by Joe Gutierrez
“All I’ve done today is think of you and what you’re up to,” goes the punctuating line of Styrofoam Winos’ “Wrong Season’s Length,” the closing track of their phenomenal debut self-titled studio album. That line hits like a punch in the gut every time I finish the record, a little like pulling closed the curtains on a dream projected to a screen. Styrofoam Winos is a shimmering quilt of folk, rock, post-punk, soul, pop, and country, stitched together by three incredibly strong and worth-listening-to Nashville singer-songwriters: Lou Turner, Trevor Nikrant, and Joe Kenkel.
From the get-go, the Winos crash in and strip the bolts off the doorframe. The record spurts to life with opener “Stuck in a Museum,” running through its verse at breakneck speed and popping off into a sincerity-soaked chorus, injecting emotion, angst, awe, worry, and wonder into observations of mundane meanderings. A frenzied outro, like colliding sweaty bodies in a crowd bouncing up and down, dissolves in tape hiss and morphs into the Turner-led syrupy sweet “In Your Room.” It’s a sun-drenched soft rock glimmer, a complete 360 from the previous track. The serenity and melodic perfection of the song conjures up an image of the Beach Boys on a front porch at dawn, rehearsing some new tune which came to them in their dreams. “Once” starts off simple and pristine, but then takes a left turn into weirdness, Collier’s therevox snipping any tethers to the ground, lifting it up, up, up. A revolving door of genre in the songwriting tradition, gushes of pleading and desperation. There’s a little bit of a spaghetti Western vibe, like desert cacti needling the ether. Nikrant procures an excellent guitar solo, whizzing through the landscape. This band is always turning new corners, going to unexpected places bound to delightfully surprise.
The pulsing ominous energy of “School In The Morning'' showcases the Styrofoam Winos’ ability to sync up, but also splay out on their own. It explores the mysteries of pulling away and pushing forward: restraint, absence, presence, materialization, dissolve. Nikrant’s vocal melody mirrors a guitar riff atop pummeling synth and bass emitting droney dirges of sound. He sings, “Don’t you notice when the music changes them?” Side A of the record closes perfectly with Lou Turner’s “Roygbiv,” a kaleidoscopic centerpiece peeling back the lid of existence and perception. Turner’s bass playing is like the flickering of eyesight in many directions, consuming the minutiae of a field of vision. Kenkel’s drumming and synth inject a fluid current underneath, carrying the song with precision and care. The song unfolds slowly, the unwrapping of a carefully wrapped parcel containing a rainbow. It’s something like an ode to a person who just does not fit into the mechanics of society and evaporates into colors instead.
Side B cracks open with “Skyline Top Removal,” according to Turner, a lament of gentrification and a product of a dream she once had. What starts out as a shuffling post-punk romp morphs into something destined for classic rock radio. At times Turner’s snarling commentary evokes the talk-singing of Patti Smith’s Horses or David Byrne’s fidgety barks, though her delivery and words are pure gold and all her own. It’s also worth noting that there’s impeccable production all over the record, nothing lost or buried in murk. “Open Mic” is the record’s sole instrumental, calling to mind Pavement or the Silver Jews’ spookier psychedelic numbers. Guitar, bass, and drums interplay like staggers up a staircase, while singing saw slices through the background, and perhaps, the fabric of this existence.
“Maybe More” might be the most personal sounding song on the record. It examines one’s place in culture at the intersection of art and commerce, emotion and profit. The band sounds like it’s emitting sound from a broken music box, some hazy recollections, tattered memories, futile temporality or something. Kenkel tenderly murmurs snippets of conversations with friends and insights into one’s relationship with place, creativity, and the self. Nikrant’s “Nightbirds” winds things down, a heady folk number in the vein of John Fahey and former Nashville resident William Tyler. It’s got a little bit of a Van Morrison vibe, a pastoral aura materialized through Turner’s mystical flute and Austin Hoke’s grounding cello, also veering ominously at just the right moments of tension. Nikrant’s delicate singing of lines like “the light returns to the trees after its curfew/but it’s never really done with you” and dueting with Turner’s harmony on “everything you’re dreaming of” make the perfect blend of visions both natural and personal.
The record’s topped off with “Wrong Season’s Length,” meticulously crafted, yet loose and comfortable. It bubbles up, taking off at a trot, rhythm section cozily carrying Kenkel’s words and strums as caressing cello and piano clinks supply the atmosphere. Kenkel sings, “Sleeves rolled up/to make yourself look tough/like an overflowing cup,” a special simile that pulls the corners of my mouth into a grin. “Wrong Season’s Length” is the perfect album closer, a walk out of a cold, dim house into sunshine spilling through the trees, washing over you.
It’s not often a listener gets to experience a full album in 3D, but that’s exactly what you can do with Styrofoam Winos. The band played the entire record from start to finish at Grimey’s in Nashville through a livestream earlier this year. It is a phenomenal thing to witness, getting a glimpse into the mechanics and subtle eccentricities of each song. These are all incredibly versatile artists, never in danger of sounding bland or the same, never at risk of repeating themselves. Styrofoam Winos hopscotch from one mood or genre to the next with seamless effort, patching together a menagerie of touchstones from rock music history to create a significant collection of tunes bound to resonate for years to come.