On Pool Kids’ self-titled 2022 album, the Tallahassee quartet juxtaposed its love of math rock, ’00s pop-punk, and post-hardcore with genuinely funny musings about group chats and performative narcissists. The result was slick enough for an opening slot with indie-pop trio Beach Bunny but raw enough for a tour with post-hardcore group La Dispute. So where to next? The band naturally put pressure on itself to recreate the exuberant, hooky energy of its breakthrough, reuniting with producer Mike Vernon Davis and spending a grueling five weeks recording and re-arranging songs.
The result, Easier Said Than Done, offers clear evidence of this lengthy process: while not as pristine as the self-titled, their debut record for Epitaph is much denser, often overwhelming. For the album’s 11 tracks, we are trapped inside Goodwyne’s head as she navigates the grief of touring and the ghosts of old friendships. This is an album that fears a vacuum—one where every second is crammed with heavily processed vocal overdubs and synths. It’s not the first time the band has experimented in the studio. But if Pool Kids was eager to please, its follow-up is knowingly desperate to hold listeners’ attention—and that’s exactly why it’s more compelling. Easier Said Than Done is a weirder, proudly overworked record, made more interesting for its imperfections.
Pool Kids clearly put a lot of care into these songs, to the point where their sound mirrors the lyrics’ neurosis: “Leona Street” doesn’t need those spacey delay throws, nor does “Not Too Late” need reversed vocals, but that’s part of the freedom that comes with five weeks in the studio. The title track sounds like it’s building to a giant belt the way songs like Pool Kids highlight “Swallow” did, but here, the moment of catharsis is buried in a cascade of disembodied intrusive thoughts: “I’m not gonna change, I’m never gonna change,” “Don’t tell me next time/It’s the right time,” “Let me down easily,” “Hear! Me! Now!” The whole band joins in on the chaos throughout the record, as when drummer Caden Clinton and bassist Nicolette Alvarez carry on the band’s early math-rock spirit by constantly shifting the groove every other section. Clinton in particular is more kinetic than ever, his restless rim clicks and cymbal washes elevating midtempo songs like “Last Word” that threaten to retread old territory.
These songs are noticeably darker, though not without some levity, like the way Goodwyne draws out the word “dead” (as in “over my dead body”) on the unusually 1975-like “Sorry Not Sorry.” But instead of songs about, say, subtweets, the band opts for thornier explorations of disintegrating relationships under the weight of tour life and general adulthood. Plenty of bands have sung about missing important events while on tour, but the way Goodwyne spits lines like “For Christmas Eve, I’ll make a big plan/Then I’ll spend it in a black Dodge Caravan” on “Tinted Windows” makes those frustrations feel visceral. Just before recording, Goodwyne received an OCD diagnosis, and she’s said the lyrics on this record draw from “fixations that my OCD latches on to.” You might hear it when she blows up mundane thoughts into full-on crises, like the deceptively laid back “Not Too Late,” where an unusually breathy performance and Clinton’s restrained groove capture the allure of an emotional affair.
“Dani” is the album’s best track—Pool Kids’ most explosive song to date, it verges on post-rock. Clinton’s drumming is slower; Goodwyne and guitarist Andrew Anaya indulge in reverb pedals; and Alvarez’s playing is more understated until the band finally lets loose halfway through the song. Even the requisite twinkling guitar lines are distorted. Goodwyne recalls an intense childhood friendship with another girl: “Under the covers, you whisper like there’s somebody there/You’ll only tell me if I pinky swear.” She then laments “I trusted you”; the lyric’s lack of specificity suggests something too painful to bring up from someone whose lyrics so often overshare.
Even if Goodwyne didn’t set out to write “an OCD record,” rumination seems to impact every facet of the album, with songs that capture what it’s like to live with the disorder in both their form and content. Throughout, there’s a sense of longing for a consistent connection, and a feeling of being at the mercy of a brain that’s unwilling to let things go: “I wanna stay in my lane/Just don’t know how to,” Goodwyne cries on “Bad Bruise” as she instigates something she knows is toxic, then begs for empathy on the chorus. Yet she delivers that chorus with a theatrical sneer—proof that underneath the grief, angst, and new sonic explorations, Pool Kids haven’t lost sight of the power of irreverence.
