Mandy Walker’s music is built around personal trauma and the way it channels the anxieties and anxieties of the modern city. And Amber Stronk and Steve Parrish’s aural experiences are captured in the music. They appear in the electronic intimacy of “Crazies”, where the guitars and percussive shards of melody seem to be constructed from the debris of the city’s sound. The whole album is built around Walker’s voice, the smooth acoustic guitar that glides over the droning bass and stuttering vocals, the percussive shards that mimic the delicate guitar tones of the '60s and '70s, the heavy, piercing percussive shards whose discordant textures clash with the grand piano’s subtle interpolation.

The album opens with “Crazies,” which is an open, going-away scene, where the daughters of the proprietor of a barber shop (also Walker’s) attend a dance. There’s a sense of the social ties that connect the streets to the sound of the city. The steady, circular tones of “The Crazies” are as close as the album gets to Walker’s past, the sense of the city’s sonic and acoustic properties, as a memento mori of her childhood. The fact that she has a working group of collaborators is another hint of the way her music has been captured in the past.

The album opens “Crazies” with Walker’s voice, which is the only part of the album that reaches beyond the stark, blue-black of the songs. It looks the part of the jobber, a barmaid in a bar called the Crazies. There are two of them there, dressed in loose, waistcoat-like robes, the other two wearing black shirts and ties. “Crazies” is a barmaid’s song, and it’s a good one. It’s a lovely song, with a lovely chorus, a song that’s also Walker’s lungs.

The album opens “Crazies” with a mournful, echoing choir, which is the only part of its theme that has a hint of an older, more haunting theme. The rest of it, the pieces that follow, are more abstract and interesting. This isn’t an easy record to get into, but it’s a touching and beautiful record.