Chicago multi-instrumentalist Nick Levine’s solo debut will feel familiar to Pinegrove fans but struggles to expand on the band’s formula.
When Nick Levine released 2017’s Karaoke EP, the first project under their alter ego Jodi, the Chicago multi-instrumentalist had already spent five years in the background of indie rock. An on-and-off guitarist for Pinegrove since their Meridian days, Levine provided the marvelous pedal steel duet with Evan Stephens Hall’s vocals on “Light On” and the composed banjo that buoyed the surface of “New Friends.” Karaoke was a lush, introspective six-song trip, pairing Levine’s reticent lyricism with the bedroom acoustic licks of past Pinegrove projects. Conceptualized at a cabin in the Catskills and recorded at Lazybones Audio in Silsbee, Texas, their follow-up, Blue Heron, stretches an EP worth of material into a sparse, sometimes unsatisfying debut LP.
As a backing musician, Levine has bolstered Pinegrove songs with the supple flair required to keep the pacing steady; their lead arrangements on 2016’s Cardinal were crucial to defining the band’s sound. But Blue Heron struggles to find its pace, striving to be in many places at once by refusing ever to linger. Each song stumbles into the next, blurring scenes together rather than settling into their landscapes. The frequent migrations bring an unwelcome sense of urgency, particularly near the end of the album, with a pair of minute-plus tracks (“Water” and “River Rocks”) that could have been left on the cutting-room floor. “Hawks” parallels the record’s wider ambiance: a promising build-up, a long middle, and a pretty back half interrupted by needless filler.
The biggest fault lines appear in the instrumentals roaming beneath the vocals. The melodies on a song like “Slug Night” are tender and faint, especially weak when Levine’s voice demands grander accompaniment. Throughout Blue Heron, Levine evokes lovely imagery—wild birds, flora, swimming holes, the moments of joy hiding within anxiety—in a monotone warble, taking few risks with their voice and instruments. The final effect feels stringy and unfinished.
Blue Heron’s brightest points ditch the strained poetics for specific language. On “Buddy,” a wintertime ode to missing friends who’ve departed on tour, Levine sings, “I’m counting on something to/Come alive/So I don’t come out alone.” On “Softy,” a patient ballad of undefined love and affectionate touch, they sing, “I’m your biggest fan/Hear the show of hands.” Both tracks are standouts, balancing the twang of Levine’s underutilized pedal steel against the drawl of their lead guitar. These songs echo Karaoke’s lyrical strengths, drawing clear distinctions between two thematic tropes—self-reflection and romantic longing—that Blue Heron often conflates.
This album certainly sounds like a Pinegrove side project: off-kilter indie folk fused with language-arts rock and East Coast emo, draped in self-loathing melancholia. It’s a familiar sound that deserves a fresh approach, but Levine’s songwriting is conservative, never deviating too far from the formula. Though their work is attuned to the human condition—recognizing the way our surroundings impact our psyches, especially in the presence of those we love—on Blue Heron, this delicate rebalancing of emotional ballast often feels like a one-sided conversation. Full of vague, faceless characters who act as anonymous plot devices in their own stories, the album leaves the burden of self-absorption and ambiguity in its wake.
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