On Repeat: Half Waif Returned At The Exact Right Time
Tristan Young @talltristan
There’s no way Nandi Rose Plunkett could have known what was going to happen. Our elected officials and national health and intelligence apparatuses sure, but not an indie auteur pop theorist. How then, did her project Half Waif and her new album The Caretaker capture exactly the anxieties, hopes, and overall vibe of our currently ubiquitous dilemma? Based out of Brooklyn, The Caretaker is Plunkett’s second LP as Half Waif and it comes with in an interesting concept. She casts herself as someone tasked with caring for an old house but isn’t doing a very good job of it. Trapped in a vacant and hollow space she finds herself neglecting her duties and her own self. If this sounds like a cross between The Lighthouse, The Shinning, and our own surreal present reality, rest assured it sounds a lot better at least- and no one dies.
More urgently, her collection of songs, especially the standouts Halogen 2 and Ordinary Talk, gives voice to the duress that comes with our unexpected inundation of banal routines. We are all suddenly finding ourselves subsumed by domesticity, a thousand cuts of distress brought upon by the unrelenting sameness of each day. It’s getting to us, and Plunkett seems to get that better than most right now. As grandiose oration elucidates the urgency of our health and economic crisis, it’s a little trickier to be as adamant about the idea of being stuck at home and going crazy. Yet as the day in and day out malaise begins to manifest, Plunkett examines the enormity of the mental stress it creates. In Halogen 2 she hums, “Check the phone to see the time, or any signs of life, why am I so afraid”? In a latter track she bemoans messages that are left unread and the boredom of this day. As our lives condense into more insular versions of themselves she deftly articulates how easy it is to get lost in a flood of seemingly benign actions- and to then run from them. The mere notion of going outside to see the world is seen as an arduous but necessary experiment in rediscovering one’s strength.
She wallows in these meek and intimate recessions during Halogen 2, but breaks out remarkably in the chorus, explaining, “don’t misunderstand, I do what I must, I do what I must”, channelling all the energy she has to just find something of note in her days and nights. It’s converting that energy from something muted and anaemic into displays of exuberance and luminescence that makes the track break out of it’s own shell. Her vocals begin brief and slightly breathless, a melody comprised of mournful keys. All aspects then grow bolder and more adventurous with each sequence, arpeggiated synth scales form, the sequencers wind up for a great a release and propel her voice towards something luxurious and voluminous. She’s an introvert trying to fill a space too large for her to contend with, but trying anyways; remarkably, she succeeds.
Elsewhere in Ordinary Talk, Plunkett seems to thrive in a solitary existence, “baby don’t worry about me, I don’t worry about you, I’ve got places in my mind that I’ll never find if you hold my hand like you always do”. To her credit, she does indeed sculpt a sonic atmosphere that seems exciting in its hermetic idiosyncrasies. Plunkett has a talent for talking fairly standard synth pop components and arranging them in ways that are proudly quirky and deathly dramatic. Many sequences take a minimalist approach in keeping with her thematic, but their impact is carefully targeted for maximum effect. Her melodies and often her singing approach saccharine or obtuse melodrama, only to adjust the mixture with an insurgent shift in tone or drastic key change, completely morphing the experience into something fresh and provocative. Look to the way she scales the first half of the proceeding verse with almost heavenly pretention, only to ruefully mutter the second part. To this effect, the elegant pageantry of her ideal conditions crumbles as a mere ossification, a failed attempt to obscure the neurosis she- and likely all of us-is descending into. In a pale and quivering tenor, accompanied by ornate siren drones she offers, seemingly to all of us:
“sitting in the dark, dreaming up a song, crying in my coffee, doing it all wrong, everybody knows it’s ordinary talk/walking to the lake, getting in my car, folding up the laundry, taking it too hard, everybody knows it’s how we fall apart”.
Plunkett’s thirst for personal exploration collapses under the weight of everyday drudgery, its totality encompassing more and more of how she lives. This is, currently, a very 2020 thing to ponder. That she carefully transitions from a state of exploratory confidence into a melancholic, nurturing demeanour conveys an intrinsic understanding that her role was no longer to excise her own demons, but to help us confront ours.
What works about these songs, and about the album as a whole, is they don’t rest on the laurels of merely articulating the problem. Plunkett did go outside. She knew, even laughing at the TV she was going to be alright. In the palliative ballad Brace she sings in near heroic terms as the rhythm subtly swells, “I see you in the kitchen making breakfast not saying a word as you stir”. She continues, “why are you closing all of your doors, I haven’t closed mine”, tacitly admitting the error of her previously loner ways. We are in a cultural moment defined by many questions and very few answers but Plunkett seems better poised than most to offer at least some. The Caretaker begins its conclusion with her saying goodbye to her twenties, and surveying what she had learned. She is more empowered than ever to start taking care of herself, and The Caretaker is a generous offering of sharing what she has learned. That it is set against a soundscape that can mould nervous sonic traits into an illuminated and novel examination of alt pop’s ever untapped potential implies that maybe she is someone we should listen to.
The Caretaker is out now, streaming on Apple Music and Spotify.