Helena Deland was doused in white, her pants' iridescence seeping only upwards and into her lungs. Her voice had an unearthly earthiness like Angel Olsen's — grounded in some atmospheric element, or in the gravity of another planet entirely.
It could twang through lines like "Covered head to toe in the / Faded flower patterns of memory" as swiftly as it could soar.
Deland's delight was tinkling in the air. "You're all here!" she exclaimed, dimples cracking for each face, familiar and unfamiliar, every hesitant bouncer and ardent flailer. This was the biggest show she and her band had ever played, and even with the extra bodies, they exuded easy cosiness in their craggy rock.
Deland wielded it all, hunched over her guitar as the sounds — chilly melancholy, synth-riddled solitude, inside-out chaos — wrestled their way out.
It could twang through lines like "Covered head to toe in the / Faded flower patterns of memory" as swiftly as it could soar.
Deland's delight was tinkling in the air. "You're all here!" she exclaimed, dimples cracking for each face, familiar and unfamiliar, every hesitant bouncer and ardent flailer. This was the biggest show she and her band had ever played, and even with the extra bodies, they exuded easy cosiness in their craggy rock.
Deland wielded it all, hunched over her guitar as the sounds — chilly melancholy, synth-riddled solitude, inside-out chaos — wrestled their way out.
