Words by Jacob Henneman//Illustration by Ryan Flynn
Love is a bitch, or so I’ve heard. Some people are blessed with mutually successful relationships, while others are cursed by Cupid’s poor aim. From the first words that drip from the longing lips of Beach House lead singer Victoria Legrand, we know that she has been blacklisted by the bare-skinned archer. “Love you all the time/Even though you’re not mine” are among the meditations that foreshadow the Maryland band’s succeeding self-titled debut album. These are going to be songs of not only heartache, but the mulling about of judgments failed, the memories now collecting dust, and the helplessness felt about loved ones lost long ago.

Beach House is a misnomer for what would rationally be all sunshine and sand, but there are a few things the duo needs to get off their chest before they can bask. Seriously, whatever curveballs and trap doors love has thrown Beach House’s way, I would not wish upon anyone else. Legrand’s vocals lack a lot of emotion, or maybe she is just too emotionally worn out to give a fuck anymore. She sheds tears, dusts off old photo albums, and quills the blank pages of an ivory-paged diary most certainly riddled with the stinging heartache of a missed love, and that’s just one song.

Combine her stripped bare vocals with Alex Scally’s droning, shoegaz-y organ and the result may be situated on a beach, but the breeze blowing in from the coast dashes any hopes for warm frolics. This is more of a chilly sunset than a sun-splashed afternoon. Percussive bossa-novas move as fast as the sun gradually creeping further under the horizon, processed through 4-tracked filters, making its hope all that much more distant and feeble. Combine the two, and a cocoon envelops each song within its defined weight of love’s consequences, and the vulnerability that follows.

As the sun gives its last flourishes midway through the album, and the red-orange sunset soon thereafter fades, candles flicker within the chambers of Beach House’s discontent. Simplicity fuels the fire, and it is achieved without the sacrifice of elegance and romanticism. There are never more than a handful of things going on at once—organ underlying the percussion, vocals, and the occasional pronounced harpsichord or synth introduction are all that’s needed. It’s luxury that is achieved through such restraint and its few efficient elements.

As night casts moonlight through the window that still ushers in a chilly sea breeze, the longings of the past night are illuminated: the Polaroids, the tear-soaked diary—the wax and wicks of what’s left. Maybe all Legrand and Scally needed was to release the screaming demons from her caged soul. On the final track, “Heart and Lungs,” Legrand breathes only if for a little of our sympathy. “All that is left is a heart made of tears,” she quietly announces, although, at least for tonight, maybe she has the last lingering simper. “I will haunt you for the rest of your life,” she sheepishly declares as the album fades out. Sure, love is a bitch, or maybe Cupid’s quiver is just in the process of being refilled.

Beach House
Carpark Records