It’s not that Pure Bathing Culture sought out the late ’80s; it’s more like the sounds of those years beckoned them in. In the years since 2015’s Pray for Rain, the Portland duo recorded a full-length cover of the Blue Nile’s 1989 LP Hats. But after being dropped from their label, they crash-landed in the studio with songs for Night Pass already written. They questioned their next steps. They probably pulled tarot cards. Instead of going quietly into the night, they enlisted producer Tucker Martine (R.E.M., My Morning Jacket) and roared back at the void with glossy, grandiose certainty.
Where previous releases dabbled in heady synths or ’60s pop jangle, layering Sarah Versprille’s vocals in folds of reverb, Night Pass’ production is fine-tipped and meticulous. Its snares seem to land a little heavier; its grooves exude a bit more urgency. Underpinning the languid ’80s guitar lines are lyrics that hint at desperation: “Dark nights and blackest dreams, when nothing’s ever as it seems, and you are all alone,” Versprille sings on standout track “All Night.” Pure Bathing Culture juxtapose the highs with the lows, packaging distress as euphoria. The album does its most interesting work on songs like “Moonrise” and “Thin Growing Thing,” where Versprille wails, “Do you want to take it higher?,” as if in homage to Steve Winwood’s 1986 hit “Higher Love.” At its best, Night Pass flaunts the sounds that might have embarrassed you in your dad’s station wagon: the noodly electrified riffs of Fleetwood Mac’s Tango in the Night or the earnest soulfulness of Peter Gabriel’s So.
The album’s imagery relies on nature, the night sky, and mysticism, the lyrical equivalent of a shop stocked with lumpy ceramics and letterpress cards. “Black Starling” drops references to both wands and pentacles, and the rest of the album reads like a gemology guide—within 10 short tracks, there’s mention of peridot, obsidian, selenite, and diamond. “Joyous Lake” opens with zodiac sign pairings. The faddish references shimmer out unexpectedly, like broken glass catching light on the sidewalk, and their niche referentiality limits the songs’ potency.
But those quirks aren’t enough to derail a record with such velocity. The album’s greatest triumph is its brashness, the way it flouts despair with a wall of nostalgic, over-the-top sound. Notions of commitment—to an idea, a person, or music in general—are propelled by baroque swells of vocals and guitar, and Versprille’s earnest voice belting, “Darling devotion, you know it’s all we can do.”
