A whole relationship arc is waiting to unfurl in the first lines of Slow Pulp’s third album, Melodie: “Do you know when you saw me/In a crowd, dancing?” vocalist Emily Massey asks. Over the breezy acoustic strums of “Yellow and Green,” she offers small details into that fateful encounter, one that even her teenaged self intuited would change the course of her life for the best. It’s expected that friendships evolve as life does, but it would take a lot more than passing time to erode a bond so mutually attuned: “I know you’re scared of changing/I hope that you feel seen.” It sets the tone for an album that exudes an innate desire to understand and be understood in return.
Slow Pulp’s previous record, 2023’s Yard, let casual, retro indie rock backdrop their singer-songwriter introspection. On the new-wave leanings of Melodie, the Madison-bred, Chicago-based quartet puts up a magnifying glass to those acute emotions, prodding at the way interactions with other people shape our perceptions of ourselves. And though Massey still provides lead vocals for every song, it’s also the first Slow Pulp album where guitarist Henry Stoehr takes on a good portion of songwriting duties. He’s the pen behind lead single “Better Man,” where the burdens of avoidant tendencies start to crack: “I can hurt myself again/As I fade away from everything/And I hear a voice that’s telling me to leave,” Massey sings over a wash of shimmery guitar pop. Stoehr starts to peel those layers back on the sparse closer “Slip Away,” a song he wrote about crossing paths with old hometown acquaintances who chose to ignore him instead of bothering to brush off the cobwebs. Had the roles reversed, Stoehr would go the friendlier route—“I don’t think I’d let myself do that,” Massey sings—but there’s a self-aware ambivalence to it, an acknowledgement that it’s sometimes easiest to let certain connections turn to dust.
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The narrators Massey writes, meanwhile, crave clarity in periods of ambiguity. The folk-pop jam “These Days” recounts how the multifariousness of big-city living can blur the plans we laid for ourselves, and she yearns for a sharper sense of identity on the spunky “Red Car”: “What did you get from that little red car?/Did it go quick to get to who you are?” she sings, painting the process of self-actualization as one rewarded with a grand, conspicuous arrival. But elsewhere, Massey draws allusions to her own blossoming assuredness, which can put her at odds in imbalanced relationships. A withdrawn partner’s silence has her vexed on the wistful, hypnotic “Spill,” and over the dreamy synths of “Up to You,” she’s coming to terms with a fatal dissonance between herself and the person she wants: “’Cause I know who I am/Can you love me like that?” she sings, as if begging, “Is it really so difficult?”
In the most rewarding moments of Melodie, Massey wields her emotional resilience. The plodding bassline of “Entertainer” grounds her when a ghost of her past threatens to re-emerge: “I can’t let you go back to me,” she asserts, subtly delegating herself total control. On the glitzy piano ballad “Not for Nothing,” she’s reluctantly grieving a waning relationship, but there’s an air of gratitude in her recognizing its overall positive impact. It’s probably true that the only person we can ever completely understand is ourselves, but Slow Pulp realize that the people we spend our time with—whether we’re dancing in crowds or saying final goodbyes—help make that understanding possible.
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