ALBUM REVIEWS
The sonic parameters of shoegaze appear to have slowed their once intriguing diversification. Post-millenium infusions with metal (Deftones, Alcest) and hip-hop (Dälek, Clouddead) promised a bold future, however, today’s shoegazers frequently appear more interested in remaining within the familiar aesthetic boundaries of the genre’s nineties heyday.
DIIV’s ‘Frog In Boiling Water’ captures the genre’s current mode of revivalist preservation. The latest from the Brooklyn four-piece is a sedate, melancholic collection, rife with fuzzed-out guitars, leisurely tempos and hushed vocals. In short; everything you expect from a genre that seems to have frozen in cultural time.
DIIV’s musical trajectory has been one of similarly increased refrigeration. Their first two records (2012’s ‘Oshin’ and 2016’s ‘Is the Is Are’) were light-on-their-feet indie pop runouts, before 2019’s ‘Deceiver’ saw the band freeze-dry their tempos and drizzle layers of Kevin Shields-worshipping guitars atop its moody murmurings.
By doubling further down on these familiar textures, ‘Frog In Boiling Water’ serves as a potent example of shoegaze undergoing the ‘foreverisation’ process, to borrow writer Grafton Tanner’s term. Rather than taking influence from the genre’s canon to build something new, DIIV’s fourth full-length reanimates the genre, squeezing further life out of its weathered components.
And for some fans, this will be more than enough. These ten songs move with a familiarly dazed, head-foggy stumble; a stupor that feels as though it’s half aware of its own resurrected status. ‘Brown Paper Bag’’s climactic vibrato leads reverberate like half-remembered dreams, while the crystalline chimes of the title track repeat like a simple mantra, transporting the listener through the annals of shoegaze’s storied history.
Several lyrics bolster this self-aware, incantatory quality. On the title track, vocalist Zachary Cole Smith sings “the future came/and everything’s known/there’s nothing left to say”. It’s a moment of potential sadness, however the song’s breezy tone eschews any emotional blows.
When it arouses itself from its fugue state, ‘Frog In Boiling Water’ touches on moments of lucid, energetic individuality. ‘Somber the Drums’ is a highlight; a dense, lively cut that draws the best out of DIIV with swirling snatches of vocals and heartrending melodies. Closer ‘Fender on the Freeway’ picks up the pace, gradually opening its eyes as it builds to a pretty and loud (by the album’s standards) crescendo.
When it reverts back to its somnambulist calm, a gentle, numbing quality befalls these simple songs. The likes of ‘Little Birds’ and ‘Raining On Your Pillow’ are lullingly linear, driven by routine drum patterns and interchangeable vocal melodies. Depending on your perspective, the sparse instrumentation is either ‘minimalist’ or ‘undercooked’, oscillating between the polarities across the course of this languid collection.
A quiet, undemanding and opaque album, ‘Frog In Boiling Water’ will appeal to a section of shoegaze fans that are keen to surrender to its impressionistic, seemingly-timeless charms. Others may ask themselves: why does it feel a bit like we’re living the same day over and over again?
Let’s start with the Edgar mullet: the haircut that has kids all across Mexico walking into barbershops and demanding the “Peso Pluma.” This is just one of the idiosyncrasies that has made Hassan Emilio Kabande Laija the man of the moment in mainstream Spanish-language music. There is the expensive jewelry and designer clothing—Richard Mille watches, Christian Dior shoes, Maison Margiela jackets—that he regularly namechecks in his songs. There is his lanky physique. And then there is his voice: a scratchy, sometimes grating croak or rasp, depending on his mood. That singular voice sings about lots of things: popping bottles of Dom, carrying bricks of coke, assassinating enemies, hooking up with Russian models. You know, an average Tuesday.
Over the last year, the 25-year-old Mexican singer of Lebanese descent has racked up a list of chart and streaming records as long as a CVS receipt, ushering música mexicana to unprecedented commercial heights. ÉXODO, his fourth studio album, is a victory lap of sorts; the LP celebrates how far the movement has come, with Pluma taking homies, cousins, and fellow trailblazers like Natanael Cano, Junior H, Tito Double P, and Eslabon Armado along for the ride. But the album is also a bona fide attempt to cement Peso Pluma’s versatility—and the longevity it promises—in the industry. ÉXODO confirms he’s one of the most charismatic corrido performers of our time, but as for his ability to shapeshift across genres and flows, Peso Pluma the pop star still has some convincing to do.
The crackle of Peso’s voice is the molten core of ÉXODO. Its peculiarity is a blessing, but in some moments, it can also be a curse. His coarse growl is especially effective on the bare-knuckle norteño “La People II,” which seems to be written from the perspective of Joel Enrique “El 19” Sandoval Romero, a sicario and security chief for the Sinaloa cartel who was arrested by the Mexican government in 2014. Pluma and his guests snarl viciously as they recount tales of battling police officers, the national guard, and the military to protect their bosses (ostensibly Ovidio Guzmán López, a high-ranking leader of the Sinaloa cartel and the son of El Chapo) from capture. Peso assumes the voice of El 19, asking his associates to take care of his “land, his family, and his parents,” presumably while he’s locked up.
The debate about artists’ roles in glamorizing narco culture didn’t start with—and won’t end with—Peso Pluma. Too often, narcocorrido stars have become ideological scapegoats for the federal government’s failure to curb violence; other times, artists have denied they have any sociocultural impact at all. The discourse is fraught, but one thing is certain: Pluma excels when he performs the mythos of narco culture, no holds barred. It places him firmly within the genealogy of his forebears, like his late idols Chalino Sánchez and Ariel Camacho, who showed a similar talent for passionate storytelling, even as they romanticized narratives of murder and revenge. La Doble P reimagines that tradition on “Put Em in the Fridge,” a cold corrido-trap beat built on a blaring horn loop. He tries on a squeaky but bellicose cadence for size, bragging with Cardi B about moving kilos and calling on shooters to put their enemies on ice. Cardi’s gift for rapping athletically in both Dominican Spanish and English makes her a natural collaborator here; the pair goes bar for bar in a thrilling, peacocking display. It’s also a sublime example of Pluma’s talent for redefining his musical heritage for the present day.
Sometimes, Peso’s vocal left turns are electrifying; other times, he struggles to hit the mark. On the eminently catchy “Bruce Wayne,” he likens himself to the superhero billionaire with gravelly self-assurance, only to switch into biting, Pusha T-style raps two minutes in. On “Me Activo,” he shifts his voice into a serenade-like tone reminiscent of his performance on Kali Uchis’ “Igual Que un Ángel.” But elsewhere, the elasticity of Peso’s voice is less convincing. Despite a superb Ric Flair sample, the ballad “Ice” suffers from the more abrasive, nasally textures of Peso’s voice when he strains to reach a higher register.
It’s particularly tough to hear La Doble P struggle in his ventures outside of corridos tumbados. That’s not to say he isn’t capable of adapting successfully. Take the single “Bellakeo,” a sexy reggaeton entanglement with a drilling dembow riddim that contains spiritual echoes of Plan B. But ÉXODO is littered with unfortunate miscalculations. “Gimme a Second,” with Rich the Kid, feels like a throwaway B-side from the already middling Future and Metro Boomin album; Pluma’s appearance starts off strong with a low, sinister bridge, but then he forcefully tries to squeeze his squeaky voice into one of Atlanta’s distinctive flows. “Pa No Pensar,” an emo trap ballad with corrido undertones, boasts a grippingly morose vocal performance, but it’s marred by cookie-cutter lines about overindulging in alcohol and weed to escape reality (I’ll stay for Quavo saying “This good mota,” though). And, “Peso Completo,” with the reggaeton legend Arcángel, falls into the trap of pure mimesis. Though the artists share a trademark rasp, one of Arcángel’s creative tics is artful over-enunciation; Pluma straight up apes that technique here, resulting in a poorly executed facsimile.
The idea of flaunting his versatility is admirable. But that message might have been more efficiently conveyed if ÉXODO didn’t frequently feel like a slog. The first eight tracks are nearly indistinguishable, coalescing into a lyrical and melodic blur of tololoche strums, money, and women. Even if the album format has been downgraded in the streaming era, ÉXODO works neither as a coherent LP nor as a no-skips playlist. Like many other major pop albums of the 2020s, it would have benefited from a careful edit and a more varied track order.
But when Peso Pluma decides to shine, he’s radiant. “Vino Tinto,” with Natanael Cano and Gabito Ballesteros, is a graduate-level seminar in the corrido tumbado form. All three singers push their voices to the limit: They bellow, they growl, and they harmonize, transmitting the yearning and suffering that undergirds the best corridos—even if they are talking about drinking red wine and waiting for the molly to hit, not your local folk hero’s war battles. When Peso belts out “Ando relax,” he elongates and then punctuates the “a,” as if his vibeyness is some supernatural force rising from within. It’s the corrido prince at his most magnetic, capturing all the style’s thorny contradictions in a single breath.
