I sit here typing this review up in seat 36D on my flight back from sunny Albania, half-expecting a vintage Mustang to pull up in the middle of the sky and drag me straight down Route 66. I’m also half-expecting Wolf Alice to take me home themselves. Wait, who’s that in the cockpit?
I’ve been spinning ‘The Clearing’ on loop since it dropped, watching Metacritic twitch daily as the internet argues over whether this is a 70s soft-rock masterpiece or Wolf Alice’s very own Arctic Monkeys ‘longe music’ pivot. But their deluxe recent re-release got me putting it on once more.
I guess there is a specific, unhinged magic that happens when a band decides to step out of the dingy North London sweatboxes and drive straight into a golden-hour California sunset, and Wolf Alice have proven that this magic belongs entirely to them. The band have spent over a decade proving they can tear down any festival main stage with jagged alternative-rock riffage, but this release feels like watching them construct a velvet-draped, 1970s fantasy in real time. With super-producer Greg Kurstin behind the mixes, this LP feels less like a collection of songs and more like a high-fashion, emotional road trip where the car revs up, the indicators click rhythmically, and your lingering dread sits quietly in the back seat.
Listening to this record feels like falling headfirst through a wormhole into a world built on vintage grand pianos, twangy country-folk acoustic guitars, and sprawling, multi-layered choral arrangements that wrap around your brain like pure silk. Lead vocalist Ellie Rowsell and the band aren’t just writing pop-rock anthems anymore on this one but rather, they are scoring the slow-motion, beautiful collapse of their twenties and stepping into their thirties with a glass of fizz in one hand and a full-blown crisis in the other.
Join me for my take on the cinematic, sun-soaked, and utterly unhinged new record from Wolf Alice, and the gorgeous 70s-inspired beast this album really is.
Opening the record with a cinematic self-examination, Thorns has Rowsell questioning her own impulse to romanticise life’s emotional friction and turn every internal struggle into public art, cheekily asking, “why must I persist to write a song and dance about it?” The track swoops in like an opening movie sequence, or an ELO-tinged production with vocoders, starting with an effortlessly steady drumline before swelling into a gothic-tinged orchestral string section that fills every single corner of your headphones. It’s rich, layered, and dripping in unique chord progressions that make for a solid unique start. It truly sets the stage for the drama to come.
Serving as an explosive release of pent-up rage, Boom Baby Bloom shifts instantly from outward composure to a full shape-shifting meltdown. Just when you settle into the album’s cinematic warmth, this track really explodes. It lures us in with a jaunty, upbeat 70s piano intro, but the entire mood fractures violently on the line “fucking baby”, throwing us straight into the deep end of fiery Wolf Alice rock that we’re all so familiar with. Rowsell’s vocal range here is thrilling, screeching with Kate Bush-esque drama, Donna Summer sensuality, and visceral rage in the pre-chorus before snapping violently into a guitar solo with a razor-sharp rock edge. This only collapses back into its manic chorus with smooth, serene ease and makes this one a top-tier single choice.
A candid celebration of female friendships, Just Two Girls captures the messy, awe-struck, and intimate conversations had behind closed doors. Sounding like it’s straight out of a Fleetwood Mac or Carpenters session, this one serves up a playful 70s piano motif under propped by a tight, funky bass groove. It’s an intimate, percussion-driven slice of melodic storytelling that relies on soft, restrained delivery. Lyrically, it hits with immediate, hyper-relatable content as Rowsell deadpans, “she was so pretty it was fuckin’ offensive”, allowing the track to just bask in its own vintage warmth really.
Then, Leaning Against The Wall serves as an eerie exploration of love freezing time and blends cozy nostalgic intimacy with an overwhelming feeling of feeling lost. Beginning with ambient dialogue, it transports you straight to a country campfire at midnight. Acoustic strums give off an organic soundtrack feel until the bottom completely drops out on the line “you put my world in slow mo”, delivered through swooping sci-fi synth textures and gauzy (?) atmospherics that suddenly take over. It’s this moment that carries Rowsell’s soaring vocals to the limit, and her self-harmonisation sounds like two distinct souls calling out to each other over a live drum kit. Absolutely stunning.
Set on a joyous road trip, Passenger Seat is an ode to giving up control, riding shotgun, and revelling in the intoxicating comfort of belonging to someone else. Chef’s kiss. It’s an instant classic for me that physically demands you jig your leg to its twangy Americana-folk intro, complete with the subtle background soundtrack of a car engine revving and indicators flicking. Driven (hehe) by a fluid bass groove, the centrepiece moment arrives when the music abruptly cuts out to the authentic ticking of an indicator and a soft hum-along sequence of the chorus before exploding into a euphoric “remiiiiiiiiiiiiiinds me-e-e-e”, and it gets me every time. Channeling pure Stevie Nicks energy, it’s got organic pop chemistry and captures the quiet bliss of not being in control and that being okay (“in the passenger seat, I’m your girl”).
A poignantly vulnerable reckoning with age, Play It Out explores mortality and the pressure of the biological clock still being a societal pressure on young women today. Serving as a heartbreaking, downbeat centre of gravity, it rests on a gentle piano played with ease. Rowsell tackles the weight of time, offering bittersweet reflections like “I wanna age with excitement”, “go grey but feel delightful”, and dropping brilliant metaphors like “build sandcastles in the hourglass”. The cyclical triplet chord progression of this one really mimics the relentless passing of time, building to a self-affirming promise: “in sickness and in health I promise to love and cherish myself”. Easily one of the most poignant songs in their catalogue and a concept that is totally understated here.
In a sharp and chaotic twist, Bread Butter Tea Sugar embraces personal flaws and finds empowerment in life’s messy dynamics. It’s really an anthem about owning your toxic traits. Preach. Thrown right back into the chaotic energy we know Wolf Alice for, this standout brings a fuzzy rock edge paired with raw, direct lyrics and a Beatles-esque ‘Sgt. Pepper’ charm. The track revels in life’s messy edges, featuring blunt admissions with Rowsell admitting she “can’t even like you less, so I hate myself instead” and confessing she’d rather “have you here between my legs”. Ooft. Dynamically unhinged, the production fades in and out while shifting terrain and energy every eight bars on this one, wrapping itself in a gorgeous, 70s-inspired instrumental bridge that showcases their mastery over retro production textures. A new fave.
Like a nurturing someone, Safe in the World enters as a deeply comforting ode to foundational love and explores how simply knowing someone exists in your universe can cure that dread and overthinking. Built as a low-key, top-down Sunday track around muted guitars and low-tempo intimacy, there’s an early Sia-esque purity to this performance. It’s anchored by a linger-worthy piano triplet that hooks straight into your heart and gives off a vibe that everything’s going to be okay with this person. Dedicated to simple, profound security (“I felt safe in the world knowing you were there”), the track really just exists steadily through super rich vocal layering and swooping orchestral strings. They swell with the same atmospheric weight as other tracks we’ve already heard on this release, but this serves as a needed break from the warm, cathartic waves of emotions right now.
And then, in a dark, cinematic fairytale about nocturnal escapism, Midnight Song takes us into a somewhat theatrical underworld. Opening like a wispy acoustic lullaby reminiscent of Joni Mitchell, it starts with delicate strings, a call-and-response dialogue between cello and violin, and falsetto vocals. What a pairing. That soft intro completely fools us though, morphing rapidly into a galloping, spaghetti-Western rhythm backed by massive drums. As Rowsell sings hymns into the dark (“if you’re down and the devil to party…”), the track builds an eerie, intriguing energy that feels equal parts folky and gothic cinema. You’d think that’s a nightmare blunt rotation but it works so well.
In a near farewell, White Horses takes a reflective stance on heritage and roots through an upbeat emotional getaway. With a driving pulse once again, drummer Joel Amey takes over lead vocals for the first time, delivering a whispered, intimate tone over scatty intros and kidna detuned guitar layers. He contemplates life and connections (“can love have magnetic properties?”), while Rowsell acts as an all-seeing, angelic presence simply supplying floating harmony overhead in the chorus. Giving off massive Björk and Kate Bush vibes, it’s a rigid, percussive-heavy track full of pure liberation, centered entirely on its core mantra: “white horses carry me.”
To finish the standard release, we get the magnificent and award-winning The Sofa. An affectionate, weary anthem celebrating rot days and hangovers, this closer accepts the contradictory desires of adulthood without judgment. Soft pianos introduce Rowsell’s unfiltered thoughts as she sings about lazy days (“watch re-runs on TV”) before the chorus serves up raw human contradictions: “I can be happy I can be sad”, “I want to settle down I wanna fall in love… but sometimes I just want to fuck.” The track spirals into a messier chorus with hard-hitting chords as the band reflect on their decade-long journey from Seven Sisters to California, but then coming back again and this being okay. It’s a tender reminder that maturity often just means the freedom to do absolutely nothing without judgement. It’s personal, intuitive, and deeply moving. It makes for such a reflective closer of this album. Bliss Alice.
A few weeks after the release though, we get the deluxe treatment. And yeah, unsurprisingly, there are three more brilliant additions. Gospel Oak is a quiet exploration of grief styled as a brief, stripped-back piano ballad with delicate woodwind flourishes. Hammond Song exists as an atmospheric story about family tensions, featuring soaring electric guitars riding over a steady, dramatic rock mix. And finally, Hit the Sky lingers as a boisterous celebration of community, built as a rowdy group number complete with gang vocals, an accordion, and a full Irish-folky “oom-pah-pah” beat. They are 3 tracks that build on the world of ‘The Clearing’ perfectly, and act as a beautiful extension to something already gracious.
Overall, this release really is Wolf Alice at their absolute most comfortable yet. By trading in distortion rock found in their earlier releases for a 1970s organic warmth, Fleetwood Mac-style harmonies, and a Bohemian feel complete with cinematic storytelling, they have created a timeless record about growing up, loving intensely, and the passing of time. It’s a coming-of-age 30s-inspired release. And they’re doing all of that without the feeling of being judged.
This is a golden-hour reset for the wicked, a whole mood shift, and a very glitzy-glamorous soundtrack to your next journey. In my case, it made my flight home one of the most enjoyable yet. Give it a whirl.
Glerbie 