caroline 2 aptly embodies sequel-ese: bolder, brighter, more accessible, and more ambitious all at once. Yet for all of its refinement and progress, caroline 2 allows its creators to fully embrace their role as UK post-rock’s preeminent sentimentalists. From the very beginning, the songs of the London octet have contained a sense of earnest wonder: Early single “Good Morning (Red)” was initially inspired by some members’ political awakening while canvassing for the Labour Party in 2017. But by its release years later, “Good Morning” had become an elegy, as caroline’s egalitarian, eight-member setup was as close as the band got to witnessing a socialist revolution. And like so many idealistic collectives, caroline’s obsessions with process occasionally came at the expense of product; the mesmerizing interplay captured in their live “Pool Sessions,” released in 2020 and 2021, was tempered by idle found-sound interludes on their self-titled 2022 debut. Profiles of the band, meanwhile, were loaded with procedural details that read like the minutes of a committee board meeting.
They also tried to walk back every mention of “Midwestern emo” in their formative influences, but they’re not beating the allegations this time around. Imagine if American Football moved to Chicago after graduating college and got taken under the wing of Gastr Del Sol and Tortoise instead of breaking up. That’s the sound of caroline 2: yearning, irresolute melodies; plaintive, plainspoken lyrics; and hours of analog improvisation are honed in painstaking digital post-production. Let the Squids and Greeps in their peer group be arch, absurd, aggro, abrasive; caroline also look at modern existence and ask, “Can you believe this shit” with their eyes wide rather than rolling.
Opener “Total euphoria” is the most beguiling rock anthem of recent memory—every instrument plays behind the beat, so unquantized that it initially sounds like eight people recording in completely different rooms, or perhaps locked into a cryptic rhythm known only to its participants. The effect is both mesmerizing and nerve-wracking, like watching a marathoner push to the finish line after hitting the wall, Willis Reed limping into immortality. Anyone who’s listened to five minutes of post-rock knows the crescendo is coming, but when it does, “Total euphoria” implodes rather than explodes; the title holds because this moment delivers nothing shy of the thrill of victory or the sweet release of death. Conversely, “Song two” is bisected by strings that sound bowed by bonesaws, teasing a horror-movie jumpscare; instead, the rusted trapdoor opens to let in blinding sunlight and unseasonable warmth.
caroline 2 is bookended by “Total euphoria” and “Beautiful ending”—apt descriptors for the frequency of the album. These are not emotions that people can access in a resting state. caroline 2 exists in constant destabilization, tempos speeding and slowing, standard post-rock dynamics shuffled, acoustic instruments processed beyond recognition and Auto-Tuned vocals capturing the spectrum of human emotion. caroline are not above the swells and strings that make car commercials and football highlights feel like religious experiences, but they never deliver them as expected. “U R UR ONLY ACHING” chops up a Friday Night Lights montage into an experimental film, terraforming its emotional arc into a jagged mountain range. “Coldplay cover” inverts the “Fix You” climax it promises and closes in a delirious, woozy heap.
There’s never a grid on caroline 2, but there’s always a pulse. The only discernible 4/4 beat on the album is a faint kick drum that echoes through the first half of “When I get home” amid lovelorn pleading. The beat suddenly stops for a tentative vocal tuning exercise and a splice of an early demo. Then the chorus eventually returns, and the longing continues indefinitely. But the ache at the heart of “When I get home” coexists with the joyful mad science that went into its creation; the group cites Taio Cruz’s “Dynamite” and “you’re in the bathroom of a club” YouTube playlists as primary inspirations for its murky house rhythm. There’s a similar spirit of technological trickery on “Tell me I never knew that.” Caroline Polachek spent hours with the band in the studio, gilding her uncannily pristine vocals with harmonies, but the true soul of the song emerges as Magdalena McLean breaks into a boy-band rap cadence towards the end.
Contrast this with their early pandemic-era “Pool Sessions,” a document of eight people performing in an empty gym, attuned to each other’s tiniest nods and winks. They were balms for the involuntarily isolated—poignant reminders of what we’d lost and what we’d long for. On the more porous, less precious caroline 2, the band expands its definition of community and connection. At least that’s how I hear it right now; like the songs themselves, this review is preceded by countless revisions, as my memory of caroline 2 never quite seems to match what I’m actually hearing. With every relisten, some string squall or found-sound snippet or slightly skewed lyric inevitably comes to the fore and confounds the assumption that music of this sort needs to soundtrack emotional revelation rather than being the revelation itself. caroline 2 offers a profound listening experience. But it also offers a reminder that walking through the English coastline, chatting on Zoom, jamming with your mates for hours on end—these experiences can all be equally profound if you just pay attention.
