Bess Atwell - already always
By Maya Marie
In her debut full-length album, Bess Atwell emerges honest and shining, having invited listeners into an intimate confessional on growth, stale relationships, and nostalgia. Exhibiting a greater maturity than Atwell’s previous EPs, which are largely carried by her stand-out voice (somewhere in between label-head Lucy Rose and Julia Jacklin), Already, Always marries evocative lyrics with a refined but dreamy indie-folk soundscape which listeners can just soak into. Warming and hard to swallow all at once, airy guitar-led instrumentation lifts Atwell’s lyrics as they occasionally reach uncomfortably candid depths. But that’s just what makes this album so authentic and charming. In her own words, the album is “unapologetic, evocative, and English.” Atwell’s storytelling is unfailingly captivating; she is simultaneously your best friend, you, and the person who hurt you. Although the album largely dwells on the fallout from and return to one relationship, Atwell’s focus is on the self-knowledge gained throughout these events. She reflects, “I think almost all relationships are really just a manifestation of your relationship with yourself.” In this track-by-track review, I trace the course of this journey.
Album opener and first single ‘Co-Op’ is a beautiful coalescence of everyday rituals and reflections on the place of individuality within a relationship. An bright layering of guitar picking and bass underscores Atwell’s ethereal voice as she paints intricate scenes, from “lean[ing] against the wall at a Blondie tribute concert” to her “favourite place on Portland Road […] between the radiator and some trash tv” and trips to the Co-Op. Beneath all of these details, though, is a persistent self-dialogue questioning the validity of her relationship: “I said I love him / I said it’s not enough.” By the song’s end, however, she proudly captures her growth: “I’ve learnt to apologise / Learnt to trust somebody with my body, I / Learnt there’s a life outside mine / Press the trigger, take this picture.” Atwell even quotes Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway, a novel centred on realising the interwoven nature of all lives. When this song was first released, I thought it was the best thing I’d ever heard, but the album’s following singles have gone above and beyond my expectations.
‘All You Can Do’ draws on 2000s indie-rock influences to explore the nearing end of a relationship, centring the repetitive chorus line “Is that all you can do for me?” around a single descending guitar riff. Atwell poses the question largely to herself, as she wrestles with prioritising either her self-growth outside the relationship or her strong friendship within it. The imagery in this song is strange, and often dissonant, but it highlights the changing power relations within a couple. Atwell begins referring to herself in gustatory terms (“you took me in / But you never spat me out / Now I've gone stale / And I don't think you taste it / Well why don't you taste it?”) and then progresses to speak of herself in the role of animal owner: “I know I'm in love with your cheeks / You're my sweet puppy / But is man's best friend on a lead?”. A grower, for sure, ‘All You Can Do’ is an intriguing song, though not as strong melodically or lyrically as others on the album that touch on similar themes. To say that, however, is to say that she doesn’t have me literally aching for her as much as in other moments on the album, which is a pretty high standard.
The album’s third track shifts tone as Atwell’s voice slides seductively through an expansive yet minimal soundscape of piano, which ebbs and flows alongside electronic drums. ‘Silver Fir’ is a nostalgic exploration of a childhood friendship. She conjures a sensory description of her friend’s house, her mum’s car, and the peanut sandwiches they would eat in the basement, and shifts from these specifics to vaguer, more emotionally led memories: “Do you forgive me / For dripping on your nice things?” Without a chorus, the song reaches a haunting climax in an echo chamber shaped by memories clouded with childhood ignorance: “When people say no and you know I don’t know what they meant / should I know what they meant? / Should I know what they meant? / Should I know what they meant now?”
In ‘Dolly’, Atwell swaps to assume the position of carer. Attending to a friend in need, she constructs a tender, yet haunting, acoustic lullaby with a simple structure and infantile lyrics to match the vulnerable, childlike position of the addressee. Atwell reimagines her friend as a toy, in the hands of others: “you’ve been tossed and turned like a dolly,” and her needing to look after her: “I want to wrap you up in cotton wool and make your bed.” This song is a solace for the listener, offering out the comfort Atwell wishes for her friend.
‘Love is Not Enough’ can easily slip into the background on first listen amongst the rest of the album, but its foreboding, questioning and sombre tone renders it one of the most poignant moments on the album. Over immersive, moody backing harmonies, Atwell queries the future of a relationship by which she is not fully satisfied, despite it being based on love. She sings of trying to add a new spark by planning a trip away but adds “We’re both afraid to fly after last time” – a line that sets up so much intrigue, constructing a larger picture of the couple that the listener gets to know over the course of the album. The song meets its crescendo in the bridge, Atwell desperately repeating “I don’t want to go adrift”, to only return to sing one line of the chorus: “But what if love is not enough to keep us?” This ending initially feels abrupt, leaving questions unanswered, but Atwell’s excellent track listing provides a conclusion, as the next track begins with her seemingly having decided that love is, indeed, not enough: “How do you leave someone you love?”
‘How Do You Leave?’ is an upbeat runaway song with rhythm and percussion comparable to early Daughter. It perfectly captures both the act of sneaking away in the night and the chaos of planning such an exit, exploring intertwined feelings of guilt and freedom
Atwell explores many of the album’s key themes in one simple but incredibly compelling and cathartic song, ‘Time Comes in Roses’. When this song came out, I had it on repeat, going on walks alone just to listen to its poetry over and over. Atwell contemplates all things time: aging, the changing seasons, the stagnation experienced in lockdown, and the way that mental health alters the way progress can be perceived. Particularly poignant is her reflection on the implications of aging for women, especially in a music industry that’s perpetually focusing on youth: “Five years wasted, I’m still young / But only by a couple months / And then I’m dead for all intents and purposes / […] Nobody thinks I’m special yet.” Atwell has shared that ‘Time Comes in Roses’ was initially inspired by the challenges of returning to live with her parents over lockdown, but her later ADHD diagnosis retroactively clarified many of the experiences she details in the song. The simultaneous intimacy and relatability of the chorus demonstrates Atwell’s lyrical strength: “Time comes in roses, I really love you / I’m tired of being like my mother / I get excited, I get depressed / I’m never happy with how I’m dressed.”
‘Red Light Heaven’ is a close contender alongside ‘Time Comes in Roses’ for the best song on the album. In the album’s closest thing to a pop song, Atwell aligns her search for spirituality with failure in relationships. The song begins citing her and her partner’s spiritual differences as a motivation for their breakup (“You believe in nothing and I’m the same / But unlike me, yes, I know you like it that way”) but throughout the song she finds herself wanting to rekindle the relationship in need for meaning. The song traces beautiful domestic scenes— “Turning the music up in the kitchen when I’m cooking solo, solo”—and juxtaposes the detail with the abstract desires that shape them: “I can’t stop looking for that red light / Heaven is below my feet.” In discussing the song, Atwell explains that “the belief that life is mostly meaningless is simultaneously dark and liberating, and I think these beliefs inform my relationships — I want to feel connected because it’s the only meaning I can draw from life.” In this song, Atwell reaches new heights, not only thematically, but vocally – in this slightly more upbeat style she sounds amazing.
The album’s penultimate song, ‘Olivia, in a Separate Bed’, is a cover of an unreleased song by Robin Pecknold of Fleet Foxes. Despite slight lyrical and sonic differences from the rest of the album, Atwell makes the song her own, fitting it perfectly into the album’s narrative. Atwell is at her most regretful, and correspondingly, most theatrical, vocally, instrumentally, and lyrically (following Atwell’s romantic scepticism throughout the album it’s a surprise to hear her boldly state: “I still love you and I know I will ‘til I die.)” Set to a dissonant array of synths, post-break up, Atwell looks back remorsefully on her choosing “the love of strangers” and desperately asks her ex, represented by Olivia in this cover, to forgive her. Pecknold’s lyrical imagery compares to Atwell’s, especially in one beautifully self-aware simile that evokes the album’s artwork: “I know I've been like a house cat / Give me this, give me that / And I know I'll be okay / But beg for my attention / Or work from my affection / I just stare and walk away.”
Although ‘Olivia, in a Separate Bed’ may have been the most satisfying album closer in terms of narrative progression, Atwell chooses to end Already, Always with ‘Nobody’, a song she explains “just summarised something I’d wanted to say for a long time.” Perhaps unsurprisingly, this is the most melancholy sentiment yet. In a stripped-back and short acoustic guitar-led ballad, the poignantly blunt lyrics are the focus. Atwell tenderly sings of her comfort with existential loneliness: “I want to find my ending / And cut to the chase / Where nobody is meant for me / I crossed the river to find / Love is made for watering / If I don’t believe in us.” The album’s most heart-breaking song yet is also the most warming and magical. It feels like it has always been out there somewhere, so familiar, just waiting to be released into the world.
Already, Always is an immersive listen that you’re unlikely to recover from anytime soon. Like a hot bath, it is both soothing and painful, and, glass of wine in hand, will probably make you cry.