As its Gen Z affiliates funnel into the mainstream, the definition of “bedroom pop” is murkier than it used to be. But in 2014, before Cuco penned a celebration of his modest Honda, before Gus Dapperton sold Urban Outfitters-exclusive vinyl, and before Clairo sighed at the shallow demands of being a “pretty girl,” New York City-based label Orchid Tapes had a more intimate vision in mind. They presented their blueprint on a compilation released that year, Boring Ecstasy: The Bedroom Pop of Orchid Tapes, featuring early cuts from low-key songwriters like (pre-Sandy) Alex G, Yohuna, and the multiple aliases of Sam Ray. Sam Hall, a more recent addition to the Orchid Tapes roster, performs lo-fi keyboard-trap as Ghost Orchard; he created his third album, Bunny, by himself at his Michigan home.
Hall, 21, wrote more than 300 songs for Bunny after moving in with his partner of only a few months. This is an album of goopy love songs, each doused in the same ecstasy produced by fleeting interactions with your middle-school crush. It’s naive and a little cheesy, but Hall’s rosy optimism feels fresh in a genre overrun by “sad boy” tropes. “Station,” one of the album’s brightest moments, is an amalgamation of acoustic strums, stuttering beats, and budding romance. Tracing the map from his hometown to Chicago, Hall details a new relationship in a world where his biggest obstacle is public transportation: “At the station/Ticket in my palms, I can feel my hands shaking… Take the 9 back just to feel your hands in mine.” It’s a sweet reminder of how vast the world feels at 18, though it reads like a page from a John Green novel.
Bunny’s title track is one of the few times Hall begins to consider that love might require some effort after all. “Maybe we’re moving too fast/But we’re having so much fun,” he sings. “Lord knows we both have our differences.” Still, his devotion permeates the song: “I’m in this,” he promises, sounding committed—at least for now.
These and other guitar-driven tracks (“Carousel,” “Balloon,” “First Time”) feel most natural for Hall, whose past projects spotlighted grainy, lilting riffs. Bunny uses more electronic instruments than he’s put to tape before, but his experimentation doesn’t always equate to originality: “Guess” sounds like a rejected Hot Chip song, while opener “Witness” could suit Joji’s warbly SoundCloud verses, and closer “Honeymoon” feels like a Xerox copy of Rex Orange County’s sunkissed R&B.
On paper, Bunny’s hip-hop-meets-six-string aesthetic could easily lump Ghost Orchard with the type of tacky pop-rap crooner dying to convince you that he’s a bad boy with a sensitive side. But Hall’s earnestness feels genuine. He still has some maturing to do: His simple lyrics about young love and summertime outings recall the salad days of school vacation. But Bunny is lighthearted, inoffensive, textbook bedroom pop, and it doesn’t try to be more. It’s nice to imagine that love and coming-of-age could be so painless.
