Woods singer Jeremy Earl launched the Woodsist label in 2006, creating a vehicle to self-release his records and those by likeminded psychedelic-folk explorers: guitarist Cian Nugent, former Woods bassist Kevin Morby, and singer-songwriter Anna St. Louis. A friends-forward approach to a label usually brings together a similar cloth of musicians; there’s sometimes a fine line between Woodsist and Woods-ish.
Glacial Pace, the debut album by singer-songwriter Brian Collins as Hurt Valley, is the latest to emerge from Earl’s glen. The record is far less leaden than its title indicates, toeing the Woodsist line more closely than most of his peers. The many instrumental layers belie the fact that Collins self-recorded the project at his home in Los Angeles. His songs are light and loose, built for placid and rudderless afternoons.
But Collins’ self-contained efforts sometimes leave little to latch on to as one song slides into the next. The distinguishing factors between folk-adjacent, psychedelically inclined acts tend to lie in what its unique members bring to the fold—the way a bassist and drummer lock together into a groove, the way guitarists interject and weave around each other. By that measure, Collins plays it relatively straight across Glacial Pace, and absent a collaborator’s input, he ends up limiting his own potential.
Overdubbed guitar solos complement each other at the end of “No Meaning,” but Collins never reaches for a daring finale—they approach a crescendo and shy away within seconds. Even when he sings about feeling “stuck at a glacial pace” on “Geology Dreamer,” he sounds like he’s unmoved about his predicament in any sense of the word. “Del Amo” is Glacial Pace’s strongest, carried by quiet guitar interludes that make for a curling foil against a hazier backdrop of more guitars. The glimmer on “I’ve Been Everywhere” is a similarly rewarding treat for the ears.
Despite the album’s pervasive nonchalance, closing track “Immaterial Worlds” is resolutely un-chill as Collins sneaks in a few final barbs. “You don’t know what it means to speak face to face/You only castigate anonymously,” he sings. “Don’t be afraid to say/I should apologize, when it is right.” He asks to be told when he needs to apologize rather than recognizing when he needs to do it on his own. It’s these moments that feel lasting and impressionable and give his debut a boost: Glacial Pace doesn’t feel destined for cult status or dollar bins, but Collins gives himself plenty of room to explore his sound—and himself—more deeply.
Buy: Rough Trade
