Courtney Barnett’s debut album, Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Other Times I Just Sit, opened with the song ‘Elevator Operator,’ a quirky, up-beat, indie jam that placed the Australian singer’s dry humor, deadpan singing, and capabilities as a storyteller front and center. It served as touchstone for the listener, establishing writing as a key player in the rest of the album. Much of the record’s instrumentation—a versatile showcase of alt-rock tinged with funk, blues, and surf—functioned as the backdrop for Barnett’s lyrics. Her rendering of the minutiae of daily life into endlessly fascinating and detailed fodder for her half-singing/half-talking vocalization was the main attraction. Although the lyrics were textured and dynamic, it caused the LP to, at times, feel a bit crowded and didn’t allow the music all that much room to breathe. The result, however, was a fun, occasionally cheeky, project that was both compelling and human. It set the tone for Barnett as a musician who makes lyric-dense indie rock; catchy, highbrow vibes for hipsters everywhere. Her new album, Tell Me How You Really Feel, does what any good follow-up effort should do, though, and subverts many of the preconceptions created by Barnett’s past work.

‘Hopefulessness,’ the first track on Tell Me How You Really Feel, feels like a direct response to the sound and attitude of ‘Elevator Operator.’ Where the latter opened immediately with Barnett singing over taught drums and a grooving riff, ‘Hopefulessness’ murmurs to life with a grunge-inspired pluck of guitar. The drums come in soon after, plodding and minimal. The song is far more spacious than any of her previous songs, setting a dim and intimate mood. As we acclimate to this new sound, Barnett enters:

You know what they say

No one is born to hate

We learn it somewhere along the way

Take your broken heart

Turn it into art

Can’t take it with you

Can’t take it with you

Whereas ‘Elevator Operator’ was a character study of a man fed up with the doldrums of corporate life, Barnett is the lead player this time around. By stripping away the artifice of narration, the result is more direct, raw, and honest.

Tell Me How You Really Feel is what happens when Barnett disarms herself of the sly removes, wit, and awkward charm she employed in previous work in favor of blunt confessional. As the title suggests, she is invested in telling us how she really feels. The result is a bit less catchy in a pop sensibility, but unmistakably more personal and impactful. What’s most impressive is that there doesn’t seem to have been any sacrifice in the quality of her writing. Barnett is as sharp as ever, and wholly self-aware, as she sings “The city takes pity on your injured soul / And heavenly prose ain’t enough good to fill that hole,” on ‘The City Looks Pretty,’ possibly nodding to why this album is so very different in style. Her singing has morphed as well; her voice, while always a bit anodyne, now has a ring of weariness to it, as though she has exhausted herself by not speaking on these subjects and is relieved to finally put words to them.

At points throughout, the exhaustion boils over into subdued anger. “I want to walk through the park in the dark . . . I hold my keys / between my fingers,” speaks to gendered violence and the limitations rape culture imposes on women on the track, ‘Nameless, Faceless.’ The title itself could refer either to a potential, unknown attacker, or the victim of an attack. If that isn’t overt enough Barnett also includes a now famous quote by author Margaret Atwood in the song’s refrain: “Men are scared that women will laugh at them / . . . women are scared men will kill them.” The song bleeds into ‘I’m Not Your Mother I’m Not Your Bitch,’ the shortest song on the album and the most outwardly angry. There is a palpable connection between this song and bands like Hole. Distorted licks of guitar and a driving bass erupt out from an eerie fog of monitor static, the song dips in an out of discordance, and at one point there is a guitar solo so shrill it could’ve been played on a rusty saw. Barnett doesn’t go full Courtney Love, though, and her voice remains as regulated as ever.

Without the constant drive of Barnett’s lyrics, the music itself is given space to unfold and deepen in a way it hasn’t before. The grunge influence knocks everything a bit off kilter without killing the melody. A nostalgic early 2000’s indie rock vibe simmers beneath the surface of songs like ‘Crippling Self Doubt and a General Lack of Self Confidence’ and ‘Need a Little Time.’ The sound is gruffer. The drums play a little looser, the guitar veers into a classic garage crunchiness from time to time. All in all, it is a much more evolved sound.

I have to admire Barnett for the sharp change of course on this album packed with many crystalizing, beautiful, and painful moments of honesty. Lines like “Shave your head to see how it feels / Emotionally it’s not that different / But to the hand it’s beautiful / Yeah, to the hand it’s beautiful” show that she hasn’t lost her ability to stitch meaning into the smallest of details of daily existence, and ditching some of the tropes and tricks adds a significant punch to the intimacy of her songwriting. The songs lack the same head-nodding catchiness of the last album but given the growth that’s occurred in all other areas this feels like a worthy sacrifice.

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Author Details Jordan Ranft Author Jordan Ranft is a California Bay Area native. His poetry has appeared in ‘Rust+Moth,’ ‘Midway,’ ‘(b)oink,’ and here. He has worked as an arts/culture and music writer for The East Bay Express, Sacramento News & Review, and Brokeassstuart.com. He’s at a point in his life where a lot of his favorite musicians are also his friends. It is delightful. Follow him on twitter, or don’t.

