Cherry Glazerr unveils furious vulnerability with junior album Stuffed & Ready

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Noise pop trio Cherry Glazerr has delivered once again, and this time with self-aware despondency.

The grunge-rock band released their second studio album, Apocalipstick, in January 2017 and held back, well, nothing. The album retires the notion that self-imposed exile is necessary as founder and front woman, Clementine Creevy, uses the depths of her daggering voice to adhere to the levity of the world around her.

Their junior album, Stuffed & Ready, released February 1, 2019, displays similar buzzy guitars and brooding choruses but rather a visceral focus that separates Creevy from her surroundings. The rigidity and minimalistic energy that deems Cherry Glazerr’s grunge songcraft remains intact, but self-awareness dominates Creevy into being vulnerable, yet tough as ever.

It seems as though Creevy has put up with enough thought-provoking bullshit and returned to the recording studio with a switchblade-like sharpness in her eyes and misery in the grain of her voice.

Tough as always.

Opener “Ohio” begins with lush, lof-fi strumming similar to that of the band’s first studio album, Haxel Princess, released in 2014. Without much hesitation, Creevy’s subtle humming is drowned out by Tabor Allen’s brash drumming. The resonance of Creevy’s voice further heightens the albums theme of self-reflection (“I wish myself the best, but I’m broken / The light inside my head went dead, and I turned off”).

“Self Explained” highlights a bouncy bassline by Devin O’Brien while Creevy vocalizes her antisocial tendencies (“I am embarrassed of my solo, I don’t know why / I don’t want people to know how much time I spend alone”). Her eerie, faint voice quickly gives way to fiery yowls.

Although Creevy’s sarcasm-heavy lyrics are introspectively apparent, she leaves plenty of room for diversions to recognize her criticisms of society.

“Stupid Fish” fires a raucous howl addressing such frustrations (“I’m a stupid fish and so are you / Maybe I’m mad ’cause I see me in you”). An ascending guitar riff follows and Creevy’s soul-shattering confession bellows (“I don’t wanna try to pretend / I see myself in you and that’s why I fucking hate you”). It’s this moment that fuels the entire album releasing pent-up resentments of oneself and shifting them onto others.

Hesitation runs through the lyrical themes of the ten songs that make up this stellar album, but the raw guttural power of Creevy’s voice polishes the minimal imperfections.

Without self-reflection and contemplation, reason can never be wholly realized or satisfying.

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