Sprained Ankle is a solo, singer-songwriter album, but very
little of it would be considered "folky." Julien Baker's extremely
intimate songs operate in existential ultimatums—life or death, hope or
despair, oblivion or epiphany. These are redemption songs that sound as
raw as they feel.
If Julien Baker wasn't cracking something close to a smile on the cover of Sprained Ankle,
I wouldn't be certain that it was meant for public consumption. Much of
the album was written in isolation—after Baker left Memphis for
Middle Tennessee State University, she worked on these songs in a
soundproof booth within the campus music building. It was recorded in
Richmond's Spacebomb Studios, a destination du jour that birthed lusciously orchestrated countrypolitan records from Matthew E. White and Natalie Prass this
year, but these one-mic and one-take songs could have easily been
tracked in an MTSU bathroom. Listening to it can occasionally feel like a
violation of her privacy.
This voyeuristic appeal plays a minor role in distinguishing Sprained Ankle, though. More important is how Baker operates in existential ultimatums—life
or death, hope or despair, oblivion or epiphany. It cuts through the
bullshit rather than piling onto it, and its clarity and honesty has
instantly helped Baker reach across aisles. She recently opened
for Touché Amoré, a post-hardcore band of blazing intensity and extreme
devotees that was previously on 6131 Records and more indicative of the
music on Baker's label. By the end of November, she'll be joining the
tasteful-indie double bill of EL VY and Wye Oak.
Sprained Ankle is a solo, singer-songwriter album, but very
little of it would be considered "folky." She professes David Bazan,
mewithoutYou's Aaron Weiss, and Ben Gibbard
as idols, but her guitar playing bears more of their influence than
their vocals. She's a minimalist, playing bassy clusters of melodic
thirds, flicking silvery harmonics, palm-muting chords. It's gorgeously
recorded and yet, there's still the suggestion that these might've been
demos—the scant overdubs of drums or harmonized vocals just
drive home how lonely Baker is, that she may have meant these to
eventually be full-band arrangements one day.
There are traces of other current acts in her sound—the
album title is inspired by a lyric ("Sprinter learning to wait/ Marathon
runner, my ankles are sprained") that instantly brings up the similarly
ecclesiastical bloodletting of fellow Tennessean Torres, while her thick, close-harmonizing recalls Sharon Van Etten.
But considering her formative listening experiences and punk roots, by
the time she reaches the high notes over an aggressively strummed,
stock descending chord pattern in "Everybody Does", her most apt
comparison might be Dashboard Confessional.
Before Chris Carrabba became a caricature of himself and an avatar for
emo-as-a-Halloween-costume, there really wasn't much else like him for
the hardcore kids. Baker has the same kind of magnetism to get lines
like, "I am so good at hurting myself", sung by a crowd of young
acolytes. Baker's metaphors can also be similarly excessive and clunky
at times ("I know I am a pile of filthy wreckage you will wish you never
touched").
Obviously, these songs are about resilience, but Baker
acknowledges her willingness to wallow in despair. "Good News" plays on
the double meaning of hysterical: "It's not easy when what you think of
me is so important/ And I know it shouldn't be so important...I'm only
screaming at myself in public/ I know I shouldn't act this way in
public." Later, she asks to be swallowed and smothered by the parking
lot as you drive away, an echo of Morrissey's operatic curtain call during the 190-proof melodrama of "I Know It's Over".
And like Moz, Baker isn't without a sense of humor about
herself. "Wish I could write songs about anything other than death"
isn't the sort of thing you say unless you're self-aware. But it is
important for people to see someone struggle through some serious shit
to get to that point, and if you prefer redemption songs to sound as raw
as they feel, Sprained Ankle could bring you to your knees.