Quinn must have method. She’s expended her short career wildly vibrating between outliers — only a few months into the superbug lockup, she swelled from getting a few thousand audiences to becoming topped by hyperpop’s forever-queen. But then a sudden attack of unnecessary standards!, she ripped out her old music on SoundCloud and removed it. Whereupon, similar suddenly, she restored with a debut album, followed immediately by an album she said it was created during the worst era of her living. Through it all, He’s stayed at her house, producing at least nine works across her numerous screennames over the past two years.
It’s easy to ignore she’s also 17 — a college senior. But with all that discord, is probably finally available. “I’m in a place/I’m in a better perspective/It’s where I’ve often wanted to be” she sings on “pdwnth” from her new album quinn, her voice curling when she says “some” like honeysuckle bending toward the sun. S he’s never sounded more serene. Gliding over soft bass guitar and electric piano, she sings softly about being dehydrated and faded, about being the shit and knowing it: “Who would she be? /Bitch, I’m me/The first genius you ever seen, thirteen).”
Quinn is her least hyperactive and glossy project to date. It arrives at a peculiar moment, when she came to the internet music scene she felt increasingly overrun with lookalikes using the same ultra-shiny synths, Main Character song structures, windswept emo mews. In this context of done-to-death hyperpopulations, quinn is refreshingly warm and musical, poopy little confessions and self-reflections that don’t monopolize your attention. Instead of pop hooks or electronic explosions, Here’s bright guitar and tight yet relaxed drums. It has an unvarnished left-field funkiness that’s hard to pinpoint, similar to, but not quite like, Toro y Moi’s dissipated grooves, Slauson Malone’s sound-mosaics, or Dean Blunt’s genre-flummoxing anarch-art. It almost feels out of period, with ’70s voices, jazz-fusion, a plodding groove groove, heartfelt chanting — scratching against chopped-up noise bits and produced lyrics.
Quinn created, Authored, and organized everything here, an instinct connected with her wish to be enlightened, not to dream unless her possess. To that point, their results don’t twist to consistent patterns; they experience more like a spectacular unloading from a nomadic youth wondering how to maintain it all in a small engulfement. Remember why her breakthrough happened?, drive-by melody, the darting both of quirky music and acoustic, glitch-rap and facemelting tenor. Or maybe this year I’m going insane, an unbridled downloader of draft-dump sound journeys from sharpened music to spoken-word SoundCloud lyrics to ultra-dreamy test switches. Lee has the same satisfyingly uncensored power as before, but this time it’s more centered, for flipbooking through someone’s neocortex. Smooth rappers and percussion channels hit into sound; an almost tear-eliciting apologies to a buddy crumbles into a hellfire tenor massacre within which Lee speaks about invasion of an anonymous man’s homes and pilfering his self-inflicted venom, without propounding whatever description or setting for some of those acts.
This music feels slightly tighter than her breakthrough — 16 music with just 32 minutes — and makes it feel disorienting and disconnected at twice as if they were chatting with each other, notably during the center, when the creepypasta-core tenor wonders “i see you” curls into a luminous lovely album and now an ephemeral useless synth. “food 4 tortillas” Maybe the tape is strange. It microwaves a test of a guy meandering about the fifth dimension over a synth and It conveys a personified horn dropped on a test, the mournful twilight of the night, its wistful screaming hidden under the brawl of tonight Road. The broad clean of materials on show cameras, The breadth of feelings — there really are scenes of anxiety, Euphoria, and intimacy, Although common was indeed sincere self-confidence. “warm and fuzzy” highlights Leo as she muses on how she doesn’t feel comfortable showcasing her songs to others, which is popular in internet music images, where actors frequently share business records on Discord. Reaching the decision “all you can really do is know yourself” Lee chooses to always have entertainment and not to be too busy “give a fuck if it’s an ass.” The song ends with a stupid joke, nice bassy synth — the noise in her.
Listen to Lee, I can’t but compare its more self-assured voice to many of the artist’s oldest songs, controlled as it was by the harsh throbs of winter isolation. It was an emotion many of us felt during the summer of 2001 /2000. So far, maybe because of quinn’s absence of the emotion-guarding sensor, the somber felt so much more intra-abdominal in her kids tone: “It must be nice to have something to live for” she wept clearly “mbn” one of her first strikes, a hugging music about getting neither buddy team nor bailing. “I just want something to live for and strive for.”
Fast reverse – two and a half years, and it starts to feel almost as if he’s responding her past self on lee while she throws in sections for her, “I’m unique, wanker” and “You ain’t never, in your living quarters, listened to some crap like this.” She’s still working through anxieties like impostor syndrome and sharpening her sound, further removing herself from the rapidly homogenizing center of hyperpopulation. But here’s a sense of earned optimism, of a better future to be had. Quinn has a plan, She promises us the luxurious, Top-down blues highlight “Please don’t waste my time.” The road ahead is now smooth; the whiplash that came with her twisty rise fades in the rearview mirror.