by Paul Newsom
Toronto’s Burs wrote a record as distinct and enduring as an army of their namesakes. Holding Patterns is purposeful, mixing curiosity, confession, and metaphor to startling effect. The album’s production is eminently clear, leaving empty space to haunt as opaque edges demand scrutiny.
In “Hard Love,” Lauren Dillen sings: “All the people that once knew me, they knew somebody else / I am seeping through the fabric from the wound of the troubles that I wear.” Every other phrase on the record is nearly as vivid and affecting. This is music in full colour.
On both song- and album-scale, the music builds and builds and builds, only showing its full courage and endurance by record’s end. Paired singing and acoustic guitar anchor a host of other sounds – all in their right place as they muse on things gone wrong. Though it only flourishes on the timescale, it is hard to imagine “The Year Now” without its tambourine and woodwind touches.
“Try,” carried by harmonized singing (versus more common unison and octaved backing vocals), feels like a ’70s folk throwback in its warmth and wonder. “Nearly,” several tracks later, carries this trend further with stripped-down form and lucid lyrics: “There is only space enough for clowns inside this car.”
“Hunger” is anthemic, projecting the scale of a post-rock song from its radio-length span. Every strum haunts, and each piano tone bends to bleed the canvas full. “I Have a Light” is a memorable demo-like epilogue dotted by background static. It’s satisfying to see this ambivalent journey closed off with quiet hope.
Holding Patterns sounds like how its album cover looks. Like good abstract art, the individual pieces can be read and reread in myriad combinations without missing the artist’s own signature. Burs’ work is as fascinating as it is unmistakable. For fans of: Carissa’s Wierd, Girlpool, ’70s folk in general.