[rating=8.00]
Swedish songstress Lykke Li initially gained a following and critical reputation with her 2007 debut, Youth Novels, but it was 2011’s gargantuan Wounded Rhymes that brought her to international attention on a brand new scale. “Gargantuan” is perhaps a misleading adjective to use in connection with that album, though. At ten songs, the tracklist is sharp and economical, but the sound of the record is massive. Jungle drums, choirs, guitars both atmospheric and jagged, and over it all, Li sings with a guttural force, sounding as wounded as the record’s title suggests.
Rhymes did so well in so many parts of the world that for the most part it is considered the Lykke Li record, with its predecessor Youth Novels mostly taking a critical backseat, characterized as indicative of Li’s promise but nowhere near as fully-realized as its follow-up. So, if artistic and creative trajectory is something that can be extrapolated, one might have expected Li to follow up Wounded Rhymes with more of the same, or at least a sort of transmutation.
Instead, she has delivered I Never Learn, a record that is slower, quieter, and shorter than her other released work. It’s essentially a collection of ballads, slow-burning torch songs garnished with emotionally-hyperbolic lyrics about stars, thunder, silver, gunfire, and of course, love.
The two tracks Li released in advance of the record, “Love Me Like I’m Not Made of Stone” and “No Rest for the Wicked”, largely did what promotional tracks are supposed to do: serve as teasers announcing the feel and intent of the new record. Both tracks are epically morose, with “Stone” exhibiting severely stripped-down acoustics.
As a whole, I Never Learn delivers on the promise of these two tracks. It’s possible that an album full of sad ballads, even a nine-track one, could quickly become tedious; however, I Never Learn is a lesson in how vital meticulous sequencing is in shaping the momentum of a record. Even anguish can have velocity. Even heartbreak can be dynamic.
So, while an initial listen may cast I Never Lean as lackluster and overly similar, subsequent and deeper investigations belies this assessment. None of these songs are fast-paced, but for every song stripped to its skeleton (“Stone,” for example) there is a song rich with reverberating drums and guitars that soar over Li’s sullen, sultry vocals. The contrast between the songs with simpler production and the more cinematic numbers creates a push/pull in the track sequencing that draws one throughout despite the slow, sad nature.
This is particularly evident in the record’s standout middle section. The relatively jaunty “Silverline” gives way to “Gunshot”, which starts with a hypnotic, incantatory verse backed by organs before exploding—with appropriately ballistic force—into a chorus that skips along atop a visceral drum beat. Concluding with “Love Me Like I’m Not Made of Stone,” one of the record’s standouts despite also being one of its most simply arranged tracks, this section is the beating heart of I Never Learn as well as a primer in how to to arrange and sequence songs so that they reflect and contrast each other’s strengths.
It’s a lesson that many modern artists would do well to heed: even contemporary track lists with more immediate dynamic range than I Never Learn often suffer from a lack of close listening and attention to detail, that pernicious symptom of Information Age information sickness. This is ultimately perhaps the greatest compliment one can pay to Lykke Li and this beautiful, otherworldly record. I Never Learn feels less like it was constructed and more like it was gestated, carefully considered and nurtured before being released into the world.
This doesn’t mean that I Never Learn is without its missteps. Even with the relative dynamic shifts throughout the record and the abbreviated track list, Li’s songs start to blend together in the back half. You could possibly attribute this to the record’s ballad-heavy focus, but Li’s lyrics also play a factor. The songwriter likes to go for big emotion; this was obvious on Wounded Rhymes, where her psychologically-incisive lyrics paired well with the grandiose production. On I Never Learn, however, Li reaches for mythological heights in her lyrical depiction of heartbreak, summoning everything from stars and thunder to gunfire and silver to embroider her melodies. It’s a noble creative goal but also a lofty one, and unfortunately, after the first three or four tracks, the rhapsodizing about darkness and despair—coupled with the downtempo arrangements—begins to read as monotone rather than visceral.
In a musical era where even our most alternative musicians seem to suffer more and more from a broad but shallow creative reach, though, I Never Learn is both deeply felt and deeply thought. It manages the contradictory feat of lingering in your mind without sonically overstaying its welcome. A record of ballads might sound like a gamble in a world where information saturation often precludes art that doesn’t immediately vie for your attention with loud noises and bright lights, but perhaps that’s the very reason that makes such a record so very, very necessary.
