Upon initial listen, Precipice, the new album from indie powerhouse Indigo De Souza, feels almost mannered. Any Shape You Take, her 2021 breakout, was a raw nerve of musicality, every song threatening to erupt into emotional violence and pitch-shattering vocal lacerations, as though she were cutting through pop music’s standard build-release-repeat by opening up a vein—all release, all the time. It was almost too cathartic. And while 2023’s All Of This Will End started to make inroads to a more overt pop direction (while also covering a more sonically diverse array of sounds and styles), the electronic drum beats and synthesizers came across like friendly overtures toward a groove-friendly palette, previously considered too slick to capture such jagged feelings. A greater balance of sweet with the sour, in other words.
And in making an even more decisive pivot towards accessible songwriting and pleasing melodies, the artist has entered what could now be reasonably considered a full-on pop phase. But unlike so many before her, who traded out distortion and raw production values for too-sunny synths and clean, commercial-ready smoothness—losing what made them distinctive in the process—De Souza has found the musical sweet spot between authenticity and accessibility. The songs on Precipice are less rough, to be sure; there are times her voice is so controlled and steady, you almost wonder if this is the same person who descended into literal shrieks on Any Shape You Take’s “Real Pain.” To wit: Opener “Be My Love” finds her delivering a classic romantic come-hither, before rising into falsetto in a series of notes so precise, she sounds like, well, a pop singer.
But then, before the second round of rapidly rising notes and the repeated mantra, “This is not the end, it’s not the end, it’s not the end” (a reprieve of the finality promised by the last album title?), you hear it: The little hitch in her voice, the grain of sandpaper shaving off otherwise typical precision at the end of a line, that reminds you you’re listening to someone who would rather set a song on fire than sacrifice emotional intensity on the altar of singing it “right.” De Souza never lets well enough alone, and that’s what has always made her music great. She knows standard-issue hitting-the-notes-and-beats perfection, the expected results, is boring; and her voice, always her greatest weapon, is there to rip apart such wannabe-pop-star blandishments.
It’s a fitting tactic for someone who has, by any accounting, made an album that vaults her out of indie rock and firmly into the ranks of pop singer, albeit one with a perpetual sui generis edge. Hear the bouncy immediacy of “Crying Over Nothing,” a track which employs the tinniest and sunniest of synth melodies, pairs it with a heartbroken evocation of loss, and see if it doesn’t make the listener want to dance through the whole damn thing—Taylor Swift, eat your heart out. Or take the robo-pop groove of “Crush,” fusing a downbeat europop mood to a giddy celebration of lust, and check if it doesn’t stand alongside any classic Tegan and Sara-style midtempo bop of the past decade. These are songs that wouldn’t sound out of place in a disreputable dive bar jukebox or a viral TikTok dance craze.
And the hits just keep on coming. “Be Like The Water” offers up a meditative rumination on darkness and loss, as a minimalist rhythm-section thump gives up spare pops of arpeggiated synths and keyboards. “Heartthrob,” the most hard-charging track on the record and a scorching indictment of guys more than happy to take advantage, approaches pop-punk levels of exuberance while still maintaining a grounded edge and a ripping De Souza vocal. And “Pass It By” harnesses ‘80s-style synths to a thin but pounding drum beat for a borderline anthemic testament to the difficult but worthwhile task of living itself. (Shades of Tegan and Sara, again, perhaps?)
When the album slows it down, there are newfound moments of beautiful understatement, as De Souza pulls back, skillfully utilizing a less-is-more approach that nicely complements her usual bombast. The piano and spacey flourishes of “Dinner” make for a simple stunner, pure sentiments channeled effectively (“Is there anything better than just knowing you’re safe?”). “Heartbreaker,” almost a stately riposte to “Crush” in its lamentation of the end of the same relationship that previously birthed such hopefulness, manages to give tragedy its most polished, elegant sheen—her version of a soulful Natalie Merchant tune. But when the record opens up into “Not Afraid” and the title track—twin attempts to reckon with fork-in-the-road moments of seeing life at its darkest and refusing to let go of hope—you get Indigo De Souza at her finest: employing pop conventions while still keeping the arrangements and musicality strange enough, ethereal enough… really, her enough. It ensures the warping of her ferocity threads through the beautiful, keeping it from drifting into placidity, stubbornly insisting on weirdness and individuality as a precondition of greatness. Mission accomplished.
Alex McLevy is a critic based in Chicago. His writing has appeared in numerous publications including The A.V. Club, The Nation, Punk Planet, and more.
