With history’s clock spinning backwards on so many civic fronts, the current market for retro-fetishism is, honestly, a bit disturbing. Yet there’s an undeniable pleasure principle in what Miranda Lambert calls “Old Shit”—and the escape it promises from our pixilated lives feels more essential than ever.
There’s plenty of precedent for Laufey Lín Bing Jónsdóttir’s revivalist pre-rock pop. Linda Ronstadt’s 1983 What’s New and its sequels, orchestrated by Frank Sinatra wingman Nelson Riddle, signified similarly in the conservative-backlash Reagan years. Laufey’s compatriot Björk cut the feral vocal-jazz gem Gling-Gló, predicting her big band-y 1995 solo breakout, “It’s Oh So Quiet.” Amy Winehouse perfected her own retro-modernism prior to a Tony Bennett collab. Mitski, Mei Semones, and Lana Del Rey are all putting old styles to vital new uses.
What’s most charming about Laufey, alongside her undeniable mastery of the Great American Songbook traditions she’s steeped in, is the way she alternately indulges, interrogates, and goofs on them. This was clear straightway, her conservatory-kid bedroom indie-pop steez fully formed on a pandemic TikTok rollout that linked standards like “I Fall in Love Too Easily” to Billie Eilish’s “My Future” and her own casually f-bombing originals. Starting with “Valentine” (“I’ve rejected affection/For years and years/Now I have it, and damn it/It’s kind of weird”), her best songs play Gen-Z colloquial overshares off elegant music that would be mere craft without the frisson between words and couture—by turns comic, tragic, or both.
The best moments of the maximalist A Matter of Time dial that frisson up. The sleeve telegraphs it, too—a sly riff on the sexy cover of Julie London’s 1960 LP Around Midnight that suggests Laufey’s going harder than her beloved musky-voiced predecessor (her bare legs on the clock face suggest we’re deep into the wee hours). On “Snow White,” a third-person “Jolene” narrative is set to sweeping orchestral strings that, in style and sentiment, might fit into any mid-century musical. What’s new, in this context, is the raw self-awareness, the inescapability of shame despite the smart cultural critique we frame it with. “I don’t think I’m pretty/It’s not up for debate/A woman’s best currency’s her body, not her brain,” she sings, with vertiginous breathlessness. “The world is a sick place/At least for a girl.”
It’s the record’s most powerful moment, showcasing a depth of emotion her technically remarkable singing doesn’t often access. But that’s not always the goal. “Silver Lining,” sung exactingly and with delightful flourishes, could almost be an Amy Winehouse slow jam, but the unblemished perfection of the delivery seems part of the track’s comic subversiveness. “I’ve been falling in bad habits, staring into the abyss/Drowning in red wine and sniffing cinnamon,” she sings, with just enough pause before “cinnamon” for the joke to land.
Humor’s among Laufey’s strong suits, and she’s funniest when she’s at her most cloying. Album opener “Clockwork” questions the wisdom of dating friends over a backdrop worthy of the Anita Kerr Singers, rhyming “said he’s running late” with “he probably had to regurgitate.” The playfully fizzy “Lover Girl,” punctuated with chipper handclaps, is incongruously hard-spitting, and gets bonus points for the ramen-joint choreography in its video clip. “Tough Luck” is a toxic boyfriend brush-off that nods to Taylor and Gaga, with low-key burns that ratchet up deliciously. “I should congratulate thee for so nearly convincing me/I’m not quite as smart as I seem,” she tells her newly minted ex, waiting until the bridge to finally rhyme the title with “fuck.” Girl’s a class act.
As in his work with Taylor Swift, Aaron Dessner helps Laufey change wardrobe (on “Castle in Hollywood” and “A Cautionary Tale”) to lean into less mannered storytelling. But formal dress suits her best, at least on this set, which is the fullest expression of the Cinemascope songcraft that’s got her selling out arenas, ostensibly to a fan base that include Gen X parents as well as their kids; probably grandparents, too. And if A Matter of Time leaves you wanting a little more in the tortured poets department, well, there are enough signs here (e.g. the Bernard Herrmann meets George Crumb outbursts on “Sabotage”) that it isn’t outside Laufey’s wheelhouse.
