underpass album reviews

chariot, a blend of emo, post-hardcore, and math rock, is the first ep from see through person.

chariot tumbles in mid-air—skillfully darting up and down the register, knowing just when to hesitate or burst into noise, never holding a rhythm for too long before scattering into barely-held-together beats. despite the rolling momentum of its drums and its excellent raw vocals, the ep seems remarkably restrained—almost hesitatory in between sections.

in the major arcana, the chariot card represents determination, taking action, and a spiritual transformation. chariot tries to take after its namesake, but is burdened by an overwhelming sense of uncertainty. the riffs of "change your name" hang in the air like flipping coins, bounding into a furious mission statement but tumbling over nervous questioning and hitting the earth with a drawn-out, wavering note. it's difficult not to see the trans themes echoed throughout chariot, despite the fact that it came out three years before see through person's forewoman robin mikan did—that unsure want for change is, to say the least, a common feeling.

chariot desperately tries to unroot itself from the past, but is dragged back down into it all the same. "all about you" and "mono-yellow"'s references to childhood scenes evoke both a sense of vulnerability and unhealthy nostalgia. (as a side note: the imagery that "mono-yellow" conjures—of asphalt washed in yellow streetlight, laden by unsure anticipation—is just gorgeous.) the ep, try as it might and scream as it might, struggles to step outside of the frame of its past and begin to move forward.

chariot is a very strong first release, cementing see through person's noisy yet melodic sound that the band would expand on in their second ep, sun. my only complaint is that there's not more of it—i'm excited to see what see through person can do with a full album later this year.

plastic death is the second album by glass beach, who made waves in 2019 for their appropriately titled debut the first glass beach album. five years in the making, plastic death steps off the relatively cozy emo porch of the first glass beach album and dives headfirst into the rapids of progressive rock.

of course, plastic death is a glass beach album, and glass beach has about as much respect for genre as i do for my sex. plastic death flits back and forth between extremes—the softly menacing chorus of "slip under the door" crescendoes into harsh screamo before releasing into the gentle confusion of "guitar song", the dark melancholy of "whalefall" is whisked directly into the upbeat poppy melodies of "puppy". glass beach's singer and songwriter j comments:

This album is the Pacific garbage patch: cultural trash strewn together seemingly by accident, standing in stark juxtaposition to each other.

plastic death takes the experimentalism of the first glass beach album to an entirely new degree, incorporating live trombone, violin, and marimba alongside much more heavily processed sound and slurred new-wave vocals. the much-improved sound bleeds emotion into the ears, transporting you to the dim ocean of its gorgeous cover art.

the haunting piano of "coelacanth", plastic death's opening track, begins a slow circular ballet that swirls like a relentless undertow beneath the rest of the album. plastic death catches you like an anxious whirlpool, sucking you further and further down—from the ant death spiral that is "motions" to the love song to memory "rare animal" to the panicked devotion of "the CIA"—becoming increasingly desperate and confused until the ten-minute epic "commatose" vomits you up on the beach, rips itself apart from the inside out, and tumbles magnificently back into the abyss.

plastic death is a scathing commentary on a world in which everything is obsessively plastic-wrapped, never decaying or dying—even flushed into the ocean, plastic can wash up on shores upwards of 70 years later. a world in which nostalgia-poisoned culture clings onto its past like a buoy, endlessly trying to pantomime a time that never existed, endlessly stagnating—a culture ripe for the seed of nostalgia to blossom into nationalism and fascism, a danger felt especially by trans people caught in political crossfire.

in sharp contrast to the first album's warm sense of community, the community of plastic death is vast, suffocating, cruel, and yet horribly intimate—a lover like the ocean. the inescapable intimacy of a lover deepens the horror of being percieved—of the "heart with a glass door" and the "body as clay"—to a dizzying degree. a barely-there ghost, its "ego at half-mast" yet filled with raw and impotent rage, struggles against the oppressive reality that surrounds it in a war for autonomy.

and yet through all the endless locked circles, glimpsed for moments at a time, darts a lonely mayfly. a mayfly only lives for a few days: like all art, it is temporary. but the corpse of any great art becomes a whalefall, a feast for billions of tiny organisms. art is not a race to the top: all artists feed on each other. art cannot exist, and has never existed, in stasis. nothing should stay plastic-wrapped forever.

plastic death is an impressive artistic achievement: it's chaotic, experimental, at times dissonant, yet glass beach manages to weave it into a cohesive whole. it is deeply secretive, confused, paranoid, harsh, defeatist, and ultimately unable to claw its way out from under the things that suffocate it—yet a glimmer of sun lights its deep waters, where an abyss angel feeds upon the body of a whale.

what a fantastic album. it was well worth the wait.