Before Thomas Arsenault even had a note of music available online, he turned eyes and ears with gripping, show-stealing solo performances while opening for Deerhunter in 2013. He appeared to fit the new archetype for super-sincere singer-songwriters, hunched over synths rather than an acoustic guitar, forgoing stationary strumming for something as emotive physically as it is vocally. The elite in this small class all have a defining characteristic that comes close to being a superpower—Tom Krell's facility with R&B, James Blake's composure, Autre Ne Veut's dramatic flair, and so forth.
Arsenault's persona is still predicated on him really meaning every word he says. His dominant mode is aerobic '80s synth-pop reshot in HD, overlain by vocals that are confrontational in either a hypothermic quaver or a full-chested bellow. Arsenault shuttles between these two poles during his major-label debut Seraph, though it never seems as if he's trying to skew one way or the other. Therein lies its appeal, the way it feels both exhausting and unplanned, one guy speaking his truth directly and on impulse.
Seraph doesn't feel quite as singular as 2014's Worth EP—the vocal volatility and disorienting dynamics that distinguished "Shame" are portioned out to individual tracks and there is no longer a clear distinction between "proper songs" and shorter "interludes". But what Seraph forfeits in immediate impact is compensated for with range. Arsenault proves adept in a number of styles—zero-gravity M83 balladry ("Sick"), a surprising turn towards mid-'00s drum-circle indie ("Running"), and a pounding EDM instrumental that actually provides relief at Seraph's center. There are also a handful of coed duets that provide welcome contrast and perspective—Hundred Waters' Nicole Miglis guests on the dramatic split-screen soliloquy of "Gun", whereas the back-and-forth of "I Have Some" is as close as Seraph gets to unabashed fun.
Seraph might be shifty, but Arsenault still works with blunt force. The opening title track barely has a melody, both Arsenault's voice and a thick synth shuddering like they're initiates of the Polar Bear Club. The spellbinding intensity is maintained on "Margarita", a plainspoken, heavenward plea for his mother to not die on him. He is a maximalist singer and a minimal lyricist, his words so terse and direct that when they hit awkwardly, they also do so loudly. This works against the lullabies which should provide the greatest impact—the grass is cut and so the gawky snake metaphors show on "Garden" and while the closing "Don't Make" is clearly heartfelt, it's too pushy to be touching.
"Suffer" is the most aggressive and the most memorable track, and it's possible these two things are correlated. The song fuses the clenched-fist, down-strummed acoustic-electric guitars and leatherette drum pads of Twin Shadow's Confess with lyrics that read like a shitfaced text message —"I don't want another one/ I don't wanna learn nobody's touch/ She won't want to drink this much/ Fuck her," Arsenault biting down hard enough on the last two syllables to draw blood from his tongue.
Arsenault has said that he's "not proud of the person in that song" and every time I hear it, I admire his audacity for even including it on Seraph. The mental state of "Suffer" is embarrassing and horrifying and Arsenault wisely forgoes any sort of apology or justification: Being in touch with your emotions doesn't mean you get to choose how you feel at all times, after all. Even if it's not a very healthy place to be for over four minutes, everyone has likely been there. And that appears to speak most emphatically to Seraph's aim—it doesn't intend to take you places, but rather to get inside your head and stun you right where you stand.
