Jordan’s lyrics are full of unanswered questions (“Isn’t it strange how it’s just over?”), and on a song like the acoustic reverie “Light Blue” she is not afraid to augment them with chords that, too, hang in the air unresolved. She often sounds like she’s just been crying, or maybe still is, and “Valentine” gives off the overwhelming effect that you are listening to someone moving through feelings in real time - that the album itself is an immediate expression of raw, unprocessed grief.Īt one point when Jordan was growing up in Baltimore, Timony was her guitar teacher, and she seems to have inherited (and filtered through her own unique ear) Timony’s fascination with unusual chords and a certain husky grain in her voice. Jordan’s voice has changed since “Lush” it’s become hoarse, feral and absolutely heartbreaking. ![]() “Sometimes I hate her just for not being you,” Jordan, now 22, admits on the slinky single “Ben Franklin,” a song that finds her feigning a blasé attitude but almost immediately folding and admitting that she’s a “sucker for the pain.” On the sharply affecting “Automate,” which lurches uneasily forward like someone fumbling for a light switch, Jordan paints a piercing picture with a few simple words: “Red lips, dark room, I pretend it’s you, but she kissed like she meant it.” More explicitly than “Lush,” though, “Valentine” is unequivocally an album about women loving women - as well as women leaving women, and women occasionally trying to numb heartbreak via dalliances with rebound women.
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