![]() From the cool notes pooling alongside Kurt’s gentle singing on “Blood Thinner”, to the gorgeous ascension at the end of “Love Again”’s chorus, there’s an immediate tug at the heart-strings. I suppose what really matters is that Royal Coda leaves space for interpretation: emotionally, it’s plausibly complex (and instrumentally, it’s undeniably so). However, trying to establish this sort of hypnosis is jarring when Royal Coda is not, at its core, a hypnotic album - dreamlike, yes, but its fundamental character is still restless, sprinting on the edges of consciousness. ![]() Ideally, we’re supposed to believe that “Suffolk” is a distillation of the album’s atmosphere whose appeal will have been established by every other song promoting the same vibe, if only on a subliminal level. “Suffolk” might have been an overzealous attempt to experiment, to push the idea of “Royal Coda” as an album transcending swancore or post-hardcore it’s a repetitive loop of Kurt humming over a simple piano motif, feedback encroaching over the last half of the song. “De Rien” and “Suffolk”, then, are the true marks of over-indulgence by Royal Coda - they’re ambient, somewhat groundless pieces on an album that is in no need of further ambience or vagueness. I favour the first stance because Royal Coda feels believable: even if restraint, and not nuance, was the only thing preventing it from over-indulging in suffering, there’s still much room for that suffering, in the process of being interpreted by the listener, to come across as multi-dimensional. This distancing might be a double-edged sword: either the album is nuanced and appropriately composed, or it lacks sufficient emotional punch. Specifically, this is pain presented with some dignity, cushioned from the maudlin by the sense of distance and ambiguity provided by the atmosphere. It’s also the most sensual moment on an album defined mostly by its pain. “Love Again” adds the most variety to the message: it’s a dreamy slow waltz into doom, ever so slightly indulgent in the way that Kurt’s notes are drawn out, that heavy distortion is applied to the bridge. What, then, is the emotional intrigue of Royal Coda? As demonstrated by Kurt’s intensity and conviction, which both match the bluntness of his lyrics, it would be straight-forward heartbreak. Synthesizers illuminate the background like blue candlelight in a dim room. What binds everything together is a subtle preference for the subdued: the guitar tones are slightly muted reverberation smoothes their edges, adds the sensation of cool liquid, lets Kurt’s vocals layer and drift upwards. ![]() Joseph Arrington’s drumming, always malleable and nimble-footed, feels as if it’s riding on emotional turbulence, being dictated by the disorienting swirls of Sergio Medina’s guitarwork and Kurt Travis’ impassioned croons. ![]() With a pedigree founded on technicality, it’s fascinating to observe how Royal Coda rely so heavily on certain production choices to carry across the emotivity of Royal Coda. The heartache on Royal Coda is half-numbed, not always felt in lucidity. Compared to their peers, Royal Coda exercise more restraint: they avoid the mind-boggling chaos of A Lot Like Birds, the more dramatic flourishes of Sianvar. I say that for two reasons: firstly, that it is capable of mourning and reminiscing beautifully secondly, that its aspirations to evoke the subconscious occasionally exceed its abilities. Royal Coda, sunken into the shadows of troubled nights, is a tragic dreamer.
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