shines headlights across hills. In the familiar inertia of a rumbling engine, Robertson reimagines traditional folk song storytelling. Replacing vivid pictures with passing sensations, the intimate images that populate her landscape disintegrate and become universal. “When I write music, I travel in my head to places,” Robertson explains. “When improvising my lyrics, I’ll imagine different spaces and I often go to them into a car.
These lyrics, which Robertson fondly calls “scribbles,” are then “open for interpretation” from listeners. Influenced by the dialectical ringing of Cocteau Twins and Kurt Cobain’s garbled singing style, her words and delivery are part of a personal language that she keeps close to her chest. “I was really into that jazzy style: white shirts and short hair, and I would wear leather trousers,” she explains, despite never claiming just one scene. “I was quite my own thing,” with taste spanning from Beatnik poetry to jungle dance music, and punk rock to experimental.
Robertson stretches melodies past their final destination. There is a sense, not of missing the point, but obscuring it all together. This type of momentum — a directionless longing — is what interests her, not its resolution. SoThe album art, made with Robertson’s husband Kool Music, embodies this sentiment. “That’s the thing about music and abstract painting,” Robertson says. “There isn’t an image that’s fixed and I’m really interested in that.