Mat Cothran is from South Carolina, and his work as Coma Cinema strongly evokes a sense of the place. While he never references specific geography, the pervasive attitude in his music is one where the economy is down, the humidity is up, and everything moves a little too slowly as a result. Though Cothran moved from Spartanburg to the relatively metro capital of Columbia and recorded Posthumous Release in Los Angeles, it’s just a cleaner and clearer evocation of the same feeling that coursed through his earlier work: this isn’t the depression borne of unmet expectations and missed opportunities, it’s the deflation of boredom, of no opportunities. There is great art to be had in this quiet desperation, where a creative mind thinks anything can happen but his circumstances dictate that it rarely does. While Posthumous Release nails that feeling, it doesn’t always translate as compelling pop music.
Though Cothran finds the minute differences between a sigh, a shrug, and a sulk throughout Posthumous Release, the album never drags. These songs are minimal in every aspect-- Cothran’s flat, sullen voice at the forefront of arrangements that are even mousier, sparse acoustic strums and brushed snares often parceled out in increments of two minutes or less. The quick cuts lend Posthumous Release a sense of immediacy that the underlying components can’t muster, giving the impression that their brevity is necessary to capture the moment rather than a result of rushed songwriting.
Rather than compensating for the spare music, Cothran uses lyrics every bit as economically, which denies Posthumous Release much sense of release. There are a couple of dagger lyrics throughout that punctuate the record’s themes of failure, codependence, and despondence. But what Posthumous Release lacks is exposition, detail, or a sense of stakes in the matter. A line like "cut myself at work" implies a blue-collar gig where physical injury is a risk, but "She Keeps it Alive" leaves too much to the imagination; the same goes for the evocatively titled "Lee (Columbine High Harmony)", where Cothran admits, "My wrists somehow forgot/ That quiet parking lot," and just lets it hang.
The most striking parts of Posthumous Release recall the inventiveness of 2011's Blue Suicide, an album where you sensed a prolific artist straining against limitations of both budget and production know-how. “Satan Made a Mansion” shows Cothran’s knack for snappy alt-rock hooks while the wigged-out flange effects of “Burn a Church” exaggerate the vocal manipulation of “Her Sinking Sun”, thus far his strongest tune. Otherwise, the limitations of Posthumous Release are set into the foundation of its songs, many built upon two chords or revolving around a single, repeated line rather than a chorus. At best, they recall the throwback solo performances that would cut through the orchestral clutter on later Elliott Smith albums, though more often, there’s a perfunctory, boxed-in compositional method that’s more in line with mid-period eels.
Posthumous Release doesn't lack ambition. Rather, it demonstrates the unique challenges inherent in making small music translate to an audience beyond the people immediately surrounding the ones who made it. If Cothran wanted to signify his ambition with bigger drums, string arrangements, or tremulous vocals, I imagine he would have done so. But when you look at the prime examples of small music done right-- Death Cab for Cutie’s We Have The Facts and We’re Voting Yes, Real Estate’s Days and Waxahatchee’s Cerulean Salt-- there’s a generosity within the lyrics and the hooks, a desire to share an experience rather than simply relate it. Cothran’s songs feel both insular and remote, staring off into the distance, clearly miserable but unwilling to really talk about it.
