, the Chicago indie-rock artist sings about leaving quietly out the back of a party, disappearing without saying goodbye to anyone. “I’ve had my fun, I’m done,” she tell us on “Almost Pulled Away,” over a steady drumbeat and a dizzying, crunchy riff. She’s just told someone that they might’ve been the first person she’s ever loved, a treacherous confession that should leave her resigned and vulnerable. Yet Williams’ delivery feels impenetrably grounded.
The album opens with a tranquil reimagining of the first-ever Squirrel Flower song, “I Don’t Use A Trash Can,” with Williams singing in a low register, backed by cascading harmonies, as if she’s in conversation with her past selves. It’s a song about her resistance to getting clean just yet, an ode to lingering wide-eyed in the mess for a while longer: “I’m not gonna change my sheets,” she sings. “I will never wash my hands.” In the older recording, Williams’ voice is tinged with desperation.
winds down, Williams considers that control, and loosens her grip. “In this life, I cannot hold anything in my hands,” she sings over reverb-heavy pluckings on “What Kind of Dream is This?” Williams has noted that the album’s title cites a novel written by her great-grandfather, in which he quotes the Medieval French poet Rutebeuf: “Tomorrow’s hopes provide my dinner/Tomorrow’s fire must warm tonight.