by Erin Bensinger (@erinbensinger)
On her fifth full-length solo record, Emma Ruth Rundle establishes herself as not only an exceptional musician and vocalist, but as a visual artist, poet, and mythmaker. Engine of Hell is a searing confessional delivered at whisper-pitch. The record consists of eight evenly paced ballads, the emotional density of which belie its brief forty minute runtime. Known for her baroque experimentation with electric guitar tones and textures, the stripped-back, piano-led instrumentation comes as a welcome surprise.
Its lyricism, on the other hand, is Rundle at her finest. As a songwriter, she leads us through a labyrinth of her mind at an imagined moment of death: dancing her way through memories painful and tender (admittedly, mostly painful) alongside her inner child, allowing us to watch through the window. Her turns of phrase are rich with biblical allusion and pitch-dark humor as she recounts a series of childhood traumas and the wreckage they left behind, making no attempt to mask or resolve the pain in the way that women are so often expected to do.
The accompanying visuals add depth to the work, especially for the hard-hitting second single “Blooms of Oblivion.” The song is traditionally structured, guided by an acoustic guitar riff and a subtle chorus of cellos as the songwriter recounts witnessing the active addiction, attempted recovery, and death of a loved one. The music video, co-directed by Rundle and John Bradburn, shows Rundle and a little girl (her younger self, perhaps) floating and soaring through the air in a melancholy interpretive dance. We see cascades of pills, spoons, and poppies before the drama builds to its colorful climax: Rundle arriving safely on the other side, adorned in shimmery clothing and vibrant paint.
Survivors of violence and trauma may well catch their own reflection in “Citadel,” a waltz-like tour of Rundle’s own internal hideaway. Though led by spare acoustic guitar and a backing of cello, the distinctive metal tuning and subtle vocal harmonies bring a darkness and drama that fans of Rundle’s heavier work will no doubt appreciate. In contemplating the pain that leads her to seek refuge in her citadel of self, she transmutes a howl of pain into a floating falsetto as melodically compelling as any radio earworm.
Amid the darkness, moments of love and warmth glow especially bright. On “Body,” Rundle connects the experience of seeing a loved one’s corpse wheeled away (“We’re moving the body now”) to the lingering feeling of love and protection from beyond (“You know my arms are always around you / moving your body now”). The song is anchored by a bright, moving piano performance. On “Dancing Man,” we meet Rundle well-dressed at a joyous occasion, enjoying a dance with a dear friend and the poetry of song; it’s a tale she relays breathlessly in a brittle falsetto over a delicate, diffused piano line.
The closing piano dirge, “In My Afterlife,” builds the context for the recollections summoned throughout the album. It describes the “Engine of Hell” as the concept of a whirring machine of memory and trauma, inescapable until death—an experience which Rundle relates in eerie and believable detail. She communes with the stars and outer planets about those she knew on Earth (“I remembered all of your lines from life / and told them to my keeper / he said that you, you were funny but a liar / some dark deceiver, some dark deceiver”). Yet even in death, she’s not free from managing the care and pain of others (“I have a feeling I might be here a while / you might want to call in a maid to help keep you clean”). The instrumentals are perfectly spare: the narrative is so rich that any additional sound would only serve as a distraction.
On the record’s fourth track, “The Company,” Rundle opens the second verse with the lines “So quiet / the melody I sing / that’s just mine.” Listening to the record itself feels like overhearing a collection of private melodies. At times, it feels almost voyeuristic—there’s a flinching temptation to look away from Rundle’s pain, but the beauty of the sound and the emotional wisdom of the lyrics pull your gaze right back. Just as the subject of “Blooms of Oblivion,” “you plead as a failure / you wait for a savior / you leave knowing nothing’s resolved.”