Thunder rattles through the ending of 070 Shake’s tormented album opening, ‘Sin’. It’s a moment ushered in by subdued vocals, pummelling drums and electric guitar, almost like a reinvented classic Queen ballad to a power rock anthem. Suddenly, the piano dissipates, the storm passes and a quiet child-like voice beckons you in (“ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my show!”) against a whirring background of ethereal electronica. It’s here, Shake’s love-laden space odyssey-style storytelling begins.
‘Petrichor’ borrows its cinematic quality from late ’90s avant-garde thrillers, a foray into sounds that are tightly curated and beautifully direct. Imagine Wong Kar-wai’s Fallen Angels within the sci-fi world-building of Steven Lisberger’s Tron. Songs oscillate between fraught longings of loneliness and queer love (“You’re my reflection / How could I break you,” she sings on ‘Pieces of You’) to ‘Vagabond’ where she urges a lover to “give into the consequence of letting me in”.
Taking from the project title – meaning the musky, earthy smell of rain – the album flows, adding layers to build its own texture, scent and sonic palette. However, Shake’s weather-filled throughline doesn’t always hold strong. At times, her experimental playbook feels a little too loose, with songs like ‘Winter Baby x New Jersey Blues’ and ‘Song To The Siren’ feeling like wayside adjuncts.
Album standout ‘Blood On Your Hands’, which features emotionally charged spoken word poetry from Lily-Rose Depp, serves as the soul of the record. It’s a space where Shake is openly anxious, dramatised and fearful. She caves into her vulnerabilities and desires, vocalising the extent of her limitless love, confessing: “If I die, I want you to be the one to kill me / I want my blood on your hands.”
The singer’s unfiltered admissions and intricate production are the saviours of ‘Petrichor’, even if the lyrics themselves fall short at times. But with album closer ‘Love’, Shake reclaims her tenacious style. Over intentionally heavy-handed Auto-Tune and distorted guitar, she transports listeners into a grand rock-studded goodbye. It rolls out like a love-loaded voicemail you’d leave a partner, one that you’d hope to play alongside your favourite sapphic indie film.
Shake has long shared an affinity with the emotional, whether on her genre-blending soulful debut ‘Modus Vivendi’, or carving out philosophical raps on her second album, ‘You Can’t Kill Me’. Yet, on ‘Petrichor’, this intensity can feel overbearing, like a fiery energy shot that overstays its welcome, while Shake’s lyricism doesn’t always cut as close as we know it can. It’s an album that, at times, feels eaten by its ambition. While her words don’t always deliver, ‘Petrichor’ stands best when her emotionality and innovative soundscape take hold.
