They warn you that it's lonely at the top. And so goes the tale as old as time: wanting to make pop music but being a little reluctant about being a pop star. This tension is, unsurprisingly, at the forefront of Valley's minds on Lost in Translation — a pop album being released on a major label, with record executives eyeing it as the Toronto-based band's rocket to the moon. The pressure must be insurmountable.
After all, where else would the classic trope of major label acts writing a song about being stressed about producing a hit come from? Valley's explicit entry into this canon was "SOCIETY" from their 2021 Last Birthday EP, which also included "Like 1999" — one of those maverick newfangled TikTok shooting-star moments. A gift and a curse, one could wager.
"There's no song to fight the feeling," frontman Rob Laska admits on "Lost in Translation," before going on to diagnose the titular sense of feeling disoriented and misunderstood as "symptoms of the pressure pushing on my name." He repeats, "Sometimes I really wish I never did change," recalling texts from old friends about hearing Valley on the radio and assuming he must be making lots of money, before correcting, "Shit, I know that's not true / But honest to god, I miss you."
Much like Taylor Swift, Laska's on some new shit now ("Throwback Tears"). Together, Karah James, Mickey Brandolino, Alex DiMauro and himself have millions of monthly listeners and have toured internationally, selling out North American shows in the blink of an eye and garnering recognition on the global stage. The stakes are higher than ever, and Valley have never not swung for the fences.
The ambitious scale of their approach to the genre is something that has been present in the band's arrangements since the beginning. Mercifully, that doesn't go missing on Lost in Translation. But, much like the musicians themselves, it has grown and changed — "Everything's changed / But maybe not in the right way," they put it as they struggle to recognize themselves in the mirror on "I Haven't Seen You in Forever." Being in your mid-twenties is a notoriously messy time, and Valley embrace all of the confusion that comes with wondering if we're making the right choices to lead us down the right paths. We have to accept the hard truths even when the logic doesn't quite add up.
They make it all sound a lot more shiny and fun than it usually is. Valley have long had a knack for voicing universal aspects of the young-millennial plight while pushing their sound into both firmly-modern and nostalgic territories, especially with their innate sense of melody. "Natural" is an effortless, head-bobbing highlight that exemplifies this: When I first registered the "Like psilocybin, we're vibin'" line, I was floored. It's ridiculous, but it might also be brilliant?
And that's what I want from my pop music. Give me the undeniable hooks with memorable turns of phrase that present challenges, pushing and pulling my discernment in different directions until I'm left wondering what so-called "taste" even counts for. (It's all made-up anyway, right?) There's a misconception that pop is supposed to be straightforward, easy listening; no surprises. I reject that notion adamantly, and so do Valley.
With vocals pitch-shifted down with gravity's pull, "i thought i could fly" is the stark mid-moment in the album that it's clearly intended to be. Driven by understated acoustic strums and twinkling piano, Laska grapples with outgrowing Peter Pan syndrome. "My hands got tired of all this steering / They built the car, but there's no lights," he sings, distanced by the vocal effects and provided some of that highly coveted anonymity, juxtaposed with a robotic-sounding admission of something entirely human. Not to talk about Taylor Swift again, but this feels like a cue from the "Delicate" playbook.
Relatively speaking, Lost in Translation kind of slumps — with the exception of the cute update to a Fleetwood Mac classic "Either Way, I'm Going Your Way" and "I Haven't Seen You in Forever" — from that point onward, going from a swaying, Jason Mraz-esque love song ("We Don't Need Malibu") to tempo-samey falsetto balladry ("Keep My Stuff") to once again focussing on the love/hate relationship with artistic pursuit ("Big Jet Plane," sadly not an Angus & Julia Stone homage).
The desperation for relief from anxiety's strain returns, and goes new places, on the "Bittersweet Symphony"-recalling closing track, "Fishbowl" — a plea for connection, sure, but mostly escape. When Laska repeats, "Is there anybody out there?" it seems like he longs for someone to absolve him rather than make him feel truly seen.
This is a classic Valley twist, making you think a song is a straightforward rehash of a familiar concept before subtly swapping a few words around on a chorus to make you pause and reconsider. And the orchestral outro fades into some familiar tones from "Watery Brain," the closer of the band's 2019 debut album MAYBE — something of a leitmotif connecting the past, present and future — and bleeds directly into the intricate flourish of the album introduction for a satisfyingly seamless loop.
Again, it's the level of thought and care that Valley put into their compositions and a body of work as a whole that sets them apart from so many pre-packaged industry plants. Although they gamely accept their assigned writing sessions, they still produce the majority of their songs collaboratively amongst themselves, working together at every level of conception with a synergy that only would-be high school friends who showed up to a double-booked studio time while in two different bands could.
Even if poptimism is arguably out of style, looking at pop music with a sense of childlike wonder while balancing the pressure to deliver a hit on a deadline is not for the faint of heart. It makes it feel nearly impossible not to root for Valley, or to disrespect what they're trying to do — even when the execution falters or the direction just isn't for you. You don't lose hope that the next one will go your way, either way.
(Universal)After all, where else would the classic trope of major label acts writing a song about being stressed about producing a hit come from? Valley's explicit entry into this canon was "SOCIETY" from their 2021 Last Birthday EP, which also included "Like 1999" — one of those maverick newfangled TikTok shooting-star moments. A gift and a curse, one could wager.
"There's no song to fight the feeling," frontman Rob Laska admits on "Lost in Translation," before going on to diagnose the titular sense of feeling disoriented and misunderstood as "symptoms of the pressure pushing on my name." He repeats, "Sometimes I really wish I never did change," recalling texts from old friends about hearing Valley on the radio and assuming he must be making lots of money, before correcting, "Shit, I know that's not true / But honest to god, I miss you."
Much like Taylor Swift, Laska's on some new shit now ("Throwback Tears"). Together, Karah James, Mickey Brandolino, Alex DiMauro and himself have millions of monthly listeners and have toured internationally, selling out North American shows in the blink of an eye and garnering recognition on the global stage. The stakes are higher than ever, and Valley have never not swung for the fences.
The ambitious scale of their approach to the genre is something that has been present in the band's arrangements since the beginning. Mercifully, that doesn't go missing on Lost in Translation. But, much like the musicians themselves, it has grown and changed — "Everything's changed / But maybe not in the right way," they put it as they struggle to recognize themselves in the mirror on "I Haven't Seen You in Forever." Being in your mid-twenties is a notoriously messy time, and Valley embrace all of the confusion that comes with wondering if we're making the right choices to lead us down the right paths. We have to accept the hard truths even when the logic doesn't quite add up.
They make it all sound a lot more shiny and fun than it usually is. Valley have long had a knack for voicing universal aspects of the young-millennial plight while pushing their sound into both firmly-modern and nostalgic territories, especially with their innate sense of melody. "Natural" is an effortless, head-bobbing highlight that exemplifies this: When I first registered the "Like psilocybin, we're vibin'" line, I was floored. It's ridiculous, but it might also be brilliant?
And that's what I want from my pop music. Give me the undeniable hooks with memorable turns of phrase that present challenges, pushing and pulling my discernment in different directions until I'm left wondering what so-called "taste" even counts for. (It's all made-up anyway, right?) There's a misconception that pop is supposed to be straightforward, easy listening; no surprises. I reject that notion adamantly, and so do Valley.
With vocals pitch-shifted down with gravity's pull, "i thought i could fly" is the stark mid-moment in the album that it's clearly intended to be. Driven by understated acoustic strums and twinkling piano, Laska grapples with outgrowing Peter Pan syndrome. "My hands got tired of all this steering / They built the car, but there's no lights," he sings, distanced by the vocal effects and provided some of that highly coveted anonymity, juxtaposed with a robotic-sounding admission of something entirely human. Not to talk about Taylor Swift again, but this feels like a cue from the "Delicate" playbook.
Relatively speaking, Lost in Translation kind of slumps — with the exception of the cute update to a Fleetwood Mac classic "Either Way, I'm Going Your Way" and "I Haven't Seen You in Forever" — from that point onward, going from a swaying, Jason Mraz-esque love song ("We Don't Need Malibu") to tempo-samey falsetto balladry ("Keep My Stuff") to once again focussing on the love/hate relationship with artistic pursuit ("Big Jet Plane," sadly not an Angus & Julia Stone homage).
The desperation for relief from anxiety's strain returns, and goes new places, on the "Bittersweet Symphony"-recalling closing track, "Fishbowl" — a plea for connection, sure, but mostly escape. When Laska repeats, "Is there anybody out there?" it seems like he longs for someone to absolve him rather than make him feel truly seen.
This is a classic Valley twist, making you think a song is a straightforward rehash of a familiar concept before subtly swapping a few words around on a chorus to make you pause and reconsider. And the orchestral outro fades into some familiar tones from "Watery Brain," the closer of the band's 2019 debut album MAYBE — something of a leitmotif connecting the past, present and future — and bleeds directly into the intricate flourish of the album introduction for a satisfyingly seamless loop.
Again, it's the level of thought and care that Valley put into their compositions and a body of work as a whole that sets them apart from so many pre-packaged industry plants. Although they gamely accept their assigned writing sessions, they still produce the majority of their songs collaboratively amongst themselves, working together at every level of conception with a synergy that only would-be high school friends who showed up to a double-booked studio time while in two different bands could.
Even if poptimism is arguably out of style, looking at pop music with a sense of childlike wonder while balancing the pressure to deliver a hit on a deadline is not for the faint of heart. It makes it feel nearly impossible not to root for Valley, or to disrespect what they're trying to do — even when the execution falters or the direction just isn't for you. You don't lose hope that the next one will go your way, either way.
