If Julien Baker wasn't cracking something close to a smile on the cover of Sprained Ankle, I wouldn't be certain that it was meant for public consumption. Much of the album was written in isolation—after Baker left Memphis for Middle Tennessee State University, she worked on these songs in a soundproof booth within the campus music building. It was recorded in Richmond's Spacebomb Studios, a destination du jour that birthed lusciously orchestrated countrypolitan records from Matthew E. White and Natalie Prass this year, but these one-mic and one-take songs could have easily been tracked in an MTSU bathroom. Listening to it can occasionally feel like a violation of her privacy.
This voyeuristic appeal plays a minor role in distinguishing Sprained Ankle, though. More important is how Baker operates in existential ultimatums—life or death, hope or despair, oblivion or epiphany. It cuts through the bullshit rather than piling onto it, and its clarity and honesty has instantly helped Baker reach across aisles. She recently opened for Touché Amoré, a post-hardcore band of blazing intensity and extreme devotees that was previously on 6131 Records and more indicative of the music on Baker's label. By the end of November, she'll be joining the tasteful-indie double bill of EL VY and Wye Oak.
Sprained Ankle is a solo, singer-songwriter album, but very little of it would be considered "folky." She professes David Bazan, mewithoutYou's Aaron Weiss, and Ben Gibbard as idols, but her guitar playing bears more of their influence than their vocals. She's a minimalist, playing bassy clusters of melodic thirds, flicking silvery harmonics, palm-muting chords. It's gorgeously recorded and yet, there's still the suggestion that these might've been demos—the scant overdubs of drums or harmonized vocals just drive home how lonely Baker is, that she may have meant these to eventually be full-band arrangements one day.
There are traces of other current acts in her sound—the album title is inspired by a lyric ("Sprinter learning to wait/ Marathon runner, my ankles are sprained") that instantly brings up the similarly ecclesiastical bloodletting of fellow Tennessean Torres, while her thick, close-harmonizing recalls Sharon Van Etten. But considering her formative listening experiences and punk roots, by the time she reaches the high notes over an aggressively strummed, stock descending chord pattern in "Everybody Does", her most apt comparison might be Dashboard Confessional. Before Chris Carrabba became a caricature of himself and an avatar for emo-as-a-Halloween-costume, there really wasn't much else like him for the hardcore kids. Baker has the same kind of magnetism to get lines like, "I am so good at hurting myself", sung by a crowd of young acolytes. Baker's metaphors can also be similarly excessive and clunky at times ("I know I am a pile of filthy wreckage you will wish you never touched").
Obviously, these songs are about resilience, but Baker acknowledges her willingness to wallow in despair. "Good News" plays on the double meaning of hysterical: "It's not easy when what you think of me is so important/ And I know it shouldn't be so important...I'm only screaming at myself in public/ I know I shouldn't act this way in public." Later, she asks to be swallowed and smothered by the parking lot as you drive away, an echo of Morrissey's operatic curtain call during the 190-proof melodrama of "I Know It's Over".
And like Moz, Baker isn't without a sense of humor about herself. "Wish I could write songs about anything other than death" isn't the sort of thing you say unless you're self-aware. But it is important for people to see someone struggle through some serious shit to get to that point, and if you prefer redemption songs to sound as raw as they feel, Sprained Ankle could bring you to your knees.
