To drive is to be in control while accepting there is nothing you can control. On Adult Mom’s Driver, self-doubt almost sends Stevie Knipe spinning out in the aftermath of a breakup. But with wry, intimate lyrics and jangly electric guitar, they wrest back control to celebrate small, precious triumphs amid the trauma of everyday life. The effect is both cathartic and dazzling, like the high you feel on your way out of a really good therapy session.
Knipe writes lyrics so honest they border on awkward, capturing the often embarrassing everyday minutiae of depression and soul-crushing capitalism. “I am isolating, I get my communication/From an overdue hospital bill,” they sing softly on “Breathing,” over phased synthesizer and Olivia Battell’s staccato drum beat, before Allegra Eidinger’s guitar interrupts and Knipe calls up a wistful soprano that brings to mind Imogen Heap’s “Goodnight and Go.” Their revealing lyrics establish trust: They’re not trying to come off as anything but totally honest.
A knack for storytelling that feels real, even when it’s unflattering, is the cornerstone of Adult Mom’s music. If their first album, 2015’s Momentary Lapse of Happily, was intimate as a dorm-room performance, Driver feels bigger, like it’s performed from a stage. Knipes uses the emotional force of their suffering to propel expansive, layered arrangements that make room for head-bobbing melodies, chilly synths, and guitar solos. Even “Passenger,” a cozy, melancholy ballad whose guitar strums and close harmonies recall First Aid Kit, has a sense of urgency.
Regaining control is rarely a linear path; it comes with ugly setbacks, which Knipe articulates with the cathartic levity of the dog who says “this is fine.” That levity is perhaps best exemplified in the surfy daze of “Dancing”: “I’m dancing to/The song I crashed my car to,” they sing, a Russian doll of a lyric that opens to reveal trauma within triumph, joy within tragedy. “Sober” addresses an ex-lover with trademark candor: “The only thing that I’ve done/This month is drink beer and masturbate, and ignore phone calls from you/What else am I supposed to do.” A jaunty drum-machine beat and minimal keys provide a canvas for Knipe’s clear vocals, which glide easily from speaking to singing, giving the song a confessional quality. It ends with a victory that hits like a punchline: “Now I don’t even think of you when I am sober.”
“Adam” notches another victory: making it to the other side of anxieties around queerness. On “Told Ya So,” from Momentary Lapse of Happily, Knipe sounded more tentative, setting lyrics about shame and self-acceptance to understated rhythm guitar. On “Adam,” they turn the dial up, punctuating the song with juicy, Guitar Hero-worthy riffs. “I see the girl I want to kiss/But I’m not sure if she wants to kiss/But at least I can ask without feeling like shit,” they sing, with a nervousness and excitement that seemingly allows them to fit 30 syllables into one breath.
Regaining agency amid heartbreak, depression, and loneliness is often messy, and just when it feels like you’re finally on your way, you trip and fall. But coming back to yourself doesn’t have to mean remaking your whole life; healing happens both in celebrating the triumphs—like asking the girl if she wants to kiss, or not drinking the beer—and in cataloguing the messiness. Driver succeeds because Knipe is able to do both.
Buy: Rough Trade
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