Written by Spike Sidor

VALENTINE

Snail Mail Valentine Review Album Cover

SNAIL MAIL

2021 INDIE-ROCK/SINGER-SONGWRITER 

Valentine is the second full length studio record from American indie sensation Lindsey Jordan who sings for your satisfaction as Snail Mail. Even at only twenty-two Jordan has been at it for years, dropping a debut album in 2018 with performances and recordings dating back further than that. My discovery was in this before time, she opened for some tonally dissimilar punks at a DIY venue with no stage, just a kid with noticeable anxiety trying her best. I didn’t think about the set for months, yet another femme rocker whimpering out tales of love and loss, then she signed to a major label, headlined venues many times the size of where I saw her, and now she’s a guest on national late night television.

There’s quite a few reasons for this meteoric rise, principally of which is the popularity of her prior release Pristine. A good first effort, the songwriting is super sharp but its failings lie in its sound. Snail Mail makes simple music in one of the most worked in genres with a voice that could be any of the countless femmes with fenders, crooning in their bedrooms. But with a strong head for penning tunes it seemed like she only needed to find a unique style, or maybe maturing what she was already working with then boom, great stuff should follow. The promise of blossoming never materializes on Valentine, and if you are hoping for Snail Mail to maintain the level of quality that doesn’t happen either, this is a clear step back. The style is largely the same, innocuous indie with bouncy guitars and soft singing, but a bit of axe is subtracted for synths and the tone turns more melancholic for an old-fashioned breakup album. The aforementioned regression isn’t totally disastrous, it’s not going to offend but on the same note it’s not going to entertain. Valentine is boring, it offers little beyond the moments where its heartfelt yearnings hit.

As with any blockbuster offering from the underground the first two songs are also the first two singles, starting with the title track. Opening with synths that faintly waver in the background before the explosion of the chorus. Jordan isn’t a vengeful lover, she’s desperate as she clings onto all the moments that only seem to matter to her now. 

I’d hate to picture someone with you
I lay down and start to cry
You won’t believe what just two months do
I’m older now, believe mе, I adore you

Importantly the hook is catchy but its brief exhilaration is the only of its kind for the next thirty odd minutes. Ben Franklin riffs on, heavy in bass with a heavier heart. There’s a ton going on in the instrumental with synths attending to Jordan’s voice like a loyal dog, sharp piano notes, and warbling static that comes off of percussion hits. I wouldn’t go as far as to say the chorus is an earworm but it’s got a charismatic cadence. Then we run out of promotional gas, coasting right into the flatlands of dull deep cuts beginning with Headlock, lyrics about missing an ex that are okay but already feel like retreading ground at three tracks in. The instrumental is uncanny in its familiarity, the guitars especially feel like they are pulled straight from the schmaltzy indie starter kit.

At least Light Blue provides variation as Jordan pulls out the acoustic and brings on light strings to accent the sorrow. Nice effort but it’s only a swap to dime-a-dozen indie folk and the poetic longings are vaguer and harder to care about. The genre journey continues on Forever (Sailing), a disco slow dance, tears in your eyes, purple spotlight tracing your lines. Jordan is out of her mind with longing, makes you want to go to her apartment to console her, c’mon, it’s just another selfish girl, the walls of this city are lined with ‘em. 

Time tends to pass and make a joke of things, but
Eleven months and still
Some nights I rеach for you
Like you’re besidе me

It barely belongs in the listing in the best way possible with its 80s glamor and shockingly great use of sampling, I wish the whole album was centered around this track. The indie rock slow jams make their lamented return on Madonna. A poor take on the classic my love/religion comparison. All the Abrahamic vernacular here is so cliché,  kneeling at your altar, divine intervention, and honest to god the “I’ll get stoned” double-entendre that’s been overused for at least a half century. The self-pity train has no brakes on c. et al., a sloppy piece of acoustic bedroom balladry. Jordan slaps and slides her fingers across her guitar to grating effect, with okayish lyrics about not wanting to go outside. At only three minutes long its end still couldn’t come sooner. Finally Jordan gets a little vindictive on Glory with sarcastic remarks as to her lover’s greatness but still admitting in the end that they own her so we end up in the same place. Any progress is only personal as this is more shallow indie déjà vu. Automate reverses this trend as a deeper layer of Jordan’s misery is found at the bottom of a bottle. This self-destructive behavior brings a new dimension to how much she is struggling in the wake of breakup. Not drinking until you forget but until you hallucinate your love to life.

Tried life without you
But you in that green sweater
I could die if I had the guts
Puked it up, drank too much

Pensive keys accompany the rise and fall repetition of the instrumental but other than its subject matter it lacks in memorability. The closer Mia sulks about shuffling its feet slowly across the hardwood, strings play a prominent role with one final story of wallowing in anguish shortly after being cut off by your partner. Sure, everything about it is saddening but when Valentine fades to silence I feel nothing, sitting still with the ambiance of a distant wind and the low hum of computer fans thinking, alright, I guess. I enjoy the breakup premise when it’s good but even that is hit or miss until it becomes as monotonous as the rest of the record. Valentine is competent but bland, the operative word here being bland.

4/10

RELATED REVIEWS