I Will Try To Be
If I got to do it all again, I’d find you there like I did back then.
And this is something that I do find myself, sometimes, giving consideration to. Of where and of when our life intersects with that of another. The moment itself, yes. Of course. But what leads up to that. The decisions. The choices. Because I do wonder if I would have, or could have, first met someone under different circumstances. A different time. A different place. A version of me slightly dissimilar to the one I am. If it would be the same. If you would still find your way to where you are now. Or what, if anything, might be different.
There is this propulsion. The rhythm of our lives. We make these choices and these decisions and in time yes we may have misgivings. A sense of regret. A mistake. The wrong decision. A poor choice. And I understand that it is cloying to admit but what I also understand or at least can acknowledge is all of that does, inevitably, bring us to where we are right now in this moment. And these points of intersection. Your life and that of another.
Would you find me still.
I think about something Hanif Abdurraqib recently shared online—it is part of a larger reflection on, amongst other things, friendships and time, and the inspiration for the new poems he has been writing for a forthcoming collection. “You will never, in your life, be able to know every single person who could possibly love you well, and life is so short,” he said. “You will, maybe, despite that, be loved by someone or many someone who will shape themselves around every version of you there is, and life is so long.”
“Countless opportunities to leave or be left behind. Countless opportunities to be found and re-found.”
And it is, really, nothing short of a miracle. That moment of intersection. Your life. The life of another. Those circumstances. Time and place. You will, inevitably, grow out of the version of yourself from that moment. We continue to change and if we are fortunate enough, we intersect with someone who will shape themself around who you continue growing into.
And I have been the one who was left behind. The hope is that you will be re-found but when months turn into years and you forget what a voice sounds like on the other end of the telephone, or you are simply not able to fathom how you would begin a conversation or answer the question “how have you been” because in those months and years you of course have become different versions of yourself. The months turn into years and you do not have to understand. But you have to, reluctantly, accept. To acknowledge.
And I have of course been the one to leave. A distance forms for any number of reasons.
I have been, though, the one to be found. And my best friend and I have had this conversation before. More than once in the time we have known each other. The conversation where she tells me that I will not be able to know every single person. And that there could be someone out there in the world who I might never meet but could offer me a better friendship, or connection, than the one she can. And I hear her. I do. But we are here right now and what I tell her, always, is that we are fortunate. It is nothing short of a miracle when time and place and circumstances result in an intersection of lives.
We are fortunate because we have this moment and the one it brings us to next.
Would you still find me and in finding me would you shape yourself around every version of me that there is.
*
Pop music desires a body. I am often thinking about this, when I listen. Within the world a song constructs, you look for the depictions, and you work to understand, and live within the point that they take you up to. Or the place they exist within. The moment. Desire. Want and need. A palpable longing for something, often someone, seemingly just out of reach.
And sometimes, within the world of a song, it is the depiction of wanting to be seen. Or understood. The depiction of a quiet assurance.
There are enormous swings throughout the entirety of hard/SWEET, the fourth full-length LP from Queen of Jeans. Enormous musical swings, yes. Certainly. The songs, in how they sound, and are assembled, hinge themselves on an infectious melody, and they often soar, especially in the chorus. Gigantic sing-a-long moments that border on anthemic in how they arrive, and how they swell. How they compel you. A feeling that you cannot help but be caught up within. Guitar textures that are hazy, like a dream—or, are shimmery, and glisten, rippling within the layers of a song.
But there is both the enormity to, and enormity of, the emotions that are explored in the songwriting on hard/SWEET—a startling tenderness in the thoughtful and earnest and ultimately human moments depicted within Queen of Jeans’ front person Miriam Devora’s lyricism. It is a declarative album—and by that I mean it is an album full of huge declarations made, and it primarily, as it unfolds throughout ten songs, exists and swirls in this space of longing. Of want and need. Of desire, yes. But what is most compelling are the places where Devora writes about the need or desire to be understood and seen. For the quiet assurance. To be found, and for someone to shape themselves around every version of you there is.
And there are, of course, any number of things that are genuinely interesting about hard/SWEET, but something that I am so fascinated by is how focused an album it is—specifically in the themes presented within the writing. And with that, it feels like it is much more connected. This is not to say the band’s previous effort, All Again, was unfocused, or lacked a connectivity. Not at all. I mean, there is this feeling of familiarity arriving within the album’s final minute, echoing elements from its opening track. But, I think this intentionality though, within this collection of songs, does speak to a continued growth and a kind of confidence, or sharpness, for the band.
All Again was released in the summer—and there was an undeniable “summery” sound to it. How it shimmered. How it jangled. A breeziness—enthusiastic and buoyant. hard/SWEET is still all of those things. The guitar tones glisten and there is still an enthusiasm and a buoyancy within many of these songs. But in how Devora writes from a place of longing—this desire, this want. This moment. Maybe on the edge of it. Maybe fully in it. Wanting, yes. But also this want to be understood and for an assurance—so there is this warm embrace, yes, but there is also this wistfulness. Summer’s end. Arms outstretched. Reaching for autumn. Grasping for that assurance. The moment of intersection.
*
And sometimes, across hard/SWEET, the confidence, or growth, or sharpness, is more of a feeling—the way the components of a song rush together in a beautiful, slow-motion flurry. The moment when all the pieces fall together in such a way that you cannot help but marvel at how they make it seem so effortless to bring the song to that place. But there are these textural elements, too, found throughout the record, which also show a kind of growth, or further development in sound—the incorporation of keyboards, or other more synthetic tones, is perhaps the most noticeable.
And I mention that because the album’s second track, “Bucks County,” begins with a charming, slinky, chintzy-sounding drum machine pattern, and then is joined by the low, rippling drone of an organ. And there is, I suppose, a flirtatious or playful nature to the song, especially when it arrives at the chorus—that is mirrored in how it slowly collects itself, with Devora’s lyricism, the fluttering, squall of a note on the keyboard, and the steadying strum of the electric guitar, which gives it all a little more direction, as it is led into the jangly bombast of the chorus—the shuffling of a tambourine, snapping of the crisp snare drum, and the searing, fuzzy tone of the lead guitar.
“Bucks County” is not a slower song—but there is a very deliberate pacing, and in that, a swaying that occurs to keep the momentum moving forward, coasting on the original build, and then pushing itself off of that again in the second chorus, to ascend just a little more towards a frenzied, dizzying finale—a fuzzy, snarly guitar solo, and these intricate and distorted layers of overlapping vocals, which swirls around towards one more chorus, and a resolution in the blipping of the drum machine and whooshing of the organ, creating a surprisingly effective, circular feeling to how the song guides us.
So much of hard/SWEET exists within a specific kind of desire, or longing. Or want. A need. There is a tenderness and an affection present. “Bucks County” is one of the few places on the record that does not stray from want, or desire—not exactly. It is after, or rather, it is depicting, a more literal want, and desire. A yearning. Because there is romance within the core of Queen of Jeans—Miriam Devora’s spouse, Matheson Glass, plays guitar in the group. And so in what is depicted, and how it is detailed, in the song, not only is there the flirtatious or playful nature of the arranging, but there is also this little wink, or smirk, at times in the writing.
“Wherever I end, won’t you begin,” Devora sings as “Bucks County” starts to take shape. “I’m an outline, fill me in—you’re a phantom limb,” she continues, conveying this need. One both literal and figurative. Teetering into this breathless longing and desperation. “My composure wearing thin ’til you’re home again,” she explains, before the chorus, and returns to this kind of sentiment near the end of the song when she declares she is “counting down the days to your return—and here you’ll stay—falling back into place.”
And I am always surprised when there are elements of sensuality written into contemporary popular music—written in a way that is frank, yes, or very human. But in that, thoughtful in how it explores the feeling. “Bucks County,” in one line of its chorus, is so revealing, but the song, in its swaying momentum, does not spend a lot of time lingering on it. “Whenever you say Bucks County, I think of you naked,” Devora exclaims coyly, while the instrumental dazzles and swoons underneath her. A human moment. Desire. Sensuality. Romance. An inside joke between two people. There is a shift, then. “You, sitting on the train for hours,” she continues. “Let me know when you make it.”
Part of the growth, or continued development in the band’s sound on hard/SWEET is the way that Devora explores the ranges she allows her voice to ascend to. “Bucks County” is one of the places where she pushes it into a higher register, doing so on the final line of the chorus, as a means of emphasis. “All I ever needed was a love that wouldn’t keep me waiting,” she belts, and naturally lets it descend with each word.
“Please don’t keep me waiting.”
*
And there is this connected nature to how hard/SWEET unfolds. The themes that present themselves, then present themselves again throughout. This focus you can both hear, certainly, but also feel. An intention. A facet to the continued growth and confidence, and sharpness, of Queen of Jeans. And there is this literal connective nature at times. It is an album where, yes, you can listen to certain songs, out of the context of the album—there were singles released in advance of the album’s arrival. Huge, soaring, glistening songs that are both indicative of the record, as a whole, but also speak to the aesthetic of the band, and can stand on their own.
But I tell you all of that to tell you this. The literal connective nature of the album. The places where there are small moments but moments of fascination, regardless, where one song concludes, and slides seamlessly, and meticulously, into the next.
The first instance of this happens between the third and fourth song—the iridescent, dramatic heights of “Love Like Mine” coming to an end with an extended, and uncharacteristically distorted guitar solo that, as it swallows itself in a burst of feedback that fades out just as the low, atmospheric swooshing of “Go, Be, Now” begins—a surprising inward, and somber turn, and a song that intentionally brings the exuberance, and pacing of the record down in how it moves along with a kind of comparatively startling sparsity and iciness.
“Go, Be, Now” is not a collision, exactly, but it is a song that exists through contrasts or juxtapositions that continue to circle around one another—it never gets away from the band, even when Devora allows her voice to ascend to the higher, more emotive register. It’s one of the few Queen of Jeans songs that comes from a place of tension, and there is no enormous, anthemic chorus here that offers release. It’s downcast—a shadow kind of looms over the entire thing. Low synth notes undulate throughout, and resonant bass notes surge. There is this melody though, that begins shortly after the start of the song. A little skittering. A little playful. Heavily effected, and seemingly plonked out on a synthesizer. Even in how catchy and kind of bouncy, albeit brief it is, before it disappears, it is still melancholic—dropping out when the verses begin, where Devora is really only accompanied by some atmospheric, synthetic flourishes, and the measured popping of the snare drum—the percussion here, too, operates from a place of restraint as it maintains the rhythm.
And I would contend, and have contended, that there is a difference between a love song, and a song about love. There are things they share, yes. Of course. Places where there is an overlap. But a song that is about love often offers more—more in the sense that it explores different facets of love, or being in love. “Bucks County” is, I suppose, a love song, and a song about love. The longing and excitement. A spark. “Go, Be, Now” is a song that is about love, because it is coming from a place of sorrow, and loss, as it reflects upon something that has ended.
There is an emotional gravity to where Devora’s lyrics come from, as she pensively begins. “How do you stop a heart from breaking,” she asks, before answering her own question. “You play it songs to focus all its pain. And when time has done its taking,” she continues quietly and solemnly. “Your hardened heart can thaw, and start again.”
And there is hope depicted. Here, and in the chorus. And I hesitate to say that “Go, Be, Now” is hopeless, because it certainly isn’t. But it is a song that is at odds with itself, or is playing against itself in a way. From the wounded place it originates from, and the tension that is created in how it sounds, and unfolds, there is conflict in the ruminations described, and the herculean effort it takes to acknowledge, and to move forward.
“Every soul that you go chasing leaves fragments that you’ll stash along the way,” she concedes in the second verse. “Pull one from the shelf, but don’t be mistaken—they’ll never reconcile with the words you meant to say.”
“Let it go—let it be,” Devora proclaims in the chorus, her voice rising, pushing out above instruments below her. “Take it now while we’re still free. Wrap it up with a bow,” she continues, before punctuating with a line that is tender, and sorrowful. “Make sure you hold it close.”
“The time it takes to know that it’s been real—everything we feel,” she offers as the chorus ends, as a reminder to both us, as well as herself. “We learn to let it go.”
*
If I got to do it all again, I’d find you there like I did back then.
There is the moment of intersection. The time and place. Your life. The life of another. You grow out of the version of yourself from that moment and as we continue to change, in time, if we’re fortunate enough—truly fortunate, we have intersected with someone who will shape themself around who you grow into.
And pop music desires a body. I, perhaps, think about this too much, when I listen. When I listen analytically. Within the world a song constructs, there are the depictions. I, and perhaps, you, too, cannot help it, and must live within the point that the songwriter is willing to bring us to. The moment. Want leading to more want. Want. And need. Desire. A palpable longing for something. Someone. Just seemingly out of reach.
Sometimes, within this world, it is the depiction of a specific want. Of wanting to be seen. Understood. The depiction of a quiet kind of assurance.
Because even if someone, regardless of what your relationship is with them—romantic, platonic—has looked you in the eyes and told you they are not going anywhere, there is still the anxiety that ripples. The fear that your more unflattering traits, or your idiosyncrasies, will eventually push them away. The assurance needed. The assurance you continue to require. It is both a big ask, and not. An ask regardless. That they continue to find you and with a hand on your shoulder, they will put you at ease.
Devora makes this ask near the end of hard/SWEET on two songs, back to back—the jaunty, swinging “Rush,” and glistening and soaring “Common Condition.”
“Rush” begins with the single pluck of a resonant acoustic guitar string, and is quickly followed by the cavernous flourishes of a piano—the notes shift between a kind of whimsy, or twinkle, in how they sound, or are rather dramatic and stirring, as they underscore the natural rise and fall of Devora’s voice. It’s a theatrical kind of introduction to the song—working towards something larger, as it arrives at the chorus and the steady, dreamy strum of the guitar gives it a more focused momentum, while we wait for both the other instruments to appear, and to see where the band takes a song that begins in a whisper.
The song is called “Rush,” and the arranging, both in how the instrumentation propels itself forward, and the kind of breathless urgency that Devora sings with, really embody that. A kind of nervous exhilaration.
And there is no real explosive moment, or a towering height that “Rush” ascends to. But there is this moment—it isn’t a surprise that it’s going to happen. Not really. But it is exciting, regardless. The little thrill, or surge, that you can feel when the jangly percussion and the voluminous and snarly electric guitar come in, creating a kind of tumbling, rollicking aesthetic—one that is just a little twangy, honestly, that the band sustains until the song’s conclusion, and even in the uncertainty, and immediacy that writhe within Devora’s lyricism, and in the relentless nature the song takes on—there is this kind of playful, or breezy feeling to it, creating this remarkable and fascinating contrast.
There are declarations throughout hard/SWEET—at times they are bold, yes, and they are often about the self. A reflection. The parts of yourself that are perhaps difficult to acknowledge, or reconcile with. “Rush” begins with a startling declaration. “Wanna make a mess of everything,” Devora exclaims, as the piano notes ring out just beneath the tenderness of her voice.
“Rush,” ultimately, depicts a kind of tumultuousness that happens within an uncertainty—a nervousness, or anxiety that then materializes and can spiral quickly. “I know it’s too late,” she sings as the introductory verse continues. “I get carried away. I don’t know how you fit. I’m resigned to admit I move like I break.”
What “Rush” does reveal, as it tumbles forward, is that the stakes are seemingly high within what is being depicted—there’s an urgency within the want, giving way to more want. Desire, and the point we’re brought to. The assurance, and more, we are stretching ourselves out to try and grasp. “I envy the air around your skin,” Devora confesses. “Want to hold it close and breathe you in.”
“Rush,” in how it sustains this feeling and momentum—a rollicking relentlessness, never extends itself beyond a certain point, or intensity, but it does kind of begin doubling down on itself, as opposed to some kind of big, anthemic moment. There are additional layers of vocals that file in near the end, but even before that, there’s this really impressive thing that happens with how sharply constructed the melody is—with Devora delivering each word with a kind of breathless precision and intention, allowing them to fall into the spaces between brushes of the snare drum, creating something you both bop your head along in time to, and keeping your attention with the narrative as it pushes forward.
There is this desperation, then, that converges with the urgency, and the anxiety, as “Rush” swirls itself into the conclusion. “In hindsight, anyway you slice it, I was going to chase you down the slide,” she says. “I will call you back, but something tells me that we know this love will fall apart, if we name it.”
The themes of assurance, and need, or want, and a kind of chasing towards something, continue to be explored on “Common Condition,” which in how it is structured, continues to shift musically, giving it a kind of restless feeling—opening with a wonky, glimmering synthesizer melody, and some crisp percussion, regardless of it is a moment in the song when the band pulls back slightly, or when “Common Condition” swings itself out further, what you can hear underneath is the impressive, rolling, bass line—a little dreamy in its tone and texture, it rumbles just the right amount to create a propulsive exuberance.
And in this restlessness, or unwillingness to remain in one place for too long, “Common Condition” is one of the album’s most expansive songs—it isn’t experimental by any means, in terms of its textures, but it finds Queen of Jeans embracing techniques, and tones, they have not used in the past. It is another song on the record where the guitar riffs throughout are fuzzy, and blown out. Crunchier and noisier than the band has used on other records. There is also this fascinating section, roughly halfway through. It’s not a bridge. Not really. More of a stomping breakdown, where there are these kind of overlapping layers of vocals that become slightly hypnotic as they literally float across the unrelenting beat underneath them—a build that does not lead to anything frenzied. No. Just a moment. An inhalation that leads to a bold, gossamer-tinged exhale.
And there is a discourse, or a fleeting moment of disconnection, in the center of “Common Condition.” A kind of domestic scene that isn’t turbulent, exactly, or tumultuous, but it does require finding your way back, from however far the distance is, and that need for assurance. The calm that comes with it. And the emergent desperation that happens in the moment before.
“All signs point to you, do you feel it like I do,” Devora asks early in the first verse. “Knew I would find you here. I caught your eye, and now it’s clear. Waiting—like I wait for you,” she continues, creating, with these very concise statements, a very vivid and imaginative portrait.
The oscillation between the frustration you might feel and the desire to reconcile quickly is detailed in the second verse, as is the clarity of the discourse surrounding what is depicted—a little off-handed in how it is referenced- it is that need, or want, to be seen. And to be understood. “I get so tongue-tied when you wrap your arms around mine,” she admits, before adding sardonically, “It’s a common condition to hear me but not listen. Baby, we’re all on borrowed time.”
hard/SWEET is an album full of enormous declarations—it wears its heart on its sleeve throughout its ten tracks. And “Common Condition,” in how it wiggles and shimmers, is very clear in the declarations it makes, emphasizing the urgency that surrounds them. “Made up my mind—throw my heart on the line,” Devora exclaims in the chorus. “I won’t waste the night. I want you here—here inside.”
“Come on, show me why,” she says later, near the end of the song. “It feels so good when you say it’s all mine.”
Before that though, is that assurance. The calm that descends. The hand on the shoulder. “We’ll stumble, but it’s fine. You couldn’t mess up if you tried.”
If you are fortunate, you will be loved by someone who continues to shape themselves around every version of you there is.
That they will continue to find you, and for as many times as you plead for this assurance, they will offer it in return.
*
And I hesitate to say that in its structure, hard/SWEET is imbalanced, or is, like, front-loaded with its best material. Because that isn’t necessarily true. It is an album that explores the growing dynamism of Queen of Jeans—a big, sweeping album that is full of declarations. It’s impressive, actually, in how it never ceases to be compelling, from start to finish. It really never falters, but it does place what I would contend to be its most accessible or inherently infectious songs within the top half. The songs that are, in how they are assembled, most indicative of the dreamy, swooning, voluminous sound the band really thrives within.
Miriam Devora asks the question over and over again—“Don’t you want love? Don’t you want love like mine,” in the glistening, shuffling, and ascendant “Love Like Mine.” It’s not a plea. Not exactly. There’s a tenderness to her voice as the song skips and jangles—the tenderness softening the arms outstretched. The want that gives way to more want. The moments we are brought up to the edge of.
“Love Like Mine” opens with an enormous strum of a clean-toned electric guitar, while Devora’s voice tumbles into the sound of the chords before they fade away, and sets up the arrival of the rest of the instruments. Again, as the band does in a number of other places on hard/SWEET, you can kind of tell that something is going to happen—that there will be a burst of some kind. Something dazzling and bright. And even in the anticipatory nature of understanding the rest of the instruments will come in at this specific instance, it really works. Again, the band is simply thriving in these small bursts of enthusiasm.
The song, as it gets underway, shimmies and saunters along, a little playful or flirtatious musically, with the slight edge of a distorted, incredibly dexterous electric guitar creating a melody that swirls itself around the gentle strums of Devora’s rhythm guitar, with the bass, then, arriving within the chorus, surging subtly underneath the pinging of the snare and clatter of the cymbals, and the kaleidoscopic, slow motion, sweeping grandeur of the anthemic chorus, and the writhing, restless desire that builds up, literally and figuratively, in propulsive, simmering bridge.
And there are these very human moments, or instances, that Devora depicts within the writing on hard/SWEET. “Love Like Mine,” certainly within the opening verse, and perhaps elsewhere, also, exists in a nervous excitement. The possibility. Want giving way to more want. This desire we are standing on the cusp of. It unfolds vividly as she begins, “You wrote your number on my hand—I sat around, and memorized the lines. I call you up, we play pretend. All is well,” she continues, before adding, as the song slides into the chorus. “I ache for you—I’m just fine.”
Because “Love Like Mine” exists in this state of want, or a fumbling towards something that is just slightly out of reach, there is this imaginative nature to it, as well as this kind of intensity that is both romantic and obsessive in a way. “In this tiny bedroom we could build a fortress and watch the TV,” she muses in the second verse, before adding, “Rest your head on my shoulder, dear, while I burn down every surface that has never felt you quite so near.”
There is a lightheartedness to much of “Love Like Mine”—in how it sways, there is a breeziness to the rhythm, which complements the sentiments of the earlier verses, and the question asked within the chorus. “Don’t you want love? Don’t you want love like mine?” In the second turn through the anthemic, bold chorus, Devora confesses, “I’m just a little wreckless—if only I could get you to invest yours in me,” before the song tumbles into the bridge, and that breezy feeling shifts into a palpable urgency.
“Careful baby, we could lose the magic,” she warns as the kick drum keeps a steady beat underneath the tension building in the other instruments as they grasp towards the promised release of the song’s final moments. “Slip in through the cracks and spilling over glasses,” she continues, her voice rising both in range, and in emotion. “Got a tiny hope that’s bubbling in my chest so don’t burst it, babe, we gotta make it last.”
And there is a pause. A shudder of guitar feedback, rippling through. The song kicks back in—musically, not with any more intensity, or momentum, but in her vocal performance, there is more immediacy to Devora’s pleading. A kind of thrashing and desperation. And a question is asked in the song, but it is never answered. Not directly. We of course hope. Want giving way to more want. The moment we are brought right up to the edge of, uncertain what happens next.
*
I’m going to get better at loving me
And I am often thinking about The Work. Self-discovery. Improvement. The investments we continue to make within ourselves. Growth. The effort it takes. How difficult and if not difficult how impossible it feels sometimes. To keep pushing ourselves towards not even a better version of ourselves but just a different one. It never truly ceases. The Work. What others might ask of us. What we might ask of ourselves.
We wish to show others grace. Or kindness. An understanding. To meet them where they are. Where they need you to be. My best friend reminds me, regularly, or requests that I should show myself kindness, as well.
How difficult, though. If not difficult, how impossible it feels.
And there are, of course, these enormous declarations throughout hard/SWEET. And yes, many of those are bold declarations made towards another—the propulsive nature of desire. Of want. Someone just out of reach. But there are these small, almost whispered declarations. And it is not done with the intention of confronting, or reflecting upon an unflattering part of yourself. No. There is a tenderness to these instances. A meeting yourself where you are. Because it is, also, an album that understands the need for assurance. For understanding. If you are fortunate, in life, you will intersect with someone who will shape themself around every version of you. And it is a big ask, of someone else, yes but there is what this album, and the human condition, then, ultimately, asks of us.
To find that grace and that kindness for yourself.
hard/SWEET’s penultimate track, “Wait and See,” is the most curious amongst the ten songs included on the record, in how it unfolds, and where it sits within the sequencing. Too fully developed to be an interlude, it is the shortest on the record—not even two and a half minutes long, so it serves as a kind of vignette almost. Not a sketch. Not really. It of course feels finished. Or as finished as Queen of Jeans wishes for it to be. But there is this feeling, as it ends, that you do wish it would extend itself just a little further before the album arrives at its finale.
“Wait and See” takes place within an enormous, dreamy swing—woozy, and not ramshackle exactly, but the looseness it exists in, or the room it gives itself, is reminiscent of the band’s earliest material. A haziness, but a concern still with melody, or an infectiousness to the songwriting.
There’s this slow-motion, swirling collision that occurs once “Wait and See” begins—a fuzzed-out, searing lead guitar is pushed up to the front, with the gentle, kind of downcast strums of the clean rhythm guitar filing in underneath. And the drums, keeping time below it all, feel very loose, or open. Does that make sense? These spaces that hang in between the snap or the snare drum or the tapping of the cymbal. I’m always thinking about that, I suppose.
And within the intentional momentum that the song gathers, and uses to swing itself back and forth, there are these places where it not only shimmers with the dreaminess that is inherent to the band’s sound, but there is like a literal twinkling you can hear, rippling up through the first verse—with resonant notes from a piano floating through in the space between the first half of the song, and the second—where, rather than indulging in a second verse, it ruminates on a specific line, and specific image, as it loses itself in dizzying layers, then begins to devolve, echoing off itself with a cavernous reverberation.
And it does arrive so close to the end of the record. The flash of hope, or optimism, that “Wait and See” offers. This desire to be kinder to yourself. To meet yourself where you need to be met. And it is a flash. Fleeting. This vignette, or sketch—the band, though, saying what they need to, or wish to, within this short amount of time before the song descends into the album’s conclusion. “I’m not going to wait and see,” Devora exclaims. “Life is tumbling by and there are no guarantees. I’m going to wake myself up,” she continues, before the big declaration of the song. “I’m gonna get better at loving me. I know that I might fuck up—I don’t want to lose sight of what’s in front of me.”
And there is this assurance that we require. Not always an easy ask. It is the final image, though, of “Wait and See.” One of hope. Or a promise. “Now that you’re in front of me.”
*
I think I might be broken
And we are always putting in The Work, aren’t we. Continued improvement. Discovery. Growth. It takes effort. This investment we make, and keep making, in ourselves. Not to be a better version. No. I don’t think so. One that is different, though. And we wish to show grace and understanding to others. A kindness. Meeting someone where they are. And where they need you to be.
I think about the sound of my best friend’s voice on the telephone, imploring me to show myself some kindness. And I think about the way, in the song “Sweet Devotion,” Miriam Devora’s voice naturally rises and falls within the chorus, and arrives at this admission. “I can’t lie to myself—I think I might be broken.”
You will never in your life be able to know every single person who could possibly love you well, and life is so short. And this is something I do not think about often. But I am, on occasion, reminded of it. Because you will, maybe, despite all of this, be loved by someone or many someone who will shape themselves around every version of you there is. Life is so long.
We are always putting in the effort. The Work. It is so difficult sometimes and if not difficult it feels impossible to keep reaching outward towards something. We make these investments in ourselves and in others. Our lives, if we are remarkably fortunate enough, intersecting with that person who will shape themself around the versions of you yet to arrive. To understand. To find you there. To see you. Truly.
Placed at the halfway point of hard/SWEET, and the second single issued in advance of the album in full, “Sweet Devotion” is tender and poignant in both the what, and how, reflected in its songwriting, set to the kind of soaring, melodious, dreamy swooning aesthetic that the band absolutely thrives within.
And there is this feeling, within how “Sweet Devotion” swings itself forward and swells, then recedes. This inward, sorrowful sensation. A closing yourself off, or a paralyzation. It’s so easy to find yourself in that position again and again. There are these bursts, then. Flashes. Bright, and more than anything, offering hope even though there is still this somber, or downcast tinge. But it is the want. This pushing back, as you are able. The understanding that there is more, or that it won’t always feel like this. Not feeling stuck, exactly, or trapped between two extremes, but an acknowledgment that there is familiarity in the discomfort, or disappointment you know, and there is the effort, or The Work, and the anxiety of the unknown, or the changes that will be asked of you.
“Sweet Devotion” opens with the skeletal and emotive strums of the guitar, with Devora’s fragile voice singing the first lines—the words, then, arranged to fall into place when there are these big rushes forward, with the rest of the instruments joining, briefly, creating this dramatic flare, before the elements, as they tumble into the chorus, lock into place—jubilant and dazzling once we arrive at the chorus, and also a little slinky. Just a little playful. Exhausted, or perhaps just slightly deflated, but still smirking, as the thick rumble of the bass, the ascendancy of the electric guitar, and the punches of the snare drum swirl around in a remarkably beautiful way. It’s tough to articulate. But this is why Queen of Jeans are such a compelling band to spend time with—they craft these perfect pop moments. Something big. Something that swells or is stirring. An infectious melody. Thoughtful and reflective in the writing. It feels like floating, when all of these facets converge in a specific way. And here, the band sustains it, with grace and ease, almost until the very end—there’s no big build-up, or tension and release. Just this gradual stride forward—smoldering in both a want, or desire, for someone to understand, and to see you, and for the want, or desire, for things to feel different than they do in this moment. A pleading.
“Spending too much time—I know I’ll never get it back,” Devora concedes in the first line, stretching her words out so they land with precision with the rise and fall of the arrangement. “Picking at myself—guess I’m trying to rewrite the past.”
And we are, at least I am, always looking for these glimmers of ourselves in contemporary pop music. Fleeting reflections. Unflattering, or otherwise. A way to live, even just a little bit, within the world created by the song. A moment, however fleeting, where we feel understood, or acknowledged. “I wish I wouldn’t let it ruin the night,” Devora sighs, in the moments leading up to the chorus. Then, before heading into the next verse, there is a declaration—one of the more personal, or revealing of the record and in that, it is one of the most resonant. “I can’t lie to myself—I think I might be broken.”
And there is a connection, or an assurance, at the center of “Sweet Devotion.” One that is there already but still sought after. The confirmation that is required and required again. The doubts or the unease that Devora writes about elsewhere on hard/SWEET present here as well. “Too good to be true,” she sings in the second verse. “Can’t get away from thinking that.” The chorus, a declaration, but in the moment before it is one that is so personal, it is one of the heartbreak and sorrow she still carries. “All my life I wanted a sweet devotion—all I’ve known,” she continues, “just a fleeting devotion.”
Something I used to think about often, and perhaps still give consideration to now more than I realize, is the idea of trying. That the word “essay,” when used as a verb, which I feel like it hardly ever is—the word “essay” means to attempt, or to try. The way that Jason Molina, throughout his songwriting, often talked about trying. “I will try,” he howled on “Farewell Transmission.” “And know whatever, I’ll try.”
I think about how we try. Or why we keep trying. The Work. To continue to grow. To improve. To discover. And even though it is apparent, at the end of “Sweet Devotion,” there is someone who sees, and who understands, the song tumbles into a conclusion where there is no real resolve. Just Devora resigning, in a way that is self-effacing, but so poignant, “I will try to be more. You know that I am always trying. Lover I will try to be more.”
*
And there are enormous swings throughout the entirety of the fourth full-length LP from Queen of Jeans—hard/SWEET. This much I have told you already. Enormous musical swings. The songs, in how they sound and have been assembled with care. How they are hinged on an infectious melody and a chorus that soars. These gigantic, sing-a-long moments. Anthemic. They swell, and in that swelling, they compel you. The feeling you are caught up within.
The dreamy, gauzy guitar textures. Shimmery. Glistening. Rippling. Like a dream.
It is a bold and declarative album. And its declarations and in its boldness, there is the enormity to the emotions that it explores within the songwriting. Startling in how tender and thoughtful and earnest and ultimately human it is.
It’s a sharp album. Intelligent. Focused. Speaking to the continued growth within the band—the other textures, or sounds, they wish to incorporate while still remaining very firmly planted within what works, and works well, or feels the most comfortable for them. And there is this intention. A connectivity. Themes presenting themselves throughout. And hard/SWEET’s opening track, and the first single released, prior to the announcement of the album, “Still Learning,” serves as a thesis of sorts for where the band wants to take us, as listeners, and the means they will use to get us there.
It opens with a whistle—a little cavernous in how it reverberates through, before it is joined by the jangly strum of the guitar, and the dexterous flutterings of the banjo, contributed by the group’s bassist Andrew Nitz, which is a genuinely interesting element to the song, because its inclusion plays against type, I suppose. Queen of Jeans can indulge in a little folksier, or twangier, if they wish to, but that is not the direction of “Still Learning,” with the flattened, taut pluck of the banjo folding itself into the other layers of the song.
Like “Sweet Devotion,” “Still Learning” is one of the album’s truly perfect pop moments—in how it smolders and surges, working towards a beautiful, slow-motion ascendancy. A kind of soaring with restraint. Does that make sense? The swelling and stirring nature of the arrangement. It is no surprise in what is going to happen, structurally, when they arrive at the chorus, but it delights us. Thrills us. Memorable. Incredibly thoughtful and reflective in the writing. It does really feel like floating. A suspension. When all of these pieces do converge in such a specific way.
“Still Learning” lurches forward until the brightness of the chorus. And even then, it is a song that is slower or more deliberate in its pacing. It’s contemplative—the instruments offering, at least during the verses, an underscore for the uncertainty, and deprecation in Devora’s writing, with the song only finding a little more bounce, or enthusiasm, when the textures are crashing together towards its conclusion in a way that I hesitate to say feels triumphant, because it doesn’t seem like the correct word to use. But there is something powerful. It courses through. Maybe a feeling of hope. A reaching toward something.
“I’m afraid of changing—where it leads, and what comes after,” Devora reveals in the song’s poignant and reflective opening line. “It just weighs heavy in the corners of my eyes,” she continues. “Different lines are showing. They grow deeper like each feeling—wish I saw them, and that made me proud.”
And there is this reluctance throughout “Still Learning.” The acknowledgment of where time and age, and The Work, and the herculean effort it takes sometimes, and growth and discovery—this space where all of those things are closing in, and in that moment, what do you do, then. Do you thrash around, or do you accept.
“Open up the windows—get outside, I try to reset,” she sings in the second verse. “Cut the clutter—I’ve been seeing it to myself.”
These vignettes of feeling lost, or overwhelmed within yourself, and attempting to find a way through, bring us to the resonance within. The instances that are inherently personal, yes, but also offer a reflection of ourselves. “If I knew the reason why I shrink myself so small I had the answer, would it do anything at all,” Devora asks, at the end of the second verse. And there is, then, the boldness, and honest admission in the chorus. “I’m still here, and I’m growing older all the time,” she howls while the music swells theatrically. “I’m still learning.”
And as “Still Learning” continues to converge and ascend, rushing forward, there is no resolve, really, but there is this revelation that comes near the end. An ask, or a plea, directed at a character just offstage. And that need for assurance. The need to be understood and seen. “Come over one more time,” Devora implores, before the remark that is the most telling, and amongst the most thoughtful or personally resonant on the record. “I’m still learning to love myself the way that you love me.”
*
If I got to do it all again, I’d find you there like I did back then.
I’m always thinking about how Queen of Jeans’ third album, All Again, concludes. This muffled, warbled recording of a guitar strumming—the chord progression similar to the same one used in the album’s glistening, emotive opening track “All My Friends.” It’s not even a minute long. And over the strum, Devora repeats the phrase, “If I got to do it all again, I’d find you there like I did back then.”
The word “got.” There is a huge difference, I think, in how this is described. Because if you were to use the word “had,” there is this implication of obligation. That it is a chore. A task. Something arduous. “Got” is a privilege. Something unanticipated. A surprise to be offered this chance.
And this is something that I am often giving consideration to. Maybe you, too, find yourself doing this as well. The where and when of our lives intersects with that of another. The moment itself of course but the decisions and choices that lead up to that moment. I wonder if I could have or would have met someone under different circumstances. Time. Place. A version of me that is both the same, and different, to the one I am now.
Would you still find me. It is both an enormous ask, and not.
I think about how you will never in your life be able to know every single person who could possibly love you well. And how that maybe, despite that, you will be loved by someone or many someone who will shape themselves around every version of you there is.
I think about how life is so short. How it is so long. Both can be true.
It is a miracle, isn’t it. When there is this intersection. Your life and that of another. The circumstances. Time. Place. We shape ourselves around one another. We continue to grow.
The album ends with the title track. Though, there is an intentional inverse in how the words are stylized. “HARD/sweet.” A juxtaposition in tone—the swelling, delicate, and hazy nature of the arrangement, and the stark observations of the lyrics. Of acknowledging where things are. Of how bleak they might feel. But the understanding that even when it’s not easy, it is not forever. That there is so much to be grateful for. It’s not always going to feel like this and that there is still this sliver of hope, just on the other side. And the ask we make of ourselves, and others, to hold onto that.
“HARD/sweet,” at first, is the moodiest track on the album—uncharacteristic in how it begins, with a low synthesizer rumble, and a sonar-like blipping sound flickering through, sustaining a sense of uncertainty, and tension, for the first minute, while Devora’s voice follows a melody over the top of it. This literal darkness though does give way when the dreamy strums of the guitar arrive, and as the other instruments find their place, within the second verse, there is an urgency to how thundering the percussion is. This immediacy in how the rhythm seems to be pushing itself forward and how Devora’s voice takes on a breathlessness and a desperation. It builds and builds, and in doing so, there is this flair for the dramatic in it that, each time I listen, it reminds me of how Olivia Rodrigo can create a similarly dramatic build within a smoldering song. A truly remarkable and impressive sensation that the band keeps riding out through its second half—enormous swelling, and a searing, shuddering guitar solo. It, again, is not a triumphant song. Not really. There is this somber, or inward-turned feeling to it. But there is something that feels like it is going to burst from within. These huge emotions that you cannot help but feel caught up as they spiral, and dazzle, in slow-motion grandeur, leading towards the album’s final ask for assurance.
“How are you baby, tell me the truth,” Devora begins, with the low rumbling of the synthesizer below her. “What keeps us still on a loop. What could inspire—push through the fear holding us back every year.”
hard/SWEET is an album full of declarations. Enormous. Bold. And many of these declarations find themselves in the way the lyrics to “HARD/sweet” continue to sprawl towards an understanding. A kind of reflection on how we find ourselves and perhaps we have found ourselves in this moment for longer than we wish to admit, but we find ourselves in a place where nothing feels good. Internally and externally. The song doesn’t ask you to reconcile with that. No. It does just want you to hang on for a little bit longer. And that there is this assurance. That we are amongst those truly fortunate—to be seen and to be understood. That someone is going to be there to shape themselves around every version of you.
“I could be hard, or I could be sweet,” Devora bellows, as the music is swelling to a peak around her. “Just tell me which version you’re needing of me. When will it stop? Where’s the all clear?,” she continues, before adding a line that, then, is cleverly extended into the chorus. “Darling I’ll never quit holding you here in this dying world. You are the light, and I bathe in its burn. Got nowhere to go, no one to be. Unless I’m beside you, there is no meaning.”
I am always thinking about how the Queen of Jeans ended their previous album, All Again. The final line. It’s just the one phrase, repeated, in the last track. “Do it All Again.” “If I got to do it all again, I’d find you there like I did back then.” And there is something here, too. In how the album ends. There is this want. This need. The assurance and the understanding. You are so fortunate when you find that. The intersection within your life. “Let’s stay awake. Too scared to sleep,” Devora sings, quietly, as she strums the guitar, and a piano twinkles around her voice. “Unless I’m beside you.”
You will find me still.
