It was a late July night when my phone started buzzing. A friend on the other end of the line had the best news I’d heard in almost five years — Mild High Club announced an album when I thought I’d surely heard the last of them ages ago.
The first single that came with the news of the upcoming LP was sweet, but not enough to quench any real thirst. We’d been parched of music from Mild High Club since the 2016 release of “Skiptracing,”and a new album was the only thing that would end our musical drought.
“Going Going Gone” was released on Sept. 17 and proved that some things are truly worth waiting for. I hoped for a full glass of water with this new LP, and Brettin served up a swimming pool. In “Going Going Gone,” Mild High Club shed its bedroom pop skin of the past and found its place in a jazz based rank of its own. Chewing on “Going Going Gone,” I could still taste what made me fall so hard for Brettin’s sound — but, it’s a brand new flavor that left me hungry for more.
Like a psychedelic elevator ride, I sat in the clutches of the first track, “Kluges I,” while it pulled me upward to open the doors on “Dionysian State.” This second song takes a page out of the city pop handbook, adds a heaping helping of synth and carries us to a close with an unmistakable jazz finish.
“Trash Heap” rolls in next, and suddenly I’m on island time. There’s a groove to the song that’s both grounded and spacey. Brettin toys with samba on this album while still giving it a tweak to match the times with the purr of the synth. “A New High” ventures further into this fusion, laying down pure unpredictable funk that even our samba savior João Gilberto would shake a hip to.
The technical skill it took to make this album could eat that of the first two for breakfast. Not to say the first two weren’t good — they were great — but in terms of knowledge of sound and self, those five years of work really make themselves known. The next track, “It’s Over Again,” is this testament’s shining example. Just four seconds in, the itty bitty slow clap told me I was in for trouble. The funk of this one takes no prisoners; it grabs you by the back and demands a dance.
But a sentimental gal such as myself tends to long for the familiar. As I moved forward into the album, I was beginning to itch for something that felt like listening to their first record, “Timeline.” Enter “Dawn Patrol.” It brings a juxtaposition of chaos and quiet served up by the keys, playfully experimental sounds on the synth and a touch of the old stuff. It’s “Elegy” in moments and “Kokopelli” in others, a little wink to the feeling that got us here.
My grandma used to say the greatest test of love is time. She’d say time is like the wind and love is like a flame. If the flame is small, it won’t stand a chance against the breeze, but if the flame is great, the gale only feeds the fire. Now, I’m sure she was talking about romance or another capitalist scheme of the sort, but let’s apply it to this psychedelic pop project. The period of Mild High Club’s absence fanned the flames, and now the fire roars. I’d wait another five years for the next one — but, Mr. Brettin, if you’re reading this, please don’t make me.
