The first time I listened to Alvvays’ album Blue Rev, I made it through half the album before moving on. The MBV-style waves of distortion and fuzz (on many songs) made for a tough listen—tough in that the mix insists on your attention.
In December, when all the best-of-year lists start rolling out, I was surprised to find Blue Rev a consistent presence.
So I listened to it again…but paid more attention this time.
Since that more focused listen, I think I’ve listened to Blue Rev more than 20 times all the way through, and have glimpsed what sent it reeling to the top of those best-of-year lists.
That dense mix that irritated me at first now seems like a deliberate devise, because it’s only with a close ear that the listener picks up on what Pitchfork described Blue Rev as “lousy with bridges and middle-8s that give even the album cuts a sense of stakes and momentum.”
A close listen reveals many of the tunes as layered and worked over—Molly Rankin and company are rarely content to ride the same musical feel or melody for a full three minutes. Instead, many songs have a distinct AB structure, like “Pressed”—which sets up as the most accurate Smiths tribute I’ve ever encountered, with Rankin nailing the high-brow whimsy and distinctive phrasing of Morrissey and guitarist Alec O’Hanley pinning down Johnny Marr’s chiming punchy guitar work. Then the song shifts. The intensity ebbs, and Rankin offers—tentatively at first—that she “won’t apologize for something [she’s] not sorry for,” an assertion that gathers more and more steam over the song’s remaining 40 seconds, until closing with two slashing Marr-like chords from O’Hanley.
But maybe the best example of thoughtful songcraft is the second track—”Easy on Your Own?”
Once outlined, the song has a curious structure:
A A B C A B C D E C D
If the structure was it, the song would merely be clever. As assembled, though, the song has a devastating impact.
The first two verses (A) catalogue the failures of the narrator—not graduating college, struggling with jobs.
The pre-chorus (B) concludes the consistency and drabness of this position—”crawling in monochromatic hallways.”
The first part of the chorus (C) poses a decision: “If you don’t like it, say it’s over.”
Another verse then offers a different failing—the struggle either to succeed musically or romantically (interpret as you’d like)—followed by a similar pre-chorus and chorus. This second time, the chorus adds another bit (D), a question that gives the song its title:
“Does it get easier on your own?”
Rankin asks the question and, as if in reply, the mix drops out and she is left isolated against unhurried drums, a droning organ, and a wash of murky guitar. She murmurs:
I waited so long for you
Wasted some of the best years of my life
And I wanted to see it through
This time
This time
Whatever it was, it’s over. It’s another failure, one that is marked by Rankin’s caterwauling repetition of “this time,” which sends the song roaring to life for a moment.
Then, we are back to the chorus (C), which has shifted: the mix is emptied out and Rankin is no longer speaking in conditionals. She loses the “if” and leaves us with a plainspoken statement: “You don’t like it, say it’s over.”
Then she returns to the second part of the chorus (D): “Does it get easier on your own?” But now, she’s not asking from the before, she’s asking from the after; she’s found herself alone, and it’s not the answer she was looking for. Does it get any easier on your own?
As she asks this question, a backing vocal provides the devastating answer in response, borrowing from the first part of the chorus:
Does it get easier on your own? (You don’t like it)
Does it get easier on your own? (Say it’s over)
Does it get easier on your own?
The song’s structure combined with the drama of the lyrics makes this such an exceptional song. The miracle of the album is that so many of the other tracks offer a similar fine-tuned songcraft. (Even if it’s sometimes hiding behind the mix.)
Taylor Coe 