What does it mean to be human, and to love? That is the question posed by the Nashville based alternative trio COIN in their newest album Uncanny Valley. Asked and pondered by the thinking’s and ennui of an almost sad text-to-speech voice, the poignancy and astoundingly universal nature of this question is far from lost in the boastful anthems of the A-side and the solemn ballads of the B-side. This kind of introspection isn’t the norm for the Tennessee outfit however, with their biggest hits being sunny summertime pop such as “Talk Too Much” and “Malibu 1992” (both off their sophomore album How Will You Know If You Never Try) that are much more suited for the dancefloor than a scholarly discussion. This maturity in subject and execution however shows that COIN isn’t satisfied with being a one trick pony, and their diligence in creating a thematic showpiece is exactly what they needed to set themselves apart.
It’s good to note that, as I alluded earlier, the A-side and B-side of this album are very different and serve as separate representations of the human experience. While the A-side represents the naive and institutionalized ideas of love and the machinations of life through some of the poppy sounds COIN is already known for, the B-side takes these ideas and scours them for validity and solutions through unmistakably mellow harmonies that are no doubt breach the real uncanny valley for the band. One could almost listen to these sides as separate albums, but where is the fun in that?
The opening track of the A-side, “Learning”, ponders what it means to learn by experience. Are we defined by our birth, or what we make of the time after? Is love already defined, or do we have to define it ourselves? These are just a few of the questions posed by this opening wash of sounds that aim to tickle the brain. Chase Lawrence, the front man of the trio, establishes a sense of disconnection from the human experience for an unbiased look at these questions by using heavy vocal distortion, and a quality that can only be described as sorrowful. The very last line of the song is cutoff by the text-to-speech voice announcing “welcome, user”, as if we just logged on to the rest of the album. Greeting us after our successful login is “Chapstick”, a sexy, confident, unapologetic answer to what love is. The purely 70’s gangly guitar riff and heavy-set beat carry lyrics that explore the animalistic and selfish parts of love, with Lawrence singing lines such as, “I just wanna taste your chapstick, baby”. Also on the A-side is the named dropped “Brad Pitt”, a tune you can’t resist singing along to that is more akin to house than to alternative. The crystal-clear beat drops and the slow decay of the lyric’s grasp on reality makes this song feel like one last attempt to hold onto a bygone disposition of what it means to be famous. We are greeted with a “good morning, user” by our text-to-speech voice at the beginning of “I Think I Met You In A Dream”, the last hurrah to the established sound of the first side of the album. Beginning to trend to the dreamier side of their pop-influence, COIN begins to wonder about what love truly is, especially after waking from such a romantic dream. Joe Memmels twangy acoustic guitar helps establish the dreamlike aroma of the track with sprinkles of spice from the layered choruses throughout.
The first B-side song, “It Works”, explores what it means to think you have everything in the world you could ever want, and still be disappointed. Lawrence states “just ‘cause it works, doesn’t mean it’s not broken”, with his signature laid-back vocals beginning to wander, along with the acoustic guitar and calculated synth beats living in the same stream of curiosity. “Getting Older”, arguably the best track off the B-side is deceivingly happy. The jangly and sugary-sweet strums and true percussion want to take you straight back to the beach, but the lyricism shed a tear for the band’s growth and coming-of-age. No longer is it the sound of a rag tag group of musicians in the Music City trying to make it big, but the artistic strokes of three painters attempting to catch the eye of those who are willing to marvel at the technicolor. “Plug Me In” is the last ask for innocence without judgement, but in fashion of finality, reminds us that we all must face the music at some point. The last cry to “plug me in” is an intricate chorale of the trio’s voices doubles, while being whisked off their feet by the ever quixotic sound of orchestral string swells. The final note of the song, and entire album for that matter, is fittingly a long, synthetic downward pitch bend, simulating the sound of powering down for the last time.
COIN didn’t make an album with Uncanny Valley, they made a symphony. Every song, every beat, every instrument choice, every lyric, every sound-bite and each track’s placement has meaning tied to it’s overall theme. It is very hard to find this kind of cohesion in albums today, and it is absolutely a breath of fresh air. Whether the trio answers their guiding question well or not is up to the listener to decide, and that is what makes the experience so wonderful. We as humans tend to not like to be told what to think, but in the uncanny valley, we must decide what is real, and what isn’t….
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