Straight Poppy Grunge That Takes on Its Own Personality

If one’s to look at the cover of Will Epstein’s latest album, Wendy, they’ll notice the profound melancholy of the artist, the black-and-white hue to the art that makes it feel all the more depressing. Epstein addresses all with never-before-heard vocals, and characteristics that take his listeners along paths never before walked upon. 

All throughout, the songs work with their singer, the one delivering their lyrics, forming a harmonious whole out of the music and the artist. While there isn’t too much excitement, one cannot deny Epstein’s mastery over melodies. And if Jimi Hendrix has recently spent some time away from the grave, it’s likely he might’ve paid Epstein a visit in the studio, devilishly whispering to him instructions about how to make the guitar work in mischievously wondrous ways; it’s present on each track, saving some in the process. 

Consider “Suddenly Rain.” Light on all-powerful instruments and accompanied by lots of moaning, all is grim, conveying gothic vibes. Which is exactly what is demanded of the audience, that every track be seen as a world of its own, something completely new to existence. But seeing things in that way comes as a tall order, since the album as a whole already requires one to run a marathon to witness the creative spice. For example, the exhausting drums are in shambles, abandoning everything else. 

“Way Down in Stockholm” is cold and pluvial. This track asks one to envision its being solemnly spoken in a dim poetry lounge, because the imagery of that stool under the signature lone spotlight is entirely visible. There’s scheming and plotting, the music having something up its sleeve, but it’s a bit unimaginative. It leaves listeners with an underwhelming farewell, too, Epstein singing, “Goodbye to all the sunshine.” Therefore, imagery and lyrics alone are not helpful saviors here, and that sunshine truly is missed. 

“Thunder Dub” itself, unironically, starting with the sounds of unseen rain, many songs are assisted by storms of jazz, which might be surprising for some. Each time they abuse the earth here, though, instead of being completely destructive, they’re welcome, but are still just not enough to capture nuance. 

“Oyster Bay” and “Golden” are clearly seeking snaps at those aforementioned poetry lounges. The former hits listeners with smooth and steady flows, while the latter is sentimental and explosive, with a guitar raring to beat the system. 

Overall, regarding themes, all is lamentable, somber and solemn. But due to a lack of progressive ingenuity, the album itself is quite tedious. A dearth of variety kills off any chance of favoritism for this one, and that, considering the sadness of the music, might be the most tragic part about Will Epstein’s Wendy.