Former stalwart of minor American indie bands like The Ackleys and Bad Banana, Katie Crutchfield now ploughs a solo furrow as Waxahatchee, whose second album, Cerulean Salt, sounds like a throwback to the days when Liz Phair anatomised the emotional ups and downs of slacker-era America. Only not quite so openly: Waxahatchee's raw electric guitar chords mostly support a string of non sequiturs which defy illumination.
She has a habit of setting up an emotional syllogism in straightforward terms – “I write a tragic epilogue and you'll act it out” – only to suddenly zoom off at tangents, as in “Make-up sets on your face like tar/Champagne flutes poorly engineered” etc. It's confessional solipsism, lacking the musical compulsion to make one care.
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