The roaming, Americana-obsessed songwriter brings a sense of purpose to his zigzagging on his debut album, a collaborator-filled collection of heartbreak tales.
Los Angeles singer Dijon likes to roam. Since his alt R&B group Abhi//Dijon split amicably in the mid 2010s, he’s become a wanderer, his music accreting and discarding styles like a subletter acclimating to new quarters. In the past two years, he’s released a smoldering cover of Chaka Khan’s “Sweet Thing,” recorded a Prince pastiche in which he shouts out “Automatic,” and assembled Raveena, John C. Reilly, and Dan Reeder for what can only be described as a folk cypher. The latter song was purposefully eclectic, the guest list decided—in a strange echo of Pitchfork contributor Claire Lobenfeld’s review of Dijon’s 2020 EP—by throwing names into a hat. Dijon has never cast these ventures as ironic, kitschy, or audacious, but they could feel like diversions, gimmicks obscuring the anonymity of his songwriting. Absolutely, his debut album, moves more deliberately, his zigzagging purposeful.
Dijon’s pliant, raspy voice guides the record, shifting from coos to wails to murmurs as he sings of love and its complications over folk and soul arrangements. He tends to shun gloss and polish, instead crooning with no discernible enhancements or processing. Accordingly, even his prettiest notes sound physical and textured, like he’s fighting a cold. That strain defines “Many Times,” the powerhouse single about a breaking point in a relationship. “Strawberry, raspberry/Candlelight, satellite/Television, X-ray vision/Aw, what’s it gonna take for you to listen?,” he sings with frustration. His delivery quickens as he rattles off the items of the strange list, the syllables and rhymes running together, growing sillier.
For “The Dress,” a slow jam about a couple revisiting their glory days, Dijon turns pleading, drawing out his melodies. “We should go out/And dance like we used to dance/We should go out/And hold hands,” he sings. The character knows the spark has died but prefers to dream, a common choice in these tales of heartbreak. “Annie” is even rosier, Dijon’s narrator glumly telling Annie she can “change [her] mind.” There’s little outright storytelling on the album, but Dijon’s impassioned performances make the elisions feel loaded. Grievances lurk in every omission.
The production follows Dijon’s contortions, flickering and flaring in tandem with his theatrics. He recorded Absolutely with a revolving door of collaborators who he encouraged to show up at their leisure, an atmosphere captured in the compositions. Sometimes, Dijon is alone. On the self-produced “Did You See It?,” he floats in a drumless void of plucks as he wonders aloud whether the drugs have kicked in. Other times, the room is packed. “Big Mike’s” swells with instruments—slide guitar, organ, percussion, clarinet, piano—that accent Dijon’s yearning vocals. The singer on album closer, “Credits!” is just some guy. “He’s a great friend of mine, but also a real country boy—I couldn’t approximate that,” Dijon told NME. Compared to the calculated syncretism of his past music, the direction here is whimsical and open.
Dijon can feel closed off despite the bustle and personality of these songs. His love of Americana has deepened without any elaboration on why he’s so fixated. Though the unrequited love between a mechanical bull champion and his admirer on “Rodeo Clown” and the Friday football games and “honky tonk bars” mentioned on “Noah’s Highlight Reel” are well-rendered, they feel like stock images, revealing nothing about Dijon’s experiences or his characters’ perspectives. Although he avoids the empty provocation of RMR or Machine Gun Kelly, his heartland Easter eggs scan as souvenirs rather than symbols.
Absolutely works best when Dijon’s writing is as vivid as his performances, as on “Talk Down.” Over a breakbeat, Dijon tells a story of two people bickering during a car ride. His voice cracks as he details the fogging windows, tired eyes, and blushing cheeks. They listen to Gillian Welch, the Band, and Liz Phair as they trade sarcastic remarks and backhanded compliments. There are no gimmicks here, just people and the pulsing spaces between them.
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