By Evan Falls
Alvvays is a band full of welcome contradictions. The indie group formed on Prince Edward Island, a Canadian province north of Nova Scotia, when Molly Rankin met up with childhood neighbor Kerri MacLellan on keyboards. Rankin found her lead guitarist Alec O’Hanley (Two Hours Traffic) at a gig in high school. Influenced by bands such as Pavement and Teenage Fanclub, the three began to write music. Contradictions are rooted in their origins: a Canadian indie-pop band evoking sounds of summer from up North in the freezing cold. Countless bands have tried the “summer sound” approach—La Luz, Tacocat and Best Coast among them—but Alvvays does it better. Bubbling with hot feelings and cold images, self-aware but self-assured, Alvvays finds a new gem in old soil, delivering an endearing, inventive, and energetic piece of indie pop.
Among their standout qualities are Rankin’s sweet, nasally voice and O’Hanley’s spiraling guitar. That voice could have easily been an annoyance if not saved by Rankin’s honest delivery; she expresses a complete range of emotions, from stalker-creepy on “Adult Diversion,” to empowered and optimistic on the catchy anthem “Archie, Marry Me,” back to timid and vulnerable on “Party Police” a few songs later. “You don’t have to leave,” she sings, “You could just stay here with me/Forget all the party police/We could find comfort in debauchery,” quietly begging an old flame to stay at the party and stay with her. Thanks to Rankin’s lyrical talents, the album paints a picture of an unsuccessful relationship in an uncommon way, counting on specific imagery and metaphor from her own life to make something universally appealing.
Alvvays is inventive in other ways, too. “Archie, Marry Me” serves as a good example of how the band treads familiar ground in a different way. The song starts with birds chirping, then layers on cool strums of the guitar, eventually turning into a drum-driven rally-call for marriage in spite of tradition: “So, honey, take me by the hand and we can sign some papers/ Forget the invitations, floral arrangements and breadmakers.” Rankin is directly addressing the norm and making fun of it, reassuring her doubtful lover that they can live life together without being tied down by what’s expected of them.
The band’s self-awareness is not self-deprecating, however. The sugary energy serves as an almost sarcastic backdrop for much sadder songs. For example, the upbeat, plinking of the guitar on “Next of Kin” cleverly hides the deeper, darker message about a lover (and a love) that’s drowned: “No color to his skin/Inform the next of kin.” Or, on “Ones Who Love You,” Rankin sings about taking advantage of those who care about us in exchange for the affections of those who don’t. She sings, “The winters are all wet/ And you can’t ever feel your face/ You can’t fucking feel your face,” and it’s just quiet enough to slip by unnoticed if you aren’t paying attention, offering a quiet moment of genuine and unfiltered energy and honesty, something rarely seen in bands trying to be heard by bigger markets.
Yes, the summery indie-pop anthems have been done before, but Alvvays knows this and uses it to its advantage. The group is refreshingly new and familiar in equal amounts, an album full of contradictions from a band of winter warriors singing about love in summer sun.