Trying to fit all of Daryl Johns’ influences into one box is a daunting task. Among the many inspirations for his self-titled debut album, he’s cited “Jessie’s Girl” and “Baba O’Riley”; emo and Hüsker Dü; Fast Times at Ridgemont High; the ’60s, ’80s, and the hair, specifically, of the ’70s; burgers, shakes, and fries; and Mickey Mouse. To try to make sense of it all is to be a hapless Tony Montana standing before the mountain of blow on his desk, muttering, “We gotta get organized here.” Good luck with all that.
Daryl Johns began a decade ago as a series of unreleased songs when Johns, a classically trained upright bass player and jazz prodigy, got sick of playing standards and started noodling around with different genres, “quilting pop melodies together in a maximalist way,” as he puts it. And after signing with friend and famous chiller Mac DeMarco’s label, Johns began experimenting with his own offbeat takes on indie rock. But it would be remiss to mistake the sum for its parts; Daryl Johns is no pastiche, instead creating its own sprawling universe of loosey-goosey, feel-good jaunts. Painting modern landscapes in retro strokes, the album’s sound is uniquely fresh yet familiar in a million different directions.
Lead single “I’m So Serious” is the most synth-pop-inspired song on the album. In the neon-drenched music video, Johns leans full-tilt into MTV-style Americana, shredding in front of a Mel’s Drive-In (another inspiration he’s named: “diner rock”). While clever and definitely a banger, “I’m So Serious” is also the album’s most literal song, preferring to rehash its influences rather than delve into something stranger. Still, the winkingly self-referential lyrics in the bridge seem to serve as a sweeping introduction to the whole album: “Hit the EQ,” he yelps through the fourth wall. “Now ride the volume.”
Through the rest of the album, we learn that eclecticism is Johns’ chief strength. In “Barbecue in the Sun” and “Friends Forever,” he melds ’80s textures with ’60s pop forms, reverbing the hell out of his layered, DIY-Ronettes vocals. His fragmented lyrics evoke bits and pieces of roller-rink nostalgia—never outlining a clear scene, but creating vivid, blurry flashes of the fleeting moments before the lights come up. No wonder he’s described the album’s sound as “TV jingle memories.”
On the instrumentals (five out of 14; seven, if you count monosyllabic vocals as an instrument—and the way he writes them, I would), Johns gets to flex his jazz virtuosity more clearly while still maintaining the album’s carefree vibe. There are complex time signatures, modulations through the roof, a genuinely impressive number of solo showcases in which he plays no fewer than four instruments. But these songs don’t just highlight technical proficiency; they guide us through the album’s sweeping backdrop, the way a quirky setting informs the wackiness of its characters. Johns often renders the tones of each instrument as synthily as possible, zhuzhing up classic jazz foundations with an arcade-game sheen; the Tommy Bahama swing of “Crash” serves as a perfect example, evoking a Wii Sports Resort groove if the Mii community had more steez. And on more uptempo songs like “Palermo,” punchy, frenetic drums propel us into Mario Kart fervor.
The album’s weakest points are still decent but feel somewhat desaturated in comparison, as if Johns is only half committing to certain references while keeping the rest at full blast. On “Golden Showers,” the interpolation of Ariel Pink’s “Only in My Dreams” plods along to mostly forgettable effect; the song picks up steam in the few moments when Johns loosens up a bit, playing with tempo switches and key changes, but ultimately returns to a fingerpicked motif that seems to drone by the song’s end. His cover of DeMarco’s “Let Her Go” leans into Smiths-passing jangle (down to Marr-like guitar and a Morrisseyan la la la refrain), and though significantly more upbeat and carefree than the original, it still feels limited in comparison to the rest of the album. They’re good enough, but they feel insular rather than expansive.
Still, Daryl Johns is a fabulous feel-good album. And while Johns has described it as “motivational,” the record leans more toward visceral emotion than the wax-coated positivity of arena-rock anthems, feeling more like a dap than a fist pump. Daryl Johns isn’t an array of influences cobbled together simply to show his range, but an invitation from Johns to share the wide, intricate world of everything he loves. His conscious, unabashed embrace of all-American gloss, tropes, and even artifice ultimately reads driven by curiosity, rather than consumption—an atlas for navigating the Vibe, for discovering new reflections to smile into. “Necessary, imitary,” as he succinctly puts it: “It is imaginary/It is in my heart.”
