In the summer of 2012, after releasing her debut LP Yours Truly, Cellophane Nose, singer-songwriter Beth Jeans Houghton suffered a nervous breakdown, scrapped an entire album, and devised a new plan of attack. She plotted a drastic reinvention and arranged sessions with producers who would nod along with glazed expressions before layering on Auto-Tune and ornamental synths in the studio. Exasperated, Houghton turned to nefarious Bad Seed Jim Sclavunos, impressed by his yen for psych bands like Lemon Pipers and Ultimate Spinach, and developed her classic-rock chops. Then, just before hitting the studio, Houghton eviscerated the work, wrote two new tracks, and rebuilt, once more, from the ground up.
The result of the triple-distillation process is Welcome Back to Milk, a radical musical and psychological inversion of its predecessor. Where Cellophane Nose sketched an alluring wonderland, the follow-up finds Houghton, now working as Du Blonde, fierce and firm, assertive enough to know when to keep us away, at a distance that suits her. In the sense that it strives less to be pretty than honest, the album is about growing out of preconceived social roles. Cellophane Nose was a resplendent work of odyssey and intricacy, a feature some critics couldn’t untangle from her femininity: In a short paragraph, the Guardian review describes its "airy, fairytale quality," observes one song "skipping delicately" and compares another to "fellow sprite Alison Goldfrapp." Perhaps Houghton took it to heart.
So Welcome Back to Milk skews primal. The debut’s ukulele, harp, glockenspiel, and Wurlitzer are all out, along with any "nu folk" threads; in their place are Stones R&B rhythms, doomed Sabbath licks, blistering Cali-punk, and a primitive kind of glam–the most flamboyant instrument Houghton employs is the voice of Future Islands' Samuel T. Herring, who makes a lovelorn, pantomime-villain cameo on "Mind Is on My Mind". But if a picture is forming of barren blasts and ruthless efficiency, that’s not quite it: "Four in the Morning" is a wrenching piano ballad, "Isn’t It Wild" waltzes dreamily to the stars, "Hunter" concedes tenderness for an ex-lover. Still, what’s important is that the record feels fierce, is designed to, and Houghton has pulled no punches in spreading the word.
The record’s opening brace alone leaves you dazed throughout the first half: "Black Flag" acts out both sides of a lovers’ spat over stormy guitars, while "Chips to Go" thunders along on a devilish, Sparks-like riff as Houghton yells and trills theatrically. Third track "Raw Honey" simmers, but despite being resolutely unpunk (a frilly guitar solo consumes one-third of its runtime) the fingerpicked hook is so inescapably reminiscent of Californication-era Red Hot Chili Peppers it’s tempting to hear a pass-agg kiss off to Houghton’s ex-beau Anthony Kiedis.
The men of Welcome Back to Milk fare about as well as you’d expect, which is not very. On Cellophane Nose’s "Atlas", Houghton sat with her boyfriend "dissecting the atlas for places we’ve been/ Your list is longer, but you’ve got more years on me." Here, that sort of homey affection would feel jarring: Domesticity has become a battleground where partners pick fights ("If You’re Legal"), polish their egos ("After the Show") and mansplain your "issues" ("Hard to Please"). On "Young Entertainment", a shimmering noir-punk number, she demands, "What is it like to fuck your mistress with her hands tied?"
Welcome Back to Milk scans as an overhaul of its protagonist’s romantic history, a poised reassessment of domestic situations that seemed okay at the time, but maybe weren’t the best, after all. Wherever her gaze turns, Houghton’s conviction is lethal. On "Mr. Hyde", she shreds a domineering narcissist to pieces; on "Four in the Morning", she shreds herself to pieces; on "Black Flag", she simply shreds. This all serves a winning mission statement: Radically reinterpret your past, and your present will look after itself.
