Album Review: Glossover by Afternoon Bike Ride
“An audio diary of what we know will be our most precious memories,” reads Afternoon Bike Ride’s description of the recently released sophomore record Glossover. The Montreal lofi-folk trio’s name is similarly descriptive of much of their discography. It captures that sense of calming wind, togetherness, and the sun high in the sky, frequently paired with the haunting sense that things aren’t the way they were before. Evolving sonically, lyrically, and thematically from their EP, Skipping Stones, and Afternoon Bike Ride’s self-titled debut LP, Glossover is an album simultaneously cozy and heavy, lulling you in with soft sounds and stone-skipping grooves to then remind of the weight of nostalgia.
The tonal dance that runs throughout the record is audible just in the first two tracks. The instrumental opener, “Musubi,” with its submerged vocals and reverb-heavy guitar, is peaceful but foreboding. The unresolved minor progression at “Musubi’”’s close then gives way to the second track, “For the Breakdowns,” where the listener gets first glance at lead vocalist, Lia Kurihara. With her impeccable delivery, she packs multisyllabic runs into a small space without feeling stilted, which is paired with layered harmonies from bandmates David Tanton and Éloi Le Blanc-Ringuette. The immense calm and steady rhythm that pervades the track is in stark contrast to the weightless anxiety of “Musubi.”
This is another part of the thesis of Glossover: nostalgia isn't a singular emotion, but the collection of emotions that memories evoke. Nostalgia is just as easily the steady kick drum and delightful interplay between acoustic and electric guitars, like on “Summertime,” as it is the lazy brush strokes and angelic layered vocal refrain of “Before We Don't Have Time,” proving tension and catharsis are emotions just as varied as nostalgia.
“Nothing in Particular,” a track that stands out from much of the record for its messy, warbling instrumentation, presents its sense of catharsis through contrast. The heavily produced guitars drift in and out of key whimsically, Kurihara's ordinarily breathy vocals become belty and brash, the drums heavily compressed and distant. An unaffected acoustic guitar breaks through the second chorus, whirling its way over top of the synths gradually tightening to the key. Then everything cuts away but that solitary guitar and Kurihara's voice. The apprehension drains in an instant, and all that's left is calm.
This progression is part of the journey of Glossover. Tracks like “Bois Dormant,” an ethereal instrumental soundscape, and “All On Me,” a whirring synth-assisted pop tune, act as catalysts to the darker emotions, soothing listeners in times of peace and then gripping them with the heftier moments.
This heaviness, and a key emotional linchpin of the record, is no more apparent than in “When We Were the Same,” a song that begins with dual vocals lamenting something different, something lost, before it explodes in a brief but powerful moment of distortion, screaming, and release. Something that was balanced so precariously and preciously has snapped. The implication is clear: If these are the memories of when we were the same, we aren't anymore.
It's this sentiment that fuels much of the record's duel between tension and release. The title track, “Glossover,'‘ contains a refrain stating: "I remember walking in the morning." First a fragile, breathy whisper from lead vocalist Kurihara, and then a low, hummed, dulcet appeal from guest vocalist Lowswimmer invokes, again, a past far more peaceful than the present. “Not Ideal” plays tricks with its title; a declaration of things not being the way they should be, an observation that things aren’t right. And then the lyric appears as the opening line of the chorus, “it’s not ideal/but I’m doing all I can for you.” It recontextualizes the statement, the weight and the sorrow, into something more tinged with hope and understanding. Things aren’t like they used to be, but that doesn’t mean it’s meant to be dwelled on.
“Good Company”'s hypnotic ending, too, increases in intensity, but not in volume. It’s as if the emotions have bubbled up but have yet to explode. It's an emotional return to the point before “When We Were the Same.” The relief and the clarity are gone, replaced with that same uncertainty. It parallels the way that our regrets and remembrances will force us to remember only the things that weren't said, and what we've lost.
Then the closer, “Tom's Song,” offers something different. It quietly ushers in the sentiment that catharsis doesn't always have to be loud or sudden. It doesn't have to contrast so sharply with what has come before, and it doesn't have to be an electric guitar or gang vocals lamenting. Sometimes it can be a saturated acoustic guitar. Woodwinds humming with the help of a curious synthesizer. A casual conversation overheard, muttering in the corner of a room that might not be as crowded as it once was. Catharsis can be a calm and slow exhale as easily as it can be an anguished shout. Sometimes as we whirl through the summer breeze in years where we weren't blessed and cursed with the care and worry that comes with time and age, we need to scream. Other times we just need to close our eyes and remember.
Glossover is out now on your streaming service of choice. Find Afternoon Bike Ride on Spotify, Bandcamp, Twitter, and Instagram.
