Review Summary: that's all, folks
No matter how hard she tries to convince you otherwise, Kristine Leschper is a starkly honest human being. How could she not be? The way her voice quivers and lays bare her observations throughout
When You Walk… doesn’t leave her intentions much room to hide, and this honesty suits the record nicely, even when it becomes violent or confronting. With her humanity candid and her grievances aired, Leschper sits herself down next to us; sobbing on the shoulder of her last resort.
But this isn’t a hopelessly cold record, nor is it an unfriendly one. It’s autumnal. These songs rise from all the hands buried deep in the pockets of pea-coats, from the crackling of yellowed leaves under so many feet, and from the near-tangible crispness in the air at first light. The central lyric in
Hold Your Own Hand graciously undermines the song title with the admission:
“I think I can learn to love”, and with it, the band turns skyward (or at least stops staring at their feet) – situating themselves near enough to optimism to keep them breathing for another song.
It’s my favourite song here, and for the most part, the rest of the record transpires similarly -- like bedroom confessionals with the window ajar, escaping the bindings of Leschper’s journal and drifting their way into other people’s. It’s a lovely little paradox, that these songs are all-encompassing in their intimacy, written for the one but held dear by the many.
There’s a necessary niche for this kind of soft-spoken folk-rock record, because behind every apologetic lyric and every exposed nerve ending, there’s an acknowledgement that these feelings and behaviours are universal:
“This is how it often goes”, concedes
Lockjaw, with Leschper’s very Jordaan Mason-like intonation leaning snugly into a spritely, quietly determined tangle of arpeggios. The music here is transformative – positioning this lyric as an affirming statement and not a pessimistic one.
I think that’s the point of this album. It’s a series of songs solely dedicated to studying the roots of an emotional turmoil so as to move past it. That’s why this record is more autumnal than it is wintry: it’s fragile but not broken, struggling but not dejected. I say again, that the niche Mothers occupy is a necessary one, because these records tell us that our mortality is watered by progression, and our problems are as deciduous as the leaves in autumn.
In other words: It Hurts Until It Doesn’t.
