loving you? When did you stop loving me?

No I’m not sad. No I’m not sad. Let’s just play some rock and roll music.

And that is the thing. Isn’t it. What we push down, or hope we can ignore. Or look beyond. Or hope that others won’t notice that something is inherently wrong. 

Or that it won’t make something more difficult to accomplish. 

No. I’m fine. It’s fine. Nothing is the matter. I’m not sad. Let’s just do the thing that we were going to attempt to do. 

Let’s hope that, once we begin, this might feel better. And that you can forget about, or let go of, at least temporarily, whatever it was.

I hesitate to say that, overall, Name Your Sorrow is a hopeless album. Because that isn’t entirely true, it is bleak, yes. And sad. And difficult. In terms of the emotional heft it is carrying and how it works to unpack all of it. The end of a relationship is not easy for either party, and setting it to music, or at least using it as a clear inspiration for a collection of songs presents the challenge of how to tactfully do justice to what you are feeling—in the moment, yes, when something comes to an end, but also perhaps in the time leading up to that, and what happens in the aftermath. 

There are small, brilliant flashes of hope, or at least optimism, that come through on Name Your Sorrow as the narrative, set to the dark, often searing, and inherently the largest sounding music the group has made thus far, works its hardest to make sense of a bad situation—the kind of circumstances that offer no easy answers, and often just leaves one with more questions.

Name Your Sorrow is an enormous leap for the Pillow Queens—a daring, bold, regularly loud, and unabashedly open statement about, yes, a divorce, but more importantly, the complicated and often contradictory feelings that come along with the end of a relationship. The messy, beautiful, dark, and sad convergence between lust, longing, sorrow, and resentment. 

Name Your Sorrow is out now via Royal Mountain