(Cover art by Wilson Zellar)
After hearing Precursor, the new EP from Minneapolis's Dad Bod, it's immediately apparent what the best "quarantine album" is (sorry, Taylor Swift). Unexpectedly prevented from recording their forthcoming debut record, the band decided to take advantage of the time they were given. Callie Marino, the band's songwriting mastermind, vocalist, and one of three (!) guitarists, partnered with Wilson Zellar, multi-instrumentalist and engineering wizard, to compose a simple, minimal EP of mostly new songs.
The sound of Precursor will likely come as a shock to anyone who's spent time with Dad Bod's prior singles ("Rot" and "Spirits") or managed to catch them live in their full-band glory. The haunted emotions of Marino's work provides a throughline from oceanic shoegaze to stripped back dreamscapes. While the contributions of guitarist Noah Topliff and drummer Alex Gray are missed, Zellar and Marino find ways to fill in the cracks with verdant colors and lush ambiance.
Intro track "4/9" served as the EP's singular teaser, having been released as a part of Brace Cove Record's fantastic quarantine charity compilation. It perfectly sets the mood for the ensuing 22 minutes of gorgeousness: ceaseless rain, just outside the window, bearing down like a monsoon of inevitable longing. More than anything, Precursor is about connection. Past choices, regrettable love, one's own heart and mind, and loss are all entangled in the pale web of Marino's lyrics. Despite the hindsight, wishing for change doesn't actually create any and gravity catches those wishes in its unforgiving grasp ("and just like the moon tugs at the waves / I'll feel you pull me close across this cavernous divide"). The severed bond is desperate to be repaired by any means, even if it's only by being mutually drenched in the torrential downpour. An acknowledgment of how wasteful it is to yearn for things to have gone differently doesn't negate the pain of lost connection; instead, it doubles it.
On "Elliott," Dad Bod goes full Phoebe Bridgers. Marino and Zellar drench the song in spectral reverb, sending their dual guitar lines straight through you, never missing your heart. Piano from Louie Broughten pads out the soft textures. Burdened with the heaviness of Elliott Smith's death, the pair silently fights against the lack of concrete answers. Marino contrasts "4/9" by writing from within the connection, before it eventually shatters. The regret is different, yet just as potent. The loneliness of an empty love, swallowed whole and internalized, transforms into self-doubt. The track ends with Marino repeatedly wailing "I am not the person I wanna be." Her vocals are totally controlled and designed to devastate.
(Photo by Keegan Burckhard)
"Milkdrinker" and the ambient title track are the still-beating heart of Precursor. The song pleas for the stability of connection while recognizing its inherent toxicity. Fragile fingers cling to clothing in mutual recognition of the crushing emptiness that will flood in as soon as they let go. More than anything, "Milkdrinker" is deeply human. The frustrating dependency upon whatever provides security, harmful or not, is raw enough to conjure up every similar memory from deep within the recesses of your own mind. With only a few lines, Marino compels you to relive every time you whispered "don't let go." Her gentle utterance of a single word - "please" - is enough to perforate your heart, like the sorrowful sphere separating us from true happiness.
Penultimate song "Blue and Violet" finds Marino simultaneously at her most impressionistic and her most direct. Physical touch and the glow of body heat are where resentment and blame take root. The candid lyrics find an unexpected partner in Precursor's most soothing instrumental. Zellar's serene banjo give the song an ever-so-slight twang. It's nearly consumed by how defeated the lyrics are, but stays afloat. The beauty that the love depicted by the song might have once held is somewhere underneath its trenchant exterior. Bags under a lost lover's eyes match the resplendent colors that dapple the heavens ("lilac bushes stain the sky / blue and violet"). A detail that is only made significant by the closest connection finds poignancy that transcends its intimacy.
Dad Bod saved their best for last. "Midlife Crisis," in its full, careening glory was a staple of the band's pre-quarantine setlist. Here, it is completely reworked to befit Precursor's aesthetic. It was (and is) my favorite Dad Bod song. Marino and Zellar have crystallized the perfect melancholy of the original version and infused it with an even more powerful sadness. Instead of ascending to a volcanic peak, it whispers secret insecurities into your ear. Would you rather die or fall into empty complacency? Will you live in fear of the end or pursue fulfillment, wherever it may lead? It is a false dichotomy - both options lead to nothingness. Hence the crisis.
The song never reaches a conclusion. Draped in sorrow, "Midlife Crisis" fades out into a maelstrom of chaotic noise (including what appears to be a children's choir rendition of "Angels We Have Heard on High"). No answer is given, because there isn't one. Connection, with other people, with one's own mortality, with oneself, will always bring hurt even as it brings the things that make us feel alive. Dad Bod implores us to accept this coexistence rather than give in. Life is neither careful nor forgiving, but that doesn't mean we should hide from it.
Buy Precursor on Bandcamp below. Stay tuned for Dad Bod's forthcoming record as a full quartet, tentatively slated for release by summer's end.
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