by Sabrina Cofer (@sabcofer)
What is a supergroup, if not artists bringing out the best in each other? Bachelor, the musical project of Palehound’s Ellen Kempner and Jay Som’s Melina Duterte, combine fuzzy guitars, pop hooks, and introspective words on their debut, Doomin’ Sun. Holed up for two weeks in Topanga, California in January 2020, Kempner and Duterte spent their days sleeping in, drinking iced tea, and writing songs. While James Krivchenia (Big Thief) played drums on several tracks and Annie Truscott (Chastity Belt) recorded strings, the bulk of the album was the brainchild of Kempner and Duterte, both of whom had been fans of the other’s music for several years. Luckily for us, this mutual admiration developed into a genuine friendship—and an album.
It opens with “Back of My Hand,” an earworm treatise on fandom culture and ideation—the opposite of Kempner and Duterte’s natural camaraderie. Though sonically upbeat (and catchy as hell), the lyrics speak to the darker underbelly of adoration. This hero-worship can quickly turn into self-hatred, as the desire for intimacy and to be number one devolves into the willingness to self-destruct. They ask, do you really want that closeness, or the praise of thousands of strangers (“Do I wanna be you or be your friend? / There is no telling”)?
Bachelor sprinkles the album with motifs of inadequacy and insecurity. On “Went Out Without You,” somber acoustic guitar blends with a staccato snare and incessant hi-hat tapping. These elements stress the grinding isolation of self-consciousness and the toll of putting on a front for someone you love. The bass is the star of the show on “Anything at All,” a groovy mid-tempo track with a high-pitched, almost cartoonish chorus—cue the backup dancers shimmying and finger-wagging to “I shouldn’t say anything at all, anything at all.” The tension builds and releases into a guitar solo before pulling back into a kick drum, hi-hat, and bass that bookend the beginning like quiet regret seeping through a room.
Much of the album employs a narrative writing style. On “Stay in the Car,” Kempner and Duterte set the scene of a stranger with no discernible anxieties. Double-parked and hair a mess, she morphs into a person of desire, someone you want in your corner, or even a façade to emulate when you’re too tense to leave the house, let alone the car. “Sick of Spiraling” paints the image of walking alone at night, cheap knife ready in hand, and almost getting clipped by traffic. They pose a daunting question, one heavy enough to precede an anxiety-ridden spiral: “If I can’t have my own back / How the fuck can I have yours?” Cyclical acoustic guitar lies beneath the entirety of the four and a half minutes. A needling electric guitar falls back in the mix, supporting a higher-pitched refrain. Finally, a guitar solo rips into the rotation, underscoring the exasperation of dealing with runaway thoughts.
“Moon” and “Aurora” are two quieter moments on the project. Duterte’s hushed vocals on the former highlight the loneliness of looking to the moon for company. On the latter, stilted piano and languid drums fill out the space. A rewind effect buzzes throughout, like a knee-jerk response to a mistake as Kempner laments, “And I took the joke too far again.”
The centerpiece of the album, “Spin Out,” drips with reverb-heavy guitars and harmonies that stretch out into the Santa Monica Mountains. A cathartic wall of sound—layered vocals, descending piano, crashing cymbals—opens up before closing with simple acoustic guitar. The lyrics decry a personal betrayal, but the hook (“I’ve seen the world spin out / In a slow burn”) speaks to an apocalyptic thread running through the project. Self-implosion comes in many forms, whether in relationships or the Earth going up in flames.
This world-ending fear comes in full force on the closer and title track. Its focal points are the finger-picked acoustic guitar and Kempner’s raspy, delicate vocals. Duterte’s distorted, glitchy harmonies fade in and out like radio static, which juxtapose the natural, warm sounds to a haunting effect. Around the midpoint, strings come in like a hurricane siren, warning us to hunker down or run. But it closes with the repetition of “doomin’ sun,” dimming into a whisper until finally, nothing at all. The sky may be scarlet and the bees may be dying, but at least we can hold each other as we go.
When two artists come together for a project, we tend to define it by their solo work. Is it as good? Better? Do their individual styles clash or jive? While it was a pleasure re-listening to Palehound and Jay Som’s discography, Doomin’ Sun feels remarkably self-contained. The album artwork (by Chris Chew) includes polaroid photos of the recording process. A flannel is flung over a drum kit. California sunlight shines through backyard trees. Kempner and Duterte grin, arms around each other on the cover. There’s a distinct joy and lightness to friends having fun and making art. Though we get plenty of Palehound’s well-known guitar licks and Jay Som’s reverberating, distorted style, Bachelor blends these elements with contemplative, thoughtful lyrics and refreshing artistry to create an independent, enduring record.