Ride the wild algorithm: Alongside the tinpot despot and football calls/complaints, “no-skip” albums are suddenly a hot topic within the realm of my social media. My hunch, and it’s just a hunch, is that it’s a term devised by (relative to me) young ‘uns molded by playlists, not LPs. They expect bangers sans mash and gravy. Some songs smack and thwack from the first bell, of course, with infectious hooks paired to mighty jabs and body shots—in the parlance of the moment, they slap. But, and this is where the transition from sales to streaming has bruised the listening experience, not every track should hit you upside the head. Some squeeze the heart, others speak to the soul. Good albums take the listener on a journey.
The latest long player from Courtney Marie Andrews, Valentine, is a great example. Throughout, the songs play off of and build upon one another; they’re pieces of a sonic jigsaw puzzle that only reveals itself once snapped together.
When she announced the project on Instagram, the singer-songwriter explained that it was “born out of limerence—a plea for love. Valentines are surface level. Turns out love is a lot more than a box of chocolates. I have learned this lesson over and over throughout my life and work.” Last week, she shared that “I wrote this work in a very dark period of my life, and in a dark period of the world, but the best thing about darkness is realizing our capacity for hope. I am very proud of this album, and I believe this has carried it to your ears. The fact that I was able to make these songs through such turbulent times is proof of hope, of love. Valentine is ultimately a person in pursuit of love, the real thing, the best friend, the connection, the self-recognition, the brighter day.” The Bandcamp description further explains that “Andrews navigated the near-death of a loved one, the end of a major relationship, and the intensity of a new romance. Rather than retreat, she poured the turmoil into songwriting and art, creating music that is both devotional and defiant.”
Valentine travels through metaphoric dark nights and overcast days, in other words, though several songs leap from the speakers as if a god ray cutting through the clouds. Others hang back, biding their time. (In some respects, the album plays like an introvert’s thesis on love and heartache.) “Pendulum Swing,” which opens the 10-track set, is a dramatic ode about the figurative wrecking ball that sometimes swings through life, while “Keeper” questions and celebrates commitment. “Cons and Clowns” is one of those aforementioned god rays; it pays homage to the artists who walk among us. “Magic Touch,” on the other hand, isn’t a tribute to tactile sensations but to the way those special to us make us feel inside. “Little Picture of a Butterfly” digs into the cracked cocoon of a love gone wrong; that its melody conjures Kris Kristofferson’s “Help Me Make It Through the Night” is a brilliant, if perverse, touch.
It also explains “Outsider,” about fearing the emotional tumult that every relationship worth having threatens. Who wants to risk the hurt? “Everyone Wants to Feel Like You Do” expands upon that vibe, both envying and mocking those who remain “detached and cool”; that it features an emotive guitar solo from Andrews only makes it that much better.
“Only the Best for Baby” is a slyly sarcastic confessional that’s simultaneously self-deprecating (“I will settle for your crumbs”) and revelatory (“I am falling too fast for you/I am showing my cards/Wondering if I’m a fool”). “Best Friend,” for its part, finds her yearning for a close confidant to spill her soul to, while the haunting “Hangman” asks her significant other to spell out his feelings.
Andrews and co-producer Jerry Bernhardt recorded Valentine over 10 days in L.A., playing all instruments themselves sans the drums, which were thumped by Chris Bear. The songs share a pronounced pop-rock feel (think Big Star, Tusk-era Fleetwood Mac, and—as the album cover indicates—Hasten Down the Wind-era Linda Ronstadt) that includes subtle synths and flute (yes, flute!); they’re far from the fresh-faced Americana that made up Honest Life, though the overall sound exists in the same zip code as Old Flowers and Loose Future. In short, while love may not be a box of chocolates, Valentine is a no-skip album that resonates like gentle feedback through the soul. It’s well worth repeated plays.
The Old Grey Cat 