Lianne La Havas: self-titled, self-possessed

English singer-songwriter Lianne La Havas just released her self-titled album, and though her previous records were filled with soul and rock sensibility, this cohesive record which focuses on the cyclical nature of romance may be her best and most complete album yet. Though there are popular tunes sprinkled throughout, this is a concept album, with a story you have to see through to the end.

Previous to this, I had no experience with Lianne La Havas. Catching word of a beautiful reimagining of Radiohead’s “Weird Fishes,” I searched her up and was not disappointed. Adding this to one of my infinite playlists, I initially ignored the artist, jamming to this vibrant rendition of an old favorite. The drums trick you into feeling comfortable: the same breakneck pace of the original. The switch-up to a heavier drum pulse and a murkier instrumental mix is a hard turn into heavy fog. These fish swim about in the clouds, not the water.

Curiosity got the better of me. When I learned that the album had dropped and “Weird Fishes” was a single from a greater work, I was excited and impulse bought the record. I sometimes do this to imitate music fans of eras long past, and sometimes it doesn’t pay off. However, opener “Bittersweet” quickly destroys any lack of confidence in La Havas’s songwriting. 

After looking through some of her earlier work, it became clear that, though she has a talent that she honed over the past decade, this is clearly La Havas’s strongest work. Her previous two albums had strong songwriting and funky instrumentals, but no real cohesion. This unity behind her story makes this album emblematic of romance, not just through its story, but also through its form: rising and falling, living and dying, and being born again. 

“Bittersweet” is reprised at the end, and unlike some other concept records focusing on cyclical subject matter (ahem… Everything Now (2017)), this feels thought out and humble rather than pretentious and ill-conceived. The reprise is short and, considering the song summarizes the album’s ideas of love birthed, soured, and passed so succinctly, it’s a fitting start and end.

I’m a rather political being, by feeling of necessity rather than by desire. I wish 2020 wasn’t such a chaotic year, but I feel one has a duty to face terror head on, with a healthy sense of humor. Even so, I still tire every now and then at the onslaught of garbage. Calm the flaming spirit. An album focused on a specific relationship can offer the sort of escapism like laying out under a shady tree, even if only slightly reducing the record-breaking temperatures outside. 

That isn’t to say La Havas’s songs aren’t full of energy, but simply that they are grand in an intimate, vulnerable, and personal way. Since the album clearly outlines its rise and fall, there’s no sense of an unknown beyond the relationship in question. It’s a closed system, but that doesn’t inhibit the growth of La Havas’s emotions and the way they are experienced.

Take “Green Papaya,” one of my personal favorites. As part of the first half, it’s outlook is one of pure romantic bliss. “Take me home, let’s make real love.” Getting the most from her guitar while remaining dynamically contained, I feel her sincerity and tie it to my own experience. If only we could feel this way forever!

“Can’t Fight” is that moment where the charms of your significant other can still overcome those new red flags sprouting up like weeds in your beautiful new garden. Oh baby, I know I shouldn’t but I can’t fight it. You’re too good to be true. Those strings at the end ensure that for the moment, you are totally down to engage in the fantasy of it all. 

“Paper Thin” is the opening up, when the two of you crawl into the back of your car and skip a night out to talk about past trauma, holding each other in the parking lot outside the goth discotech after the rain stops. You see pain, and you have to be there for someone else in a way that you might never have had to before.

As could be expected, the back end of the album is the death, mourning, and resiliency post-breakup. This is more easily segmented than the first half which moves unwillingly through the stages leading to the mess. “Weird Fishes” is the rare cover that actually works for the covering artist; not just a new take, but the lyrics advance the album’s story. It’s the turning point where she realizes this is a doomed affair. “Please Don’t Make Me Cry” leads on the vulnerability and trust in “Paper Thin” and her epiphany on“Weird Fishes,” but, unfortunately, it’s all in vain. By “Seven Times,” we know it’s over, and we’re wishing our ex well, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t upset with them. 

Despite resentment and promises never to be fulfilled, life goes on. It’s scary to not be part of a “we” anymore. Awfully lonely, despite the freedom you may feel. “Courage” is personified; you might call it God or grandmother or both or something else, but we all could use a little help on the quiet nights. Whoever it is, they are with you. You just have to pick your “Sour Flower,” which, according to La Havas’s grandmother, is your cross to bear. Everyone’s got one, and sometimes you’ll have help to lighten your load, but you ought to figure out how to love yourself because that’s the only way one can truly live a life.

A hand clap, a flute solo, a choir, a bumble bee of a guitar, a beautiful voice, and a good story to tell!