(Sandy) Alex G - Rocket

The Quietus

Right in the middle of (Sandy) Alex G’s new album Rocket, the chorus of ‘Sportstar’ repeats the words “I play how I wanna play; I say what I wanna say.” It’s a sentiment that perfectly describes the 23-year-old Philadelphian’s astonishingly prolific output; spanning all the way back to 2010’s RACE and a myriad of self-released singles and EPs, Alex Giannascoli has always written with authenticity.

An artist who managed to turn Bandcamp popularity into a major label deal, Giannascoli has never steered from his narrative of the contemporary experience. But like the greats he is often compared to – Elliott Smith and Sparklehorse – there’s a darkened humour, a wink and a nudge beneath these vulnerable assertions that, rather than deterring from the subject at hand, makes them all the more human.

Upon introducing Rocket, Giannascoli shared a changed name, adding (Sandy) to his alias, as well as singles ‘Bobby’ and ‘Witch’ – two juxtaposing songs with one evoking pop-sensibilities and country-twangs while the other proved a dexterous excursion of mystical instrumentation, with a sombre pessimism at its heart. While they’re both markedly different from each other, they’re undeniably the work of Giannascoli – bold experiments in what it means to release an indie-rock song in 2017.

This exploration harnesses an album that demonstrates a diversity in textures and approach which, at times, proves dysfunctional and jarring but ultimately rewarding. As far as its intent goes, Giannascoli is meticulous in his narrative, spanning a wealth of different characters and environments that bring forth vivid imagery and poignant reflection. From the prisoner on ‘County’ to the little girl on ‘Alina’, Giannascoli crafts their stories with an acute awareness – first approaching them with a masterly sensitivity before broaching them with an uncomfortable truth. Perhaps the best example of this is the biting u-turn on ‘Proud’, as the lines “I wanna be a star like you/Wanna make something that’s true” suddenly becomes, “I wanna be a fake like you” – Giannascoli is unafraid of emotional confrontation, whether that be with himself, his character or the listener.

This kind of blunt lyricism runs throughout Rocket, with the more tentative stories attached to the subdued instrumentation of songs like ‘Judge’ – all mellow bass lines and quietened percussion – or ‘Powerful Man’, with its simple, repetitive guitar plucks and honeyed string accompaniment, that allows their vulnerability to take the spotlight. It isn’t all hushed and delicate though, with the unnerving escapades of tracks ‘Horse’ and ‘Brick’. The glitchy, almost-harrowing instrumentation of ‘Horse’ sounds like it came straight out of a video-game boss level, with the intense angst of ‘Brick’ providing a grating, punk thrust of spitting vocals and a distorted, throbbing turbulence of thwacks and bangs. The eerie, playground-like vocal delivery of “I know that you’re lying” makes for a particularly unsettling listen.

There’s also the almost humorous aspects of final track ‘Guilty’, with its organ swells, loose percussion, sax solos and jam-like arrangement that markedly deters from the accusatory tone of its lyrics. “Is the truth trapped, behind iron lock and key?” he asks. “Have you buried all the evidence of, what you used to be?” 

The sonic juxtaposition throughout Rocket proves Giannascoli to be a dynamically playful yet focused songwriter, who manages to encompass what it means to be human – be it beautiful or perplexing, frightening or exhilarating. It’s worth noting that while the peripatetic nature of Rocket is something that Giannascoli has been doing throughout his catalogue – most notably on 2015’s Beach Music – Rocket was the first album where he truly welcomed collaboration. Known for writing, playing and producing albums alone, Rocket sees touring band members Samuel Acchione and John Heywood contribute guitar and bass, both soloing on ‘County’; Samuel’s brother Colin playing bass; Emily Yacina adding harmonious vocal texture to ‘Bobby’ and ‘Alina’ and Molly Germer providing violin and vocals throughout. 

It’s perhaps this collaborative approach that allowed Giannascoli to explore so many different sonic styles, in ways that are unsteady and loose but relentless in their determination to create an album that depicts the complexities of our collective experience. Rather than offering the right answer, his unassuming nature allows Rocket to really sink under the skin, urging us to focus on the peripheries rather than the tunnel vision we’re so often fed. The raw and at times, ferocious navigation of the album soars in its earnest delivery and marks a career-defining release for (Sandy) Alex G

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Pitchfork 84

In a sense, singer/songwriter Alex Giannascoli is the modern ideal for an indie rock throwback. The frequent comparisons with Elliott Smith or Sparklehorse are legitimate, but mostly regarding his recording process: Every production decision—whether double-tracking vocals or close-mic’ing the guitars—creates the assumption of intimacy, recalling an earlier time when instrumental or monetary limitations necessitated ingenuity. But he records on a laptop rather than a 4-track, and he was an early example of a songwriter leveraging a strong Bandcamp presence into a deal with a high-profile imprint, in his case, Domino. Beach Music, his first album for his new label, was a gorgeous and puzzling release that gained esteem throughout 2015, but it seemed determined to offer continuity with his scruffy early work rather than to serve as any kind of break out. Rocket, a record that first feels oddly soldered together, is in a sense the album that Beach Music wanted to be, the most comprehensive and accessible document of a diffuse catalog.

Even the newfound stylistic hooks here are slippery things. Singles “Proud” and “Bobby” are rootsy in an unfamiliar way—there’s twang, fiddle, yearning harmonies, a duet with fellow Philadelphian singer/songwriter Emily Yacina, and the broad influence of Lucinda Williams. Otherwise, Rocket’s Americana is cobbled together from the junkyards scoured by experimentalists like Califone; “Poison Root” and “Alina” in particular imagine if “The Orchids” spawned an entire subgenre of backwoods psychedelia. There’s some eyebrow-raising Auto-Tune on the queasy piano ballad “Sportstar” and “Brick” is a welcome reminder of the evocative, hard-edged screams of his live show, though the overall experience is a little like hearing a Show Me the Body gig from outside the venue.

Though the sonic diversions on Rocket are the most ephemeral draws, they provide immediate access points and a means of providing distance from a simple archetype. Both Alex G’s falsetto and the cocktail jazz arrangement of “County” obscure how its title references a gnarly prison scene. The narrator, “locked up for nothing/stealing or something” sits next to bloody wall, courtesy of a seemingly quiet kid who swallowed two bags of heroin and a razor blade. “Hey, why don’t you write that into a song/Your fans will dig that,” an officer snarks after Alex sings, “See, I got stories.” It’s unclear whether “see” is meant as an interjection or a response to the prevailing image of him as someone who goes out of his way to deflect any sort of attention or self-disclosure. How would your opinion of Alex G change if “County” was about him? Entire album narratives have been framed on lesser stories.

It’s unclear how much of Rocket is autobiographical—the closer one leans into these songs, the more they confound the first assumption. “Proud” and “Sportstar” can be instantaneously read as rock ‘n’ jock archetypes if that’s what you want to use them for. When “I wanna be a star like you/Wanna make something that’s true” becomes, “I wanna be a fake like you” on “Proud,” it’s easy enough to take Alex G literally considering his touchy relationship with the press. But it’s just as likely that he’s being sarcastic, maybe about himself, maybe about the truthful nature of alt-country. That might initially seem the case when he sings, “Let me play on your team/I’m clean” on “Sportstar,” but every seemingly plainspoken lyric thereafter takes on a tone of anger, then self-hatred and emotions that are much more unsettling (“In the back of my car/Could you hit me too hard?/You’re scarred”) for their inability to be defined or described.

Rocket isn’t unknowable or obtuse, just indirect—more willing to get under the skin or tug on an ear than hit directly on the nose. This kind of purposeful restraint can feel damn near novel in the current day, as efforts to illuminate the artistic process becomes its own kind of oppression—so many of Alex G’s peers feel the need to issue statements outlining the meaning behind any given song and album releases feel like the endpoint of an exhausting cycle of content creation rather than a start of a meaningful relationship. “The reason you enjoy music is because of its unlimited potential, the inability to really understand it,” he offered in a recent interview, and that’s projection to a certain degree. Sometimes, there really is no substitute for the revelations that come when an artist unlocks the mysteries of their work. But it’s certainly the reason why Rocket feels like one of the year’s most endlessly generous records, as Alex G’s restraint is our gift that keeps on giving.

The Guardian 80

(Domino)

Before his parenthesised semi-rebrand, the prolific artist formerly known as Alex G had released seven albums of Pavement-influenced lo-fi bedroom indie that, although patchy, had plenty of instances of songwriting gold. Rocket, however, is a disappointment. While there’s an easy-going charm to Proud and Guilty, and galloping instrumental Horse is pleasingly unhinged, for the most part these songs are frustratingly gossamer-light, drifting out of the consciousness almost as soon as they end. Not even the scattershot approach to genre, wherein delicately plucked instrumental Rocket sits alongside the uncompromising hardcore punk stylings of Brick and the pitch-shifted soft-rock of Sportstar, can rescue an album that ultimately sounds curiously disengaged.

The Guardian 80

(Domino)

Amid the many major names on Frank Ocean’s Blonde – the Beatles, Jonny Greenwood, Beyoncé – one credit stuck out as conspicuously low-key: Philadelphian 24-year-old Alex G, now with his (Sandy) prefix, was a natural fit for the album’s introverted, explorative textures. His eighth record is as dysfunctional as the R&B star’s album, establishing him as a truly dexterous songwriter: there are echoes of Lilys, Battles, Death Grips, grunge and soft rock. The sinister clattering of Horse and Sportstar recalls Animal Collective, Bobby channels Avi Buffalo and the wizened country of Proud positions him as a kind of Cass McCombs protege. It is at times unpleasant, but Rocket has no ambitions to score a dinner party. The frantic interchanging of emotions – like the internal monologue of someone with a hellish hangover at ATP in 2009 – is a challenging, ambitious progression.