When Clairo released her debut album ‘Immunity’ in 2019, she was on the cusp of turning 21 and still figuring out who she was and what she wanted. That record captured a push-and-pull between wanting to be independent and needing the comfort of another person; it also saw her taking early steps into exploring her sexuality. When she sang of desire on ‘Bags’, there was a nervousness and uncertainty that ran through the song. “Can you see me? I’m waiting for the right time,” she told a potential partner. “I can’t read you, but if you want, the pleasure’s all mine.”
Five years later and two albums on, Claire Cottrill is diving deeper into desire, more confident and in full control. ‘Charm’ doesn’t just embrace the feeling of wanting something (or someone); it completely owns it. “It’s just a little thing I can’t live without,” Clairo sings in ‘Sexy To Someone’, in which she makes plain that it’s all well and good being the desirer, but she wants to be desired, too.
She explores that craving in every element of the album, from the ’70s singer-songwriter-indebted sounds she weaves together to the words she softly sings over the top. Her delivery is often so hushed it’s as if she’s whispering right into your ear, whether it’s secrets, confessions or just candid musings. “You make me wanna buy a new dress,” she murmurs in the swooning ‘Juna’, quickly adding the seductive follow-up: “You make me wanna slip off a new dress.”
In ‘Add Up My Love’, she writes from a place of solitude, flashbacks of memories with a lover running through her mind and filling her with more longing. “Do you miss my hands sitting on the back of your neck?” she asks. “It’s just something I’m into.” On ‘Nomad’, she mulls whether it’s worth pursuing something with someone despite the distance between them. “I’d rather be alone than a stranger/You’d come visit me late at night,” she concludes. A little time shared, it seems, is better than none at all. In the breezy ‘Second Nature’, she articulates the world-spinning sensation of having someone right by her side: “It’s when you’re close enough to touch, I’ve forgotten the point/My train of thought destroyed.”
Musically, ‘Charm’ feels like an intimate invitation into Clairo’s world of desire. It’s rich and warm and timeless, the flutes and piano and bright cymbal splashes forming a soft, velvety space for you to nestle in and think about what you covet, too. It delves deeper into the sounds she began exploring on 2021’s ‘Sling’, leaning even more into the influence of Carole King.
For the most part, it’s a record that sounds bright and a little buoyant, bobbing through each track. But come ‘Echo’, the mood shifts into something slinkier and sultrier. Clairo’s voice comes in and out of focus in the mix, like she’s singing through suggestive clouds of smoke in a dingy jazz bar. Lines like “There is something that I need from you/And you’re the only one that knows” become heightened and electric.
“Honestly, I look back at those two records and see someone trying to become an adult and doing it in front of a lot of people,” Clairo recently told Crack, referring to ‘Immunity’ and ‘Sling’. In contrast, ‘Charm’ boasts a new level of maturity, its creator more poised and at ease than ever before. You can hear the level-headedness of someone hitting their stride in adulthood in ‘Thank You’, a song that reflects on a past relationship with gratitude. “I really hate to admit it/I put my pride on the line,” Clairo begins. “Cause when I met you, I knew it/I thank you for your time.”
While desire might be the main focus of ‘Charm’, it’s also an ode to connection and the comfort that comes with that – whether it’s fleeting or long-lasting, with a romantic partner or just other loved ones in your life. ‘Glory Of The Snow’, the gorgeously wintry penultimate track, pays tribute to the support of others. “When I cry, I wanna give you a ring,” she shares. “I can breathe with you right there alone with me.” In the end, that’s what the desire of ‘Charm’ boils down to – the yearning to see and be seen, to be with people who not only want you back but understand you and make life that little bit easier to make it through.
Bruce Springsteen was right. At the risk of simplifying the value of this impressive box set, giving away the main storyline of his new biopic, and flattening decades of mythmaking, the reality is just what Springsteen always claimed. Even when he tried the material with his closest collaborators, using some of the strongest songs he had ever written, the most powerful version of Nebraska is still the one he recorded at home in Colts Neck in January 1982. Just a lonely man in his early thirties with an acoustic guitar, a TASCAM PortaStudio, and an Echoplex, capturing solo demos for what he thought would be a full-band project. Everything that came after was an experiment.
But what an experiment it turned out to be. For those who don’t know the story, here it is in brief. After the success of his upbeat 1980 single “Hungry Heart” and a long streak of relentless touring and critical praise, Springsteen entered one of the most creatively intense chapters of his life. He began by writing the grim ballads and shadowy lullabies of Nebraska, which he then tried to recreate with the E Street Band and in solo studio sessions before ultimately choosing to release the home demos. He did no press and no tour, which left him free to keep writing, and that work became 1984’s massive commercial hit Born in the U.S.A. During that time, he tossed aside enough songs to fill multiple albums, later shared through collections like Tracks and Tracks II: The Lost Albums. He also found time to help revive the career of early rock’n’roll icon Gary U.S. Bonds, co-writing and co-producing two comeback records, contributing a Grammy-winning song to Donna Summer, and hitting the gym with enthusiasm.
It might sound like a golden moment, but for Bruce, it felt like a creative cage—the kind of brooding, restless chapter that inspires a filmmaker to cast Jeremy Allen White to play you on screen. The twist is that the most crucial moments, from the original Nebraska to the electric and explosive version of “Born in the U.S.A.,” happened quickly and naturally, before anyone could complicate the process. Unlike anything else in his official catalog, Nebraska 82: Expanded Edition offers a clear window into that moment. Within this tight collection is a sharper, more complete image of one of Springsteen’s most legendary and personal records—still the one he treasures most—along with rare insight into his creative rhythm.
The set includes a newly remastered version of the album, a disc of solo acoustic outtakes carrying the same raw emotion, the legendary Electric Nebraska sessions, and a live album and film capturing Springsteen performing the record start to finish in an empty New Jersey theater earlier this year. The live material feels reverent, with beautiful support from former Bob Dylan bandmate Larry Campbell. The remaster reveals that, despite the album’s association with the birth of lo-fi, the sound is richer and more intentional than much of what followed. Listen to the last half minute of “Atlantic City” through headphones and focus on how the acoustic guitars, mandolin, and background vocals fade away layer by layer. It’s a reminder of how much careful craft went into creating such stark beauty.
Unlike his earlier box sets for Darkness on the Edge of Town and The River, this one isn’t about showcasing how many different paths he could have taken. It’s about sharpening the vision. Where Nebraska is known for its unbroken mood, Electric Nebraska jerks between heartland laments and roaring rock songs across its eight tracks. These takes feel like rough sketches more than finished recordings—mostly Springsteen on electric guitar and vocals, Max Weinberg on drums, and Garry Tallant on bass—hinting at an album that could have been more accessible and mainstream in 1982. And yet, this raw version of “Downbound Train,” with its clanging rhythms and unsettling bridge, may be one of the strangest things he ever put to tape.
It’s easy to see why Springsteen thought these sessions didn’t work. Versions of “Open All Night” and “Johnny 99,” which on the original album burn with desperate energy, sound here like something a bar band could fall into with a casual count-in and some good-natured rockabilly riffs. On one hand, it highlights how his delivery gives shape and gravity to his songwriting. (Compare the early acoustic “Thunder Road” to its triumphant album version for proof.) On the other hand, slipping into different musical skins was a key part of his process then. He could turn something as playful as “Pink Cadillac” into a moaning, shadowy reflection of itself, as if the character had returned to earth wrecked and hollow, fixated on one thought.
For devoted fans, these shifts are what make the box set essential: witnessing how songs like “Working on a Highway” transformed from a chilling ballad called “Child Bride” into a loud, laughing, raucous number. Some of the outtakes, like the quietly devastating country song “Losin’ Kind,” have been passed around unofficially for years. But this set also reveals two entirely unheard songs: “On the Prowl” and “Gun in Every Home.” In the first, he ends with a dizzying repetition of “searching,” drenched in slapback echo that mimics the sound of a live band. In the second, he paints a nightmarish portrait of suburban life and ends with a bare, defeated admission: “I don’t know what to do.”
Within a single song, Springsteen might take the role of a killer hiding in the dark or a runaway on the move, either escaping or facing the question of whether being caught is actually a strange kind of salvation. That’s the point of sitting in the dark: you can’t see the exit. Yet sometimes he caught brief glimpses of where it all might lead. Along with the original demo tape, Springsteen sent a letter to his manager, Jon Landau. He went through each track, detailing the grim subject matter, floating arrangement ideas, and occasionally letting a sliver of optimism shine through.
He scribbled a note next to “Born in the U.S.A.,” which appears here in two early forms: a heavy acoustic blues and a full-band rocker stripped of its later synths, leaving no doubt about how the narrator feels. “Might have potential,” he wrote. That small spark of belief carried him through. He knew these songs would take work, and that truly understanding them would take time. But he also trusted that at the end of each hard-earned day, there would still be magic in the night.
