Ari Voxx isn’t telling us the whole truth. On I’m Okay, Please Stop Asking, the veteran of a hundred genres has found new purchase as the powerhouse front of the Sad Lads, a three-piece ensemble of equally decorated players whose technicolor sound ranges from space-age exotica to icy cool 80’s-tinged synth pop. But while her wrenching lyrics signal resignation, her indelible spirit tells us otherwise.
Whether locked into tight, angular post-punk inspired rhythms or generating a wall of ambience to carry the weight of Voxx’s dead-serious sentiments, the Sad Lads demonstrate a facility with genre that defies categorization. As they vacillate from the metronomic pulses of Future Islands to the kitschy tropical harmony of Stereolab or Tame Impala, the band’s steady hands guide us from scene to scene on Voxx’s tortured stage without ever inducing the whiplash one might expect from all this genre bending. And yet, the group’s arrangements remain tastefully concise, allowing for moments of naked tension and sky-high choruses that shove their way out of headphones, giving indie pop anthems (Arcade Fire’s “Sprawl II” and Chvrches’ “Clearest Blue” spring to mind) a run for their money.
But despite the swirling, ethereal production and galloping rhythm section behind her, the ear can’t help but focus on Voxx. While the band raises listeners to starry, neon-tinged heights, the singer’s vocals ground us in her particular brand of darkness. Her inner turmoil is no secret—there’s a note about depression in her bio—but the album still manages to present some arrestingly raw confessions. On their surface, or through the din of a crowded bar, many of the album’s songs could be mistaken for blissed-out expressions of joy, but on hushed numbers like “Around,” there’s no mistaking how fresh and deep her wounds are.
Voxx’s vocal confidence is palpable. The black, queer singer’s acrobatic voice jockeys for position, refusing to be categorized in a world determined to push it down to a manageable level and a comfortable box. It’s this projected strength that threatens to convince us of some of her most morose lyrical sentiments, but on IOPSA, there is light peaking through every dark room, and black shadows on the brightest of days.
Though the album’s thematic valleys would indicate a sense of total hopelessness, the fragility of Voxx’s voice occasionally betrays the words being sung. It’s these small cracks in her typically animated tone that show us that, just like we do, she’s trying to convince herself of the narrative she’s spinning. On its opening chorus, she sings “if you think I won’t succeed, you might be eating your words,” but by its final lines, she’s found herself back in a place of inescapable pain, crying “I’m killing myself, and I’m not okay.”
On IOPSA, Voxx trusts her audience to understand that just because she sings something at the top of her lungs, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s the whole story, and it doesn’t mean she won’t feel the opposite way tomorrow. She’s wrestling with these subjects in public, with all the messiness of someone figuring it out, and we get to benefit from her dispatches from the edge. As listeners, we see ourselves, feel ourselves inside these contradictions. With the Sad Lads’ dreamy, melting soundscapes bending her melodies like a funhouse mirror, Voxx gives us a safe space to play—and more importantly, to dance—in this strange, liminal space inside ourselves.
- Braeden Henderson
Ari Voxx isn’t telling us the whole truth. On I’m Okay, Please Stop Asking, the veteran of a hundred genres has found new purchase as the powerhouse front of the Sad Lads, a three-piece ensemble of equally decorated players whose technicolor sound ranges from space-age exotica to icy cool 80’s-tinged synth pop. But while her wrenching lyrics signal resignation, her indelible spirit tells us otherwise.
Whether locked into tight, angular post-punk inspired rhythms or generating a wall of ambience to carry the weight of Voxx’s dead-serious sentiments, the Sad Lads demonstrate a facility with genre that defies categorization. As they vacillate from the metronomic pulses of Future Islands to the kitschy tropical harmony of Stereolab or Tame Impala, the band’s steady hands guide us from scene to scene on Voxx’s tortured stage without ever inducing the whiplash one might expect from all this genre bending. And yet, the group’s arrangements remain tastefully concise, allowing for moments of naked tension and sky-high choruses that shove their way out of headphones, giving indie pop anthems (Arcade Fire’s “Sprawl II” and Chvrches’ “Clearest Blue” spring to mind) a run for their money.
But despite the swirling, ethereal production and galloping rhythm section behind her, the ear can’t help but focus on Voxx. While the band raises listeners to starry, neon-tinged heights, the singer’s vocals ground us in her particular brand of darkness. Her inner turmoil is no secret—there’s a note about depression in her bio—but the album still manages to present some arrestingly raw confessions. On their surface, or through the din of a crowded bar, many of the album’s songs could be mistaken for blissed-out expressions of joy, but on hushed numbers like “Around,” there’s no mistaking how fresh and deep her wounds are.
Voxx’s vocal confidence is palpable. The black, queer singer’s acrobatic voice jockeys for position, refusing to be categorized in a world determined to push it down to a manageable level and a comfortable box. It’s this projected strength that threatens to convince us of some of her most morose lyrical sentiments, but on IOPSA, there is light peaking through every dark room, and black shadows on the brightest of days.
Though the album’s thematic valleys would indicate a sense of total hopelessness, the fragility of Voxx’s voice occasionally betrays the words being sung. It’s these small cracks in her typically animated tone that show us that, just like we do, she’s trying to convince herself of the narrative she’s spinning. On its opening chorus, she sings “if you think I won’t succeed, you might be eating your words,” but by its final lines, she’s found herself back in a place of inescapable pain, crying “I’m killing myself, and I’m not okay.”
On IOPSA, Voxx trusts her audience to understand that just because she sings something at the top of her lungs, it doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s the whole story, and it doesn’t mean she won’t feel the opposite way tomorrow. She’s wrestling with these subjects in public, with all the messiness of someone figuring it out, and we get to benefit from her dispatches from the edge. As listeners, we see ourselves, feel ourselves inside these contradictions. With the Sad Lads’ dreamy, melting soundscapes bending her melodies like a funhouse mirror, Voxx gives us a safe space to play—and more importantly, to dance—in this strange, liminal space inside ourselves.
- Braeden Henderson
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