As someone who experienced adolescence through the lumpen grunge of the ‘90s, I eventually escaped through bands like Sixpence None the Richer and Belle & Sebastian. Such acts were musically twee on the surface, but I connected with the lyrical depth. In my early 20s, I dove headlong into the angst-fueled emo of the early ‘00s to combat the emotions of my religious transformation. But in my late 20s, I cut my music writing teeth on the precious indie rock that dominated the late ‘00s blogosphere. I rapturously praised acts like Sufjan Stevens and Fleet Foxes for their wispy-yet-complex reincarnations of folk tropes.
Thus, sitting at my desk in 2022, I am definitely the target audience for the music of Seafarers.
Across ten sublime tracks, this ambitious quintet delivers delicious, whispering indie-folk. As a self-released album, II features disciplined and crisp execution that never feels antiseptic or bloodless. Led by the lilting soprano of Lauren Kinsella and transparent lyricism of Matthew Herd, the music regularly floored me with its delectable songcraft. It’s an artful mixture of Feist, Elliot Smith, and Ra Ra Riot that’s intentional, but never pretentious.
The arrangements and musicianship on display continuously captured my attention. The hushed drumming struck a keen balance between serving as a strong metronome and offering quirky syncopation. Twinkling piano, jazz guitar fills, resolute bass lines, and trembling string section combind to evince a firm grasp of dynamics. For a discreet chamber-folk outfit, Seafarers showcased an innate grasp of tempo and pacing in managing the ebb and flow of the album’s energy.
I am in awe of Kinsella’s pipes. She has this stirring vibrato that channels Tori Amos and effectively conveys the intimacy of Herd’s words. His aching songs speak longingly about losing one’s youthful naïveté, while never sounding soppy. He writes truthfully about the hurts of growing up, complete with sensitive songs about sexuality that are confessional without being sentimental.
You couldn’t hope for a more magnificent first song than “A Disappearing Act.”
It introduces you to the band’s full breadth of talents, especially the interplay between the strong vocals, delicate piano, and supple drumming. The emotional core communicates the playful, yet painful passions of youth in the chorus:
“And the shadows swim across our abdomens as our bodies twist behind the multiplex.”
I also enjoyed tunes like “Newlyweds,” “Nathalie,” and “You Can’t Pretend in the Dark.”
The former might be the most straightforward bit of indie rock on the album. I love its slow build toward a clattering crescendo instead the familiar “quiet-loud-quiet-loud” format.
The middle selection is this brooding, minor-key paean that bursts with melancholy. I was especially intoxicated by lines such as:
“And I’ve known heroes with bloodstains on their knees. Perhaps pathetic, I’m addicted to the way you talk to me.”
On the latter, Seafarers channels Hospice-era Antlers, right down to the creeping piano and quiet mix that commands your attention. The restrained strings serve as the backbone of the arrangement, haunting with every step. I’m also agog at the rapturous vocal delivery that peeks out from the wider mix only when absolutely necessary.
The standout song on II has to be “The Curators.”
Reduced to simply voice and keys, Kinsella and Herd tell the story of the first time you fall truly and madly in love. Rendered with a sweet and mournful sweetness, the intense emotions on display immediately resonate with anyone who has passionately loved and lost. Who among us hasn’t been kicked in the gut with young love, especially when described with lyrics such as:
“Eyes ablaze with your arms around my waist, and I knew it from your face that things were going to change.
Seafarers has crafted a tuneful distillation of the last 25 years of folk-fueled indie rock.
At its core, II wears its heart completely on its sleeve, and that’s to Herd’s credit as a songwriter. It’s a superb reflection of the shifting emotions and reactions that most teenagers and twenty-somethings experience. It desires companionship and empathy instead of sympathy or absolution.
For all of its compositional complexity and instrumental curlicues, the album feels warm, approachable, and personal. It speaks candidly about what’s happened instead of walloping you over the head or dealing in abstractions. I simply found the sort of openness and maturity of Seafarers remarkably refreshing – much as I’ve done in the past when distortion-driven angst no longer suited my needs.