Album Review: Tessa Rose Jackson – The Lighthouse

Another day, another achingly tender singer-songwriter record.

Tessa Rose Jackson released her first album under her own name in January after putting out three albums as Someone. The Dutch-British artist’s eponymous turn marks a shift from gauzy dream-pop to finger-picked existential wondering.

The Lighthouse is for the poets and the self-diagnosed sensitive. The title track lays a foundation of lilting whispers, while the following songs add streaks of, unexpectedly, moody Broadway. A striking Spring Awakening sensibility emerges, with even flecks of—is that—Hamilton?

That tracks. The album aims to be a deep dive into the reality of mortality but often lands like a crystal shop regular holding court at a bonfire. Lyrics such as “In the air an unstruck chord,” “Where are we gonna go when we die” and “The body knows what the mind rejects, tell me where are we gonna be after this?” carry weight without dimension.

It has all the heaviness of those horny singing German teens, but none of the state repression, culminating in a self-seriousness not backed by real insight or risk. That becomes a recurring issue. “The Bricks That Make the Building” evokes Madison Cunningham, without her rocker’s winking detachment. The following track, “Dawn,” mercifully picks up the tempo and introduces a bit of groove, but its playful woodwinds only emphasize the lack of seductive swing when compared to its analogue, Clairo’s Charm. “Fear Bangs the Drum,” meanwhile, echoes Hayley Williams’ solo work. As even those records demonstrate—beloved as they may be—triteness can creep in. This track is all pat, no Paramore.

Lest the cottagecore contingent come for blood, there are redeeming moments here, particularly for listeners who leave their journals open in public places. “When Your Time Comes” leans sultrier, benefiting from a clapping effect that injects energy and recalls Marian Hill. “Dawn” mounts a disco ball in the forest for a witchy, Nicks-ian moment. January, too, is the right season for this inward-looking record, as is nighttime, played aloud rather than through headphones.

Acoustic introspection is a risky endeavor. With grit and command, internal reckoning can produce Joni Mitchell’s Blue or Cunningham’s Revealer. Without them, it risks feeling like being cornered at a free-verse open mic.