Her vocals roll from the speakers as if low-hanging clouds through a cityscape at night, harbingers of severe weather that never arrives. The mist transforms to gentle rain to a downpour before, as all storms must, clearing out, with the moon’s reflections on the wet streets noir-like and, too, trance-inducing. In short, Emma Gerson—aka “lucky break”—possesses the most hypnotic of instruments: a voice that’s expansive and omnipresent. When combined with the ever-churning textures of the songs themselves, the result is mesmerizing: Listening to made it!, especially via headphones, is akin to floating through spacetime. Yesterday, today and tomorrow cease to exist; there’s just the moment, the now.
Truthfully, that first paragraph sounded much more poetic when I wrote it the other night, after what must have been the 100th time I’ve listened to the 11-track, 33-minute album. I’ve wanted to write about it since the first listen a month ago, when I first clicked play on a review request, but found myself frozen every time I put figurative pen to paper. On the surface, the music is very much a throwback to the alt.rock stylings of the 1990s, with echoes of Liz Phair, Fiona Apple, the Breeders, Curve and others of that era, including Lucinda Williams, pulsating like sonic supernovas. In a sense, she’s an angel with wings of fire—which, no doubt, explains her smoky vocals. (She also plays acoustic guitar; Elliott Woodbridge, her friend and co-producer, handles all the other instruments.)
made it! opens with the atmospheric “Big Swing,” in which the 24-year-old Gerson—a Libra/Scorpio cusp for those interested in such things—reflects on navigating her newfound adulthood while inexplicably feeling stuck: “I’m getting older/It is what it is/Best friends live in cities where I’ve never been/It’s Halloween now, but you’re not a kid/When I go to bat, it’s a big swing/And a miss.” The song buzzes from the inside out, just about, the equivalent of velvet ruffling against the skin, and somehow turns stasis into an intoxicant. “Burning String” both tempers and ups the angst while reflecting on how we like to think that love will complete us: “I know it’ll all make sense/When I finally touch you/It’ll be enough to/Make up for the things I lack.” In the press release, she explains that the album “captures my life from 19 to 23 as I was going through major transitions, finding my inner compass and figuring out how to live in alignment with my values.” Those years tend to be when the promise of tomorrow becomes—well, I was going to write “the nightmare of today,” but that’s not right. Dreams dissipate. First loves, too.
“Camp Song,” “City Lights” and “Crush” continue and expand upon the themes outlined in the first two tracks, with “Crush” especially devastating; it recalls a relationship that ended due to things her ex said to friends after he ended a phone call with her but forgot to hang up. Nothing prepares one for “Darklight,” however, which finds Gerson hoping her ex will be haunted by her for the rest of his days. It’s a sonic conjuring that sends shivers up and down the spine. “Head Down,” for its part, mires in heartbreak, while “If People Could Fly” shares her fantasy of winged flight.
The too-brief “Pictures of Herself” sounds like an outtake from Liz Phair’s Exile in Guyville, just about, while “Red Balloon” pops like one from Phair’s self-titled album. “Spinning Cup” closes the album with the recognition that life is a lot like an amusement ride—and that potential suitors need to be prepared for the highs, lows and occasional dizziness to come: “But all I’ve got is this spinning cup/And one seat by my side/So maybe, baby, buckle up/And let’s go for a ride/Let’s hope that it slows/Before the end off our lives.”
As I said up top, I’ve played made it! a ton since it first came into my life. My main criticism is minor and, I’d wager, due to my ever-advancing age: Some songs, such as “City Lights,” “Darklight,” and “If I Could Fly” are too short. It’s sonic claustrophobia in form and practice, leaving me yearning for more. That said, it matters not. The songs still subsume you.
The Old Grey Cat 