Miya Folick tells the truth. Within the first minute of Premonitions, her full-length debut, she sings "I'm sorry," her voice steeped with a looming sob. To Folick, this sort of frankness is "truly kind." She seeks it out on the title track and she uses it to pop the blister of a friend's infatuation on "Stop Talking." On "Deadbody," she sharpens it into something to wield. Folick is adamant about even the most aspirational truths — innate goodness, her own resilience — because, she repeats, "We will become the words we say." We can sing our way to new realities.
Co-produced with Justin Raisen (Charli XCX, Angel Olsen), Premonitions crackles and somersaults, its eyelashes sparkly with tears. Drum machines (some submerged, others indignant), gooey heartache, and the autoeroticism of dancing alone all trail and twirl behind the opener's heaving apology. The album can so ricochet because of Folick's sprawling vocal range, which can quiver at atmospheric, Sinead O'Connor altitudes only to plummet into St. Vincent growls and skips.
Some of her quick diction — "I paint my pinkie toes" — is Lorde-precise. Amorphous, she makes it safe to lose control, to melt, even if it's a stolen moment. Even if we can only do it with eyes and doors slammed shut. "We can freak out!" she proclaims, erupting into confetti synths.
Folick makes resplendent her "tiny happinesses"; she whisks a world where a bowl of cereal is a celebration. "I want to fill myself with bliss," she peaks on brassy, boastful "Leave the Party," harmonizing with the tiny Miyas reflected in her bobbing, pink-polish toes. Her bliss: "Turn off my cell phone / Take off all of my clothes." She knows she can't "ignore the darkness," but she also knows the power of choice. So she leaves the party with all her weight, calling out, "I choose flight."
(Terrible/Interscope)Co-produced with Justin Raisen (Charli XCX, Angel Olsen), Premonitions crackles and somersaults, its eyelashes sparkly with tears. Drum machines (some submerged, others indignant), gooey heartache, and the autoeroticism of dancing alone all trail and twirl behind the opener's heaving apology. The album can so ricochet because of Folick's sprawling vocal range, which can quiver at atmospheric, Sinead O'Connor altitudes only to plummet into St. Vincent growls and skips.
Some of her quick diction — "I paint my pinkie toes" — is Lorde-precise. Amorphous, she makes it safe to lose control, to melt, even if it's a stolen moment. Even if we can only do it with eyes and doors slammed shut. "We can freak out!" she proclaims, erupting into confetti synths.
Folick makes resplendent her "tiny happinesses"; she whisks a world where a bowl of cereal is a celebration. "I want to fill myself with bliss," she peaks on brassy, boastful "Leave the Party," harmonizing with the tiny Miyas reflected in her bobbing, pink-polish toes. Her bliss: "Turn off my cell phone / Take off all of my clothes." She knows she can't "ignore the darkness," but she also knows the power of choice. So she leaves the party with all her weight, calling out, "I choose flight."