We reviewed the new segabodega record:
, Navarrete uses the lexicon of modern club music and intimate, reflexive lyrics to create an astonishingly confessional art-pop album. There’s a self-awareness to the themes that bindwhich prevent it from straying into braggadocious territory. While Navarrete might be flippant with emotions of others, party until he drops and throw abandon out the window, he toils with suicidal ideation, alcoholism, and self-destructive tendencies.
Navarrete makes no concessions for his actions. He presents himself earnestly: He can be both a selfish asshole and a problematic friend. But that doesn’t mean we can’t feel for him. His lyrics, as candid as they are, utterly shock in their directness, yet are laden with irony so that they aren’timmediate; they’re musings that, as a stranger, you would be completely unable to respond to. Take “Masochism,” which surges with a dark, sexy garage beat.
“Raising Hell,” instead, finds Navarrete feeling alone and “horny with [his] phone,” so he does what any modern man might and searches for a hookup. There’s a bizarreness to how the track is constructed: It’s as close to an anthem as the album gets, complete with claps and triumphant harmonies, but it’s a song about the meaninglessness of a booty call and the mishandling of others’ emotions, beset by the comfortable distance achieved behind a smartphone.
Sometimes it can be too much. “U Got The Fever” is Navarrete’s callout of an “evil unbeliever,” relying on tropes of clingy exes to forge a contrasting narrative. It doesn’t feel nearly as ironic a sentiment as any other song, though it’s also the album’s most traditionally electro offering, complete with Avicii-esque whistles. Navarrete’s excellence as a songwriter lies in his outsider perspective and his ability to flip that on its head. “U Got The Fever” feels too populist to resonate.
In direct opposition to “U Got The Fever” is “Kuvasz in Snow,” where, after an album’s worth of problematic behavior and rightful dude-go-homes, Navarrete is at his most crystalline, fragile yet with sharpened edges. It’s his least emotively drowned cut, in which he proffers a classic “just give up on me, I’m a lost cause.” In the album’s final moments, Navarrete sings, limpidly, “Masking is all that we know / We hide in plain sight like Kuvasz in snow,” played out by radiant piano crescendos.
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