We often describe women who survive terrible things as "brave." It's a swift designation that seems to reward one's bearing the violence of capitalist, colonial patriarchy, while also distracting from and shirking the necessity of interrogating the fact of violence at all. But the thing is, survival is not always so clean, so graceful as that descriptor denotes. And so, I often wonder whether brave is something we inherently are, or something we're forced to be by a cruel world.
The jubilant single "Heartbites" from Kristi Lane Sinclair's sophomore studio album Super Blood Wolf Moon ends with Sinclair's voice, which earlier had been broad and briery, becoming soft and feathery as she repeats "Sleep." "Let's tear that shit to motherfuckin' pieces tonight, / And sleep," she sings. It's a romp of a track, alive with shades of '80s synth-pop, but its core message seems so tender and cushiony — it reminds us that we are allowed to rest after biting back, after doing what feels right, that resting and sleeping aren't indications of defeat but rather something necessary and palliative. It's a dance party of a track whose call to not only rest but also to unapologetically feel the various hues of personhood is carried throughout the album itself.
For me, there's something quietly heartbreaking about describing someone as being predominantly or exclusively brave or resilient. I often wonder, when a person's lifetime is described as and celebrated for being full of bravery, whether we're also acknowledging and respecting the moments the person took on their journey to rest, to feel joy in safe commune, to celebrate. A word and world that require a person to be so consistently courageous as to be denied the celebration of life — of oneself, of the ability to take pause and reflect and love and to find restoration in the flourishing that love allows — seem cruel indeed.
With Super Blood Wolf Moon, Sinclair delivers a shock of tender vibrancy, of messy life, exploding the notion of bravery without respite. The album, like a road-side hotel's flickering neon sign that beckons after a winding, arduous drive, is a salve that allows one to shore up the strength not just to be brave, but also the strength to feel all the feels, the strength to be alive.
The ethos of "rest so that you can feel" that is cradled within the album is mirrored in the track listing, too. The '80s synth-pop of a track like "Heartbites" doesn't run strident through the album, rather it's punctuated by various moods and modes: the folk-inflected reverie carried by the sweet "Begin," "Dogfish Woman" and "Super Blood Wolf Moon"; the smouldering, symphonic, almost jazzy rock of "D," "Landback" and "Rocket"; the headbanging rollick of "End of the Rope" and "Stars." For Sinclair, it seems that there is no "right" way to feel. Rather, all feelings — by virtue of stemming from us — are valid, and she teaches us through her words exactly how one ought to allow oneself to flow into being in a way that honours the self.
"It's where you go to die for a second time, / Lay your head down and go," Sinclair sings softly at the beginning of "Begin." "And when I wake, I'll make even more mistakes," she affirms sweetly as a rose petal. "I've been so tough for a while now," she goes on to croon, crucially not lamenting. It's a track that, with its electric guitar twanging like a country ballad, feels soft as a grassy knoll. Despite mistakes and moments of fatigue and fear, "it's gonna be a perfect day," Sinclair sings. A few tracks later, on the blazing "Landback," barbed words excoriate sideways, violently-attained colonial power, and after a scuzzy interlude, Sinclair's voice softens as she sings anthemically, "My heart beats with you / The sun shines for you, [...] when no one's listening / We're here for you." The track straddles ire against injustice and tenderness toward its victims so deftly that not only is it dazzling to behold, but also intuitively organic.
Sinclair has cunningly captured all the shades of the psyche unraveling and mending on this album. Her lyrics sear and grate, accuse and bear witness, reveal and ache as they excavate and prod at wounds and rejoice in selfishness that manages to be both self-honouring and consoling in their rawness. Supporting her voice — in turns clarion and operatic, honouring a free and human wildness — is impeccable musicianship by a crew of inimitable female artists: Anna Ruddick on bass, Dani Nash on drums, Robin Hatch on keyboard and guitar, and Praise Lam and Blanche Israël on strings. Women helm the pitch-perfect production here, too: the album is engineered by Jill Zimmerman and mastered by Emily Lazar.
Super Blood Wolf Moon is brazen, unruly and consoling. The final track on the album is the eponymous "Super Blood Wolf Moon," and on it Sinclair's voice rings with a tangy brightness like a summer's day. As she sings, "My heart fades into you, [...] 'cause you know I'll be true, / Know I'll ride with you," the strings not so much wail as they stretch like a bolstering arm across one's shoulder. Like a hug that lasts exactly long enough to bring tears to your eyes, to remind you that you are seen, "Super Blood Wolf Moon" perfectly closes off an album that's as freeing and cathartic and incendiary as it is instructive — in showing us how to exist uninhibited, it provides a tender pocket to rest and shore up the energy to set fire to all that is violent and crumbling.
To be merely described as brave elides elements of fallibility, of humanity. Fear, anger, sadness, romanticizing sentimentality and fatigue are just some of the many real and flawed and justified aspects of life — these are all facets of being that Sinclair seems to celebrate, joyously pushing against the clean and saintly aura of designations like "brave." Like the moon in its title, Super Blood Wolf Moon is a revelation that blushes with life.
(Red Music Rising )The jubilant single "Heartbites" from Kristi Lane Sinclair's sophomore studio album Super Blood Wolf Moon ends with Sinclair's voice, which earlier had been broad and briery, becoming soft and feathery as she repeats "Sleep." "Let's tear that shit to motherfuckin' pieces tonight, / And sleep," she sings. It's a romp of a track, alive with shades of '80s synth-pop, but its core message seems so tender and cushiony — it reminds us that we are allowed to rest after biting back, after doing what feels right, that resting and sleeping aren't indications of defeat but rather something necessary and palliative. It's a dance party of a track whose call to not only rest but also to unapologetically feel the various hues of personhood is carried throughout the album itself.
For me, there's something quietly heartbreaking about describing someone as being predominantly or exclusively brave or resilient. I often wonder, when a person's lifetime is described as and celebrated for being full of bravery, whether we're also acknowledging and respecting the moments the person took on their journey to rest, to feel joy in safe commune, to celebrate. A word and world that require a person to be so consistently courageous as to be denied the celebration of life — of oneself, of the ability to take pause and reflect and love and to find restoration in the flourishing that love allows — seem cruel indeed.
With Super Blood Wolf Moon, Sinclair delivers a shock of tender vibrancy, of messy life, exploding the notion of bravery without respite. The album, like a road-side hotel's flickering neon sign that beckons after a winding, arduous drive, is a salve that allows one to shore up the strength not just to be brave, but also the strength to feel all the feels, the strength to be alive.
The ethos of "rest so that you can feel" that is cradled within the album is mirrored in the track listing, too. The '80s synth-pop of a track like "Heartbites" doesn't run strident through the album, rather it's punctuated by various moods and modes: the folk-inflected reverie carried by the sweet "Begin," "Dogfish Woman" and "Super Blood Wolf Moon"; the smouldering, symphonic, almost jazzy rock of "D," "Landback" and "Rocket"; the headbanging rollick of "End of the Rope" and "Stars." For Sinclair, it seems that there is no "right" way to feel. Rather, all feelings — by virtue of stemming from us — are valid, and she teaches us through her words exactly how one ought to allow oneself to flow into being in a way that honours the self.
"It's where you go to die for a second time, / Lay your head down and go," Sinclair sings softly at the beginning of "Begin." "And when I wake, I'll make even more mistakes," she affirms sweetly as a rose petal. "I've been so tough for a while now," she goes on to croon, crucially not lamenting. It's a track that, with its electric guitar twanging like a country ballad, feels soft as a grassy knoll. Despite mistakes and moments of fatigue and fear, "it's gonna be a perfect day," Sinclair sings. A few tracks later, on the blazing "Landback," barbed words excoriate sideways, violently-attained colonial power, and after a scuzzy interlude, Sinclair's voice softens as she sings anthemically, "My heart beats with you / The sun shines for you, [...] when no one's listening / We're here for you." The track straddles ire against injustice and tenderness toward its victims so deftly that not only is it dazzling to behold, but also intuitively organic.
Sinclair has cunningly captured all the shades of the psyche unraveling and mending on this album. Her lyrics sear and grate, accuse and bear witness, reveal and ache as they excavate and prod at wounds and rejoice in selfishness that manages to be both self-honouring and consoling in their rawness. Supporting her voice — in turns clarion and operatic, honouring a free and human wildness — is impeccable musicianship by a crew of inimitable female artists: Anna Ruddick on bass, Dani Nash on drums, Robin Hatch on keyboard and guitar, and Praise Lam and Blanche Israël on strings. Women helm the pitch-perfect production here, too: the album is engineered by Jill Zimmerman and mastered by Emily Lazar.
Super Blood Wolf Moon is brazen, unruly and consoling. The final track on the album is the eponymous "Super Blood Wolf Moon," and on it Sinclair's voice rings with a tangy brightness like a summer's day. As she sings, "My heart fades into you, [...] 'cause you know I'll be true, / Know I'll ride with you," the strings not so much wail as they stretch like a bolstering arm across one's shoulder. Like a hug that lasts exactly long enough to bring tears to your eyes, to remind you that you are seen, "Super Blood Wolf Moon" perfectly closes off an album that's as freeing and cathartic and incendiary as it is instructive — in showing us how to exist uninhibited, it provides a tender pocket to rest and shore up the energy to set fire to all that is violent and crumbling.
To be merely described as brave elides elements of fallibility, of humanity. Fear, anger, sadness, romanticizing sentimentality and fatigue are just some of the many real and flawed and justified aspects of life — these are all facets of being that Sinclair seems to celebrate, joyously pushing against the clean and saintly aura of designations like "brave." Like the moon in its title, Super Blood Wolf Moon is a revelation that blushes with life.
