Late last year, Cliffie Swan's Sophia Knapp and Linnea Vedder gave up on Lights, the acrobatically eclectic psych-pop troupe they'd led through two increasingly daring LPs. With Cliffie Swan, the pair-- alongside Alana Amram, and, on tour, with Erika Spring and Hannah Rawe-- have nixed much of the bend-over-backwards genre-melding of their previous work, paring down Lights' wide-ranging, whiplash-inducing influences to a more manageable shortlist while playing up their considerable way with hooks. Memories Come True, their debut as Cliffie Swan, matches patient 70s style power-pop with hints of sleek, Ric Ocasek-indebted 80s sheen and slack, rangy 90s rock; a mix less heady than their old band's, perhaps, but even more deftly handed.
The ramshackle riff singer-guitarist Knapp gives "Dream Chain", a sunkissed little groover about making eyes at a show, all but tumbles out of the speaker, whereupon she musters a lovely, easygoing vocal. Knapp's clear, cool voice seems absolutely at ease over the low-key tangle of her guitar turnarounds; never the showiest singer, these softer, more spacious songs are a far better fit for her warm, laid-back style than the histrionic hard-rock dalliances on Rites. Memories' first three songs prove its most immediately ingratiating; after "Chain", the husky "Soft and Mean" gets a little snarl going-- Knapp's cooly delivered kiss-off of, "you know, your attitude, it really wrecks my mood," cuts to the quick-- and the Cars-like "Yes I Love You" strips things back so far the hook can't help but jut out. They may be making fewer moves on these lean, chorus-heavy tunes than they did flitting between styles on Rites, but they seem more confident in each one.
Memories' title track beings as a dirge-y, downtrodden flute-driven psych-rocker until its chorus turns lovely and languid; "Full of Pain" sounds more than a little like a Stevie Nicks tune until Knapp's scuzzy guitar snakes its way into the frame. Memories' midsection is its most psychedelic, with lighter-flicker "California Baby" taking on the sludgy metal that occasionally snuck its way onto Rites. Just as the disc's knotty pop lead-in often calls to mind Fleetwood Mac without ever quite going full McVie, there's something about this mid-LP mix of vocal serenity and bleary guitar crunch that suggests they've been rummaging around in the mid-90s buzzbin. But they've gotten so good at couching even their more obvious influences in threads of ambling melody that any easy comparisons seem somehow beside the point. That's a big shift from Rites, an album that seemed most impressive for the derring-do of its genre-stacking. Echoes of everything from the Breeders to Black Sabbath may ring throughout Memories now and again, but there's a serenity and self-possession driving these tunes that isn't on loan from any other band.
The chanty "Home" throws another curveball before the fluttery, harmony-driven "She's Almost Gone" twirls in. The track's light-as-a-breeze melody threatens to blow away before Knapp throws a bit of guitar boogie underneath it; as with Lights, Cliffie are constantly tucking little bits of melody into the pockets of their tunes, and while there's less zig-zagging in these arrangements, their melodies still seem to dodge the obvious move. While sturdy, the album's final three-fer-- slow burner "Take It Easy", the gossamer "So Long", and the Pretenders-esque closer "Climb on Top"-- proves a bit less satisfying than the killer trio that opens the record and the swirly stuff in its center. But the pair has gotten rather good at jamming out deceptively direct, harder-to-place pop-rockers, and while Memories doesn't exactly end with a bang, it's hardly a whimper, either. Those who fell for Lights' anything-goes genre eradications may feel a bit shortchanged by the relative simplicity of the easygoing Memories, and fans of pure pop may find these low-key hooks a bit too low-impact. But while Cliffie Swan's airy melodic excursions might be several degrees less daring than Lights' exploratory pop-psych, it's both easier to like and easier to grok. And, hey, no whiplash.
