Current postpunk still a reconfiguration of Joy Division, The Cure, Bauhaus? Yes, no. Thank god for recent pivots by The Murder Capital and Fontaines, D.C. toward a more pop-leaning sound. The Smiths are the best thing to happen to postpunk in a decade! Shoegaze still trying to free itself from the weighty templates of My Bloody Valentine and the more spacious sprawls of Slowdive? Recent Americana heroes duplicating templates forged by Son Volt, Jason Molina, and Whiskeytown? Yes, no. Etc.
Whatever the case, we can safely say that the West, fueled by capitalistic principles, is not a big fan of emulation, which used to be traditionally respected in various places, though surely radical changes have occurred in those cultures as well, as commercialism and consumerism – with their emphasis on stimulation and production – hold sway across the globe.
Then again, if you create an invisible bridge between the familiar and unfamiliar, tricking people into embracing something new via something old, which they don’t recognize or perhaps do but don’t hold against you, then super. Call the investors, get on Shark Tank. There’s money, lots of it, in the legerdemain of well-disguised mimicry.
But there’s something noble about emulation, too. It’s perhaps less respected in music, film, literature, etc. than in other fields, say martial arts, or even the recovery world. To aspire to be like your sensei is considered a commendable ambition. In the recovery world, individuality is acknowledged but also seen, when unchecked or unexamined, as the ego-fortress, the illusory source of the self-hype that fuels the rise that leads to the crash.
In the case of Rebecca Harvey, who goes by the moniker girlpuppy, there’s no denying her indebtedness to her “sad pop” forebears. Her new album, Sweetness, surprisingly accentuates that connection more unabashedly than her debut, 2022’s When I’m Alone. “I Just Do!” is a straightforward sparse-verse-and-crunchy-chorus set-up that recalls any number of 90s pop forays (including Olivia Rodrigo’s 2021 debut, Sour). Lyrically, Harvey perhaps has more in common with Snail Mail or Palehound (“I know I’m a masochist / I know you can hurt me… I like you I just do”), as she revels in diaristic self-deprecation, finding odd satisfaction or at least a sense of identity in not being able to hold healthy boundaries.
The soft-loud dynamics and off-kilter self-portraits are hyper-familiar, but can we fault someone for relating to a theme and style and wanting to do that themselves? Are high schoolers and undergrads still obsessed with Sylvia Plath? “Daddy” and “Lady Lazarus” might be the most important lyrical and emotional touchstones in melancholy pop; the line “Dying is an art … I do it exceptionally well” is the quintessential sad-pop lyric. We might go as far as to say that Plath is the primary founder of Harvey’s lineage (which includes Lana Del Rey, Plath’s prize student and chief ambassador).
“In My Eyes” is very Phoebe Bridgers-esque, though Harvey’s softer, somewhat less confident tone probably aligns more with Soccer Mommy. Harvey, like Soccer Mommy, is more quintessentially fueled by loneliness, dejection, and feeling irrevocably damaged (this might be a good time to tangentially recommend the novel Beta Vulgaris by Margie Sarsfield, whose central character Elise doesn’t have any affinity for creating music, but if she did, her brand would be sad pop all the way).
“Windows” touches on a melody that Jay Som (or Lucy Dacus) would appreciate, though Jay Som would lean in a more satirical direction (Dacus would probably use the word “I” a bit less and the word “you” a bit more). “Since April” describes what it’s like to be erased by an ex. “Every day is hard”, Harvey laments. Damn right. You can’t deny me or the relationship we had, she insists. And yet, that’s probably exactly what’ll happen. Dwelling on the loss and focusing on how unjustly you were treated most likely results in a gnarly combo of rage and depression (which in turn gives rise to a need for venting/catharsis; i.e., art; i.e., sad pop).
“Beaches”, with its understated twangs and lap-steel runs is refreshingly country-inflected and perhaps the most memorable track on the album, though Harvey still has trouble distancing herself from Bridgers’ cadence. “I pretended I knew what we were doing”, she confesses on “I Was Her Too”, trying to shrug off an infidelity. “I Think I Did” spotlights Harvey’s fragile timbre, as she reflects on relational disconnects (he said, she said, they said, who knows what was said in hindsight, but “I still feel like I know you”).
Harvey certainly has songwriting talent, as well as a voice that works well when it comes to evoking precariousness and ambivalence (about so many things, including simply being alive). She does borrow heavily from her peers – musically, lyrically, vocally – but there are worse things than trying to recast tried-and-true templates (like, for example, a presidential administration removing the names of Black people and women from government websites honoring war heroes). Plus, Harvey’s young, she has plenty of time to emerge from the “anxiety of influence”, to explode forth with her own aesthetic. Nobody in today’s world is prepared to hold their breath for much of anything, but if I were a gambler, I’d bet on Harvey finding her way.
