Hannah Lew is an indie veteran. The San Francisco singer has already earned a fulfilling, lengthy career through her bands Grass Widow and Cold Beat (among others); the mysterious surf guitars of the former, the cruising synthpop of the latter.
These projects were only half-concerned – at most – with stepping out of the shadows of independent anti-pop, especially Grass Widow. Hannah’s vocals were often detached from the very emotional being singing them, sort of a “screw you” to anybody expecting to stumble upon a new pop heroine whilst browsing the underground.
But her solo debut, self-titled, is the closest Hannah Lew has come to scratching whatever poppy itches she may or may not have had whilst coming of age. Even then, she is unimpressed by the concept of appeasement or conformity; this is her synthpop, her ultra-melodic take on the lengths she had previously churned with her bands.
This is largely owed to Hannah’s take on synthpop being either influenced by or reminiscent of groups that should’ve been ostracised by social standards, but managed to obtain success. The multitude of ways she uses synthesisers on Time Wasted is akin to The Knife; frothing suppliers of rhythm and aesthetic are exchanged for the weirdest arpeggio loops Hannah had in storage.
The minimal wave-esque framework of Siloed suggests a hefty Depeche Mode influence; splashes of synth are tossed against narrow basslines, while the band’s legendary love of Kraftwerk inserts into hooky, austere melodies that sound far busier than they are.
Lew’s history with Cold Beat does emerge, but the understated, wavey synths associated with it are met by her mightiest, most echoing choruses. The yang of her melodies is smitten with the yin of her vow not to sound overly polished or corrupt, as the words “this isn’t love, it’s just a replica” mould a new, super-analogue take on OMD pop on hooky highlight Replica.
Though I suppose if you start emulating any artist that cited Kraftwerk as a strong influence, the sharpness of your sonic palette, whether melodically or aesthetically, is going to benefit. From the over-the-top arpeggios of Move In Silence to the rushing colours of Sunday and Damaged Melody, to the towering, world-building ascensions of The Clock, the album benefits consistently.
The secret weapon of the album is its expansion on genre, again owed to Hannah’s maintenance of integrity whilst getting poppier. Distance of the Moon is a classic post-punk song, mournful, romanticising horror, whilst using synthesisers, some subtle, others overt, to create something new and exciting.
This is a rebel’s synthpop album, written and recorded by an excellent singer-songwriter intent on not settling down, not dumbing herself down, but bringing something new to the table on her first solo effort.