The Courtneys are charmingly droll. The Vancouver trio includes but one Courtney, née Courtney Garvin, who rips vivid fuzz-guitar riffs alongside bassist Sydney Koke and singer/drummer Jen Twynn Payne. Their music—a bit gray, slightly lopsided—recalls velvety 1980s kiwi acts such as the Clean and Look Blue Go Purple. Crucially, though, the Courtneys bust out of the ramshackle Dunedin sound with bold, driving arrangements and thrilling pop sense. They have covered U2’s “I Will Follow” live and mention the influence of Teenage Fanclub and Big Star. Accordingly, the Courtneys feel like a punkish band with clearly-outlined emotions and a cheekily arena-rock spirit. On their supremely catchy second album, II, they lock into a real groove. They tactfully pair simplicity and strength. They make sad songs sound like a blast.
Something about the presence of a singer/drummer always communicates a discernible vulnerability. It emphasizes just how badly this person wants a voice—enough to carry both a tune and a beat—and turns a song into an act of conviction. To a degree, this amplifies the reaching emotionality of II. Singing in her endearingly nasal tone across the album, Payne is—to borrow a phrase from That Dog—totally crushed out.
Payne has said II is “75% about crushes,” which feels like a modest appraisal. Though there are more oblique songs about iron deficiency, the movie Lost Boys, a distant Virgo, and alien abduction, the bulk of II is about longing—the harshest emotion. “Can’t get you out of my head/Even through the miles,” Payne sings wistfully on “Silver Velvet.” It feels like driving into a sunset, and the bubblegum sentiment at its heart (“And nothing you say!/And nothing you do!/Can stop me from thinkin’ about you!”) sounds squarely fit to be shouted into hairbrush-microphones everywhere. Through the many disarming hooks of “Minnesota,” she pines, “I never wanted you to go/But you had to.” Likewise, “Country Song” is liminal: “I know I’m going but I don’t know when,” Payne sings.
Among all of these uncertain feelings, the music of II is appealingly concrete. II is a lovesick album, but its songs lift off. There’s a steadiness to its build, a comforting antidote to all of the unsteady urges. Even the seven-minute jam of “Lost Boys” is sharp and measured, never losing itself. The sun-streaked riffs of “Tour” pry open like a window on a long highway drive. It sprawls, capturing the restlessness that comes with transience, grounding a self-help mantra: “What you are and what you want to be/It takes a long time.” On “25,” Payne fruitlessly chases the object of her affection, and she evokes the true emotional horror of a two-sided gemini: “I’m a gemini/And I change my mind/Always change my mind.”
As Payne attempts to cope with heartache, the chorus of “Minnesota” is distilled yearning. “If you go away/I hope that you will know,” she sings, “That I’ll miss you so/Not easy to pretend it’s not hard to let you go.” These are evergreen subjects within an evergreen sound, to be sure, but II proves their cyclical natures—especially given its remarkable energy. The songs are viscerally anguished, but they don’t wallow. There’s an essential, breezy levity to the music; the parts require one another. The whole of II moves forward and on.
The democratic alchemy of the Courtneys makes this music feel humbly triumphant—like they collectively work through the confusion that Payne describes. Speaking with Westender, Garvin shared a story that underscores both their wry humor and this internal logic. She is a 2D animator by day, and once, Nickelodeon asked her to pitch a series. Garvin devised a cartoon based on the Courtneys, but differences with the network kept it in limbo. “If you have a show with three characters, one needs to be the leader and the other two have simplified characteristics,” Garvin said. “I just realized right away that wasn’t going to work for our band. It’s really important that we’re very equal.” They animate an egalitarian spirit on II instead.
