I have a feeling that the soft hiss of Cindy’s new LP is going to be a constant companion in the coming months. Like their contemporaries in April Magazine, the band excels at capturing a contemplative comfort that’s perfect for sweater weather sit-ins and back porch musing. Built around the tender strums of Karina Gill, who wanders the width between indie pop’s most twilight moments and slowcore’s most upbeat hush, 1:2 lets Cindy’s songs stretch out into the light a bit more than their first two albums. Still not exactly what I’d call a hi-fi record, the band uses a slight lap of hiss as an accessory to their songs. For the most part they let the obfuscation drop, but never fully emerging from the bedroom bleariness that makes Gill’s songs so endearing. She pulls off similar moves in Flowertown, but seems to be saving her most opaque offerings for that set, giving her most memorable hooks to 1:2.

The album works its wonders in a kind of self-soothing tone. Each track is covered in haze, ensconced in a fog of doubt that the band slowly burns away over the course of the ten tracks. Laconic strums, the soft exhale of keys, and a halo of harmonies that constantly fight that fog mark the album, creating an album that’s understated and yet gorgeous. As they push towards the parting of the curtains, the pace picks up. The title track emerges from the smudged sighs and out into the light of day, adding a bit of a synth-pop pace and an insistent beat. The last few tracks hold onto the ‘walking around in headphones’ feeling, blurring the background into a haze of bystanders, but letting the lightness seep into Gill’s songs as they drive towards an emergence from that cocoon that clamped down at the beginning. Repeated listens reveal small nooks of interest again and again. The band’s blanketed bliss emerges from their quiet moments, proving that simplicity doesn’t belie beauty.

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