Friday, April 29th, 2022

Soccer Mommy – Shotgun

In which we spot the deliberate mistake…


John S. Quinn-Puerta: The song is fine, even if the bass sounds like it’s coming from a paper cup, but I didn’t go to six summers of scout camp to not point out that shotguns don’t fire bullets. Perhaps next time we could shoot for a more accurate metaphor?

Vikram Joseph: Breezy and angular, “Shotgun” meshes gently clattering bass-driven verses with a swooning chorus in a way that’s far more reminiscent of early single “Cool” than the lush, melancholy compositions and golden-hour depressive aesthetics of Color Theory. As much of a near-perfect mood piece as that album was, it’s nice to see this side of Soccer Mommy again — there’s always sadness and a fierce intensity lurking at the corners of her work, but her urgency and playfulness can be such effective counterpoints. Daniel Lopatin’s production is busy, but there’s a lot to like — the woozy synth that floats down like pollen in the post-chorus, and the slightly off-kilter drum fills in the chorus — and Sophie Allison sounds revitalised, emerging from a dark tunnel into the fresh, bracing air of an imperfect world.

Leah Isobel: “Shotgun” has a grimy sheen, like oil over pavement. That texture, appealing but disgusting, lifts the song when its repetitive structure threatens to wear. I guess more detail might break the illusion; in a song about fooling yourself, you only need the things that contribute to the fantasy.

Alfred Soto: Barely discernible beneath the rumble of drums and bass, Soccer Mommy sings the expected pleas sheathed in the usual metaphors with professional unprofessionalism. I need more gusto. An attractively unattractive record.

Oliver Maier: The OPN teamup might imply an exciting pivot in Soccah Mommy’s sound but that doesn’t really play out in practice. I’m sure someone with more technical knowledge could pinpoint his touch here, but to my ears this is pretty standard for her, maybe a tad more vibrant. Still, “pretty standard Soccer Mommy” is a winning formula, at least for me.

Andrew Karpan: Sophie Allison’s records have a knack of transcending their singer-songwriter-indie-label milieu, finding ways to explore rejection that are as moving as they are relatable; the kind of teen angst that percolates deep into adult life, pulling imagery off the shelf of sunbeat suburbia, grass dry and uncut. When I first heard her, she took the form of the corner’s misbegotten canine, tied up and barking. Now, she’s the bullet inside the barrel of a figurative gun, waiting for a cause to crack into the night air. (Not for nothing does a half-concerned Condé Nast blogger call this dispatch a “cry for help.”) But the reference point I’m reading here is not quite Cobain, but rather contemporaneous work from Liz Phair and those early tapes that also found ways to assemble loneliness out of such everyday parts. 

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