Caroline Rose Proves Unquantifiable on year of the slug
Even without the trappings of an elaborate studio session—the album was “recorded in Garageband from a phone” as per press materials—Rose’s intricate, thoughtful songwriting shines through.
I must confess: I hate assigning scores to music releases. How can you score a release from a pristine, label-backed pop star on the same scale as a scrappy DIY group? Besides, our feelings about art are so subjective, and the starkness of a number feels positively crude next to a work of art—no matter how much I did or did not enjoy it. Art is unquantifiable, and yet the human need to categorize and rank tries to defy this truth again and again. So yes, there’s a score assigned to year of the slug, the excellent new album from Caroline Rose, but it’s not as relevant as actually sitting and listening to their music or, hey, even reading my review if you want.
In fact, the idea of art’s perverse quanfication—turning it into something that can be mined and repliated by machines—is a driving force behind Rose’s approach to the year of the slug’s roll out and themes. The record isn’t on any streaming platforms, but can be enjoyed on Bandcamp or on vinyl, and Rose will only be touring it at independent venues—what they rightly deem “the working class of the touring industry.” “I’m just trying to make music diverse enough that AI can’t reproduce it,” Rose shared in a statement about the album, and they achieved their goal—not just through their varied sound, but the sheer intensity of emotions conveyed.
Recorded and produced in its entirety by Rose, year of the slug emanates an immediacy and twee warmth at times reminiscent of Kimya Dawson, but accentuated by the tart punch of their vocals. Even without the trappings of an elaborate studio session—the album was “recorded in Garageband from a phone” as per press materials—Rose’s intricate, thoughtful songwriting shines through. They sound like they’re attacking the guitar as they fervently strum on “to be lonely,” and their vocals reach out earnestly to find the connection they’re so desperately seeking. The dreamy harmonies on opener “everything in its right place”—which celebrates imperfect perfection while also acknowledging the reality of living “month to month hand to mouth”—will transport you back to “Girls”-era Animal Collective. At every turn there is something striking to behold.
While most of the songs are vignettes (“kings of east LA” and “conversation with shiv (liquid k song)”) or reflections on human connection (“to be lonely,” “we don’t talk anymore,” “strange things” ), they are threaded with the malaise and the endless contradictions of living under crushing capitalism. Album closer “kings of east LA” recalls a conversation about watching bull riding over a playful, plucky rhythm and gentle guitar. In one line, Rose notes how famed rider “J.B. Mauney bought the bull that ended his career in one buck.” Rose’s seemingly casual observation reminds us how when nature refuses to be dominated, some turn to capital as a means of making it submit to their will. Backed by the patter of a drum machine and jaunty guitar, Rose revisits a chat with an old friend on “conversation with shiv (liquid k song),” their exchange filled with resigned remarks about financial instability—“so you’re still living outside new york / hopping round a bunch of spots you can’t afford,” and “so the money ran out but / you get by dancing now”—all while the spectre of addiction hovers above. The track is also rife with references to different stores or brands (Hobby Lobby, Four Loko, Auntie Anne’s), reminding us how much of our lives are defined (and controlled) by corporate interests. And by far the most explicitly anti-capitalist track of the album has to be the rambunctious barn burner “goddamn train,” which moves at a clip that brought me back to the first time I heard Rose’s “Soul No. 5,” from their 2018 record Loner.
Most importantly, Rose embeds these feelings of frustration within their everyday life and emotional interiority on year of the slug. They’re not reflecting on capitalism at discrete, designated moments, but amidst potential love affairs or while mourning the loss of a relationship. Anyone who’s drifted apart from a loved one will find catharsis on “we don’t talk anymore,” a lamentation given a satisfying edge by the grit of Rose’s voice. They draw out the final word on the chorus—“we don’t talk anymore / not like it was”—as if in the hopes that by elongating that line, make it last and last and last, then maybe they can avoid the reality in which this person isn’t in their life anymore. Near the end of the song, they add in the sarcastic observation that “it’s all good / cause every single person is replaceable.” That’s how a capitalist society wants us to think; it wants us to buy into the idea that we can be reduced down to numbers, that we are interchangeable and quantifiable.
But Rose knows better. They know that love is unquantifiable and utterly worthwhile. The track “strange things” sees them on the precipice of falling in love, as they tell their paramour, “Your beating heart it’s prying open / all the bars of its cage / I don’t mind how long it takes.” There’s a hope to year of the slug, even if it seems Sysphean. In the words of Rose on “to be lonely”: “I don’t if I’m getting somewhere / I don’t know but I think I’ll try.”
Clare Martin is a cemetery enthusiast and Paste’s associate music editor.