For Shamir's eighth studio album, Heterosexuality, the Philadelphia artist directly addresses his queerness for the first time by embracing the most expansive definition of the term — no labels, all bite. If queer acceptance has hit the mainstream, Heterosexuality is the leather bar Pride afterparty the straight allies are too scared to attend. In both message and genre, Shamir actively defies categorization, yet he still manages to bare his soul in visceral detail.
Blown-out percussion and guitar à la Nine Inch Nails give the album's overall sound a sense of urgency, as if it were insisting that it must be blasted at top volume. This fiery bedrock supports every track, from humming strings to sparkly synths to cacophonous layers of white noise. Shamir's vocals are otherworldly, careening over the darkness of his tracks before plunging into seduction, despair or both, only to ultimately emerge as an '80s pop falsetto. Somehow, Shamir can invoke Bjork, Prince and the Weeknd, sometimes all in the same track, while still sounding completely unique. The effect is chaotic control; he knows exactly what he wants to say, and he will make sure it is heard.
The 10-track album forms an almost perfect narrative loop. The beginning tracks of the album focus on aggressive nonconformity as a political statement right from the jump; titles like "Gay Agenda" and "Cisgender" make clear exactly what kind of conversation is being had, and communicate it through an impenetrable wall of sound. They sound like the rallying cry grown out of a life spent demanding the right to exist. With "Stability," Shamir begins to falter, expressing the individual toll of such a fight. He digs deep and unearths traumas, both universal ones and his own unique struggles. On "Cold Brew", he sings "When I'm trying to sleep, my trauma visits me / And reminds me it's all that I've got," a succinct explanation of the sense of futility that pervades much of his lyrics.
The latter half of the album moves into a false, saccharine golden hour, the musical equivalent of posting a picture of an idyllic sunset on social media while crying. The tracks are Shamir's version of sweet and sparkly, but the lyrics find helplessness hardening into nihilism. On the last two tracks, Shamir entertains the slightest possibility of hope, the future barely glowing with the seduction that something might actually be better. On "Reproductive," he resigns himself a little, singing, "Things that give us life makes us question if we can take it anymore / But we put up anyway." And just like that, life might almost be worth living again, and the fight from the beginning of the album gets taken up once again.
Shamir is economical with this album — not a bar or lyric is wasted, every moment is carefully curated to hit exactly where it needs to. This precision is why the album works so beautifully. Heterosexuality captivates and transports the listener, making an ethereal landscape out of dissonance and nihilism. It never repeats itself, it does not stutter, and it absolutely never apologizes.
(Independent)Blown-out percussion and guitar à la Nine Inch Nails give the album's overall sound a sense of urgency, as if it were insisting that it must be blasted at top volume. This fiery bedrock supports every track, from humming strings to sparkly synths to cacophonous layers of white noise. Shamir's vocals are otherworldly, careening over the darkness of his tracks before plunging into seduction, despair or both, only to ultimately emerge as an '80s pop falsetto. Somehow, Shamir can invoke Bjork, Prince and the Weeknd, sometimes all in the same track, while still sounding completely unique. The effect is chaotic control; he knows exactly what he wants to say, and he will make sure it is heard.
The 10-track album forms an almost perfect narrative loop. The beginning tracks of the album focus on aggressive nonconformity as a political statement right from the jump; titles like "Gay Agenda" and "Cisgender" make clear exactly what kind of conversation is being had, and communicate it through an impenetrable wall of sound. They sound like the rallying cry grown out of a life spent demanding the right to exist. With "Stability," Shamir begins to falter, expressing the individual toll of such a fight. He digs deep and unearths traumas, both universal ones and his own unique struggles. On "Cold Brew", he sings "When I'm trying to sleep, my trauma visits me / And reminds me it's all that I've got," a succinct explanation of the sense of futility that pervades much of his lyrics.
The latter half of the album moves into a false, saccharine golden hour, the musical equivalent of posting a picture of an idyllic sunset on social media while crying. The tracks are Shamir's version of sweet and sparkly, but the lyrics find helplessness hardening into nihilism. On the last two tracks, Shamir entertains the slightest possibility of hope, the future barely glowing with the seduction that something might actually be better. On "Reproductive," he resigns himself a little, singing, "Things that give us life makes us question if we can take it anymore / But we put up anyway." And just like that, life might almost be worth living again, and the fight from the beginning of the album gets taken up once again.
Shamir is economical with this album — not a bar or lyric is wasted, every moment is carefully curated to hit exactly where it needs to. This precision is why the album works so beautifully. Heterosexuality captivates and transports the listener, making an ethereal landscape out of dissonance and nihilism. It never repeats itself, it does not stutter, and it absolutely never apologizes.
