Last night as I climbed into bed, I tapped the play button on Marissa Nadler’s sixth album, July. A dreamy and private record, July felt like the ideal choice to keep me in a peaceful slumber. Boy, was I wrong. Nadler’s voice may be the most beautiful I’ve ever heard — trance-like, possessive, something I’d follow to the ends of the earth — but nothing about July is peaceful. Everything about July is, however, demanding: its songs may be audibly quiet, but they’re emotionally deafening, soaked in sorrow and haunted with regret.
From the moment Nadler sings the first syllables on album opener “Drive,” July‘s mood (a sentiment that falls somewhere in-between feeling overwhelmed and feeling crushed) is set. Every ounce of collapse Nadler experienced while writing and recording these songs is perfectly related through the tone of her voice and the sparse instrumentation that accompanies it.
Most songs on July are backed solely by an acoustic guitar, and while there are flourishes of piano, lap-steel, strings, and drums throughout the record, very seldom are more than two of these instruments being played at once. And though these elements aren’t wholly unwelcome, Nadler’s voice is so compelling that their addition doesn’t feel all that necessary. The best tracks on this record — like “Firecrackers” and “I’ve Got Your Name” — are the ones that put as little as possible between Nadler’s voice and our ears.
As dreamy as Nadler’s voice is, the substantive, physical lyrics that come out of it may be the most entrancing part of July. Her words beckon us to summerhouses, dark country roads, and even rest stop bathrooms. It’s these minute details, these images of realistic, simple settings, that yank us from July‘s dream-like state and slam us back down to earth. It’s in these minute details that the record becomes a mirror, allowing us to sit in Nadler’s seat; in these minute details, the emotions harnessed within July become almost too real.
There’s a warmth that runs throughout July, but it’s not the kind that comes with the month that it’s named after. Instead, July‘s warmth is the kind you crave in the dead of winter — the warmth of a fire, of heavy blankets, of whiskey-splashed hot chocolate. These are the impressions that stick to our ribs long after the coldest, harshest winters pass. July works in a similar manner, lingering in a listener’s mind long after its final chords fade out.
July