Quinn must have method. She’s spent her short career wildly vibrating between outliers — only a few months into the superbug lock, she swelled from getting a few thousand audiences to becoming a top of Hyperpop’s forever-queen. But then after unexpected attack of unnecessary standards, she ripped out her old music on SoundCloud and removed it. Whereupon, similarly suddenly -, She later released a debut album, followed immediately by an album she said it was created during the worst era of her life. Through it all, but one can be sure of something, he’s stayed in her house, producing at least nine works across her numerous screennames the last two years.
It’s easy to ignore she’s also 17 — a college senior. But with all that discord, he’s probably finally available. “I’m in a place! /I’m in a better perspective/I’m where I’ve often wanted to be” She sings on “pdwnth. Htm” from her new album, Quinn, her voice curling when she says “Some” like a honeysuckle bending toward the sun. 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? /Biches: Bitch, I’m me/The first genius you 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, the same Main Character song structures, windswept emo mews. In this context of done-to-death hyperpopulations, quinn is refreshingly warm and musical, full of 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 nearly feels outside the period, with ’70s voices — jazz fusion, a plodding groove percussion, heartfelt chanting — scratching against chopped-up noise bits and produced lyrics.
Quinn created, authored by, and organized everything here, an instinct obviously connected with her wish of being indebted not to dream unless her possess. To that point, The results are not consistent patterns; the experience more like a spectacular unloading from a nomadic youth, wondering how to maintain it all in the dark. Remember why her breakthrough happened?, drive-by melody, darted between quirky music and acoustic, glitch-rap and facemelting tenor. Or chirp. This year I’m going insane!, an unbridled downloader of draft-dump sound journey 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 flipping through someone’s neocortex. Smooth rapper and percussion sounds meld into one another; 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-destructed man’s possessions, without propounding any description or setting for some of those acts.
This music seems to be slightly tighter as its breakthrough — 16 music with only 32 minutes — that makes it feel disorienting and disconnected at twice, also during the center, when the creepy punk-core tenor wonders “i see you!” curves into a lovely luminous album and now an ephemeral useless synth. “food 4 tbs” 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 beneath the brawl of tonight road. The broad clean of materials on show camera; The breadth of feelings — there really are scenes of anxiety, euphoria, and intimacy, although the most common was indeed sincere self-confidence. “warm and fuzzy” highlights Led as she muses how she doesn’t feel comfortable showcasing her song to others, which is popular on 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 “give a fuck if it’s ass.” The song ends with a stupid joke, nice bassy synth — the noise is quite true.
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 harsh throbs of winter isolation. It was an emotion many of us felt during the soon superbug hunt. So far maybe because of quinn’s absence of an adult’s emotion-guarding sensor, the somber experienced so much more intraabdominal in her kids tone: “It must be nice to have something to live for” she wept clearly “mbn” one among her first strikes, a music to get a buddy-team and bailthrough. “I just want something to live and strive for.”
Fast reverse two and a half years, and it starts to feel almost as if he’s responding her past self to lee while she throws directing sections, “I’m unique, Waking” and “You ain’t never lost your penis!, in your living, listened to some crap like this.” She’s still working through anxieties like imposter syndrome and sharpening her sound, further removing herself from the rapidly homogenizing center of hyperpope. 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 button highlights “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.