Review Summary: Dreams, baby, do come true
For reasons that are beyond my scope, the number seven holds a great deal of spiritual connotation, whether it comes from superstitious beliefs of luck or representing a sort of sacred numeral in certain holy circles. But for the beloved dream-pop duo Beach House, seven means rebirth—musically and conceptually—into something that ascends from their past catalog, while at the same time holding on to the blissful rumination through which they’ve come to define themselves. Their seventh record, aptly named
7, shows them intently exploring new sonic territories and moods without losing sight of the central beauty that has kept them consistently spellbinding to listeners.
Beach House’s sound has always been one that’s content with just
being. In their past six releases, they’ve invited us into their immaculate soundscapes that—apart from the ethereal spaces they open up in the minds of listeners—don’t rely on doing much else than just simply being beautiful. It’s always been the appeal behind their music: washy guitar and synth textures that leave just enough space for Victoria Legrand’s soothing vocals. The delivery has changed here and there in each release, but we’ve always been pretty certain of what we’re getting ourselves into before we hit play on a new album.
However, the makeup of
7 is clearly different, something that became evident when the band dropped the record’s first single, “Lemon Glow” on Valentine’s Day. The song—while distinctly “Beach House”—soared past anything they had made prior. It featured a legion of moving parts, from densely layered vocals to pleasantly detuned guitar melodies, with no section of the song overstaying its welcome before transitioning into another dreamy movement.
From the start of the record, “Dark Spring” displays a greater focus on percussion than before, featuring a prominent kit instead of the familiar synthetic drum machine sequencing. It seamlessly transitions into the intoxicating “Pay No Mind,” which teems with melancholia through its balladic unfolding of the chorus,
“Baby at night when I look at you / Nothing in this world keeps me confused.”
On top of the album’s broadening instrumental landscape,
7 also ventures into completely new territories on songs like “L’Inconnue” and “Black Car.” “L’Inconnue” uses choir-like, echoing vocals in French to conjure up images of a refined past up against a blissful future-scape, while “Black Car” brings the listener into an entrancing gothic void that cuts straight into the heart with the brooding chorus,
“I skipped a rock and it fell to the bottom.” Both songs demonstrate the duo experimenting with deviations to their pre-conceived sound, challenging listeners to enjoy them from a wholly new perspective.
Nonetheless, the highlights of the record are more often than not from songs that are most reminiscent of Beach House’s singular sound. “Lose Your Smile,” harkens back to classic Beach House, with hypnotic, wistful melodies that feel like musical ecstasy. “Drunk in L.A.,” despite the deceptively exciting title, puts us within the hazy internal monologue of Victoria Legrand as she drunkenly reflects on distant memories. The chorus
“I’ve had a good run playing horses in my mind,” brings to memory the arching
“black and white horse” of the band’s 2009 song “Zebra,” but the bliss of that past has subsided, leaving Legrand with nothing but wishful nostalgia.
Looking past the gratifying diversity from song-to-song, the prevailing mood of
7 is an ambiguous sense of longing for something unreachable. Through the mesmerizing textures and surreal emotions they evoke, Beach House extends themselves through dreamlike states toward something falling just out of grasp. As Legrand remarks on “Woo,”
“I want it all, but I can’t have it.”
7 is undoubtedly a progression for Beach House, but at the same time, it signifies a beginning, a shedding of former limitations in pursuit of new sanctums. At times on the record, they bring listeners downward into the depths of consciousness, but by the album’s close with “Last Ride,” the heavenly swelling guitar outro shows that this musical journey is ultimately one of personal ascension, wherever it may be found.
