When I say that Syd dePalma’s new album, Paris, is dreamlike, I mean it literally. Echoes abound, sculpting recognizable rock, folk, and pop stylings into imaginative new shapes. As he plays with light and shadow, the borders between fantasy and reality blur. The familiar soars. An eerie melancholy fills even the most straightforward of dePalma’s melodies, a desperation buried deep in the foundation of every line he sings. The lyrics are uncanny, the sounds constantly shifting. Only two years out from debut, El Lugar de Arder, Paris is a ferocious next step for dePalma, one that radiates surreal energy.
Vivid imagery abounds: of body parts, desire, tears, the sky, the ground, the city, the country. As lead singer on almost all tracks, dePalma makes for a compelling guide to his uncanny world. With a high and powerful voice, he fans every emotional spark into a dramatic blaze. He delivers a tale of self-obsession with seemingly life-or-death stakes on “Principe”, and brings a sonic sense of open freefall to the inscrutable lyrics of “cola del Vicio”.
It’s dePalma’s high, lonesome sound, alongside static and synths, that makes the ballad “Entre cemento, Luz rota y” gripping rather than rote. DePalma animates his compositions, every timbral maneuver part of his poetic techniques as he incites his audiences to jump, sway, and thrash.
At his side, and crucial to these careful processes of creation, are Germán López on a range of acoustic and electric guitars and Marc López on drums, forming a high-octane core trio that carry the album through many moods. They’re formidable, but they don’t act alone. Many standout guests lend their talents to the creative mix. Maria Virginia Cagnolo sounds the album’s Andalucian roots with her percussive zapateo footwork on phantasmagoric “cristal gris”.
Following is the even more haunting “vuela, y sus pupilas se dilatan”, featuring Niño de Elche, whose voice makes for a softer counterpoint to de Palma’s with equally moving effect. Barcelona-based Scottish singer Heather Cameron brings a serenity to the cosmic emptiness of “plataformas y Sexo”, which leads into “ojos, sus Ojos”, for which violinist Eros Migo plays with such passion that his instrument sounds as though it is in genuine mourning.
Our journey through Syd dePalma’s Paris is a wild one, though not to the point of reckless abandon. Catchy pop structures underpin each leg of the trek, adorned though they are with unearthly echoes and electricity. For all their wonderful eccentricity, the lyrics dePalma pens come across as relatable expressions of anger, love, and anxiety. This is accessible experimentation, both palatable and exciting from start to finish, a work of heart and wit.
Shoegaze levels of psychedelic gloom, raw flourishes of noise, and a really satisfying amount of angst make this album a catharsis and coping mechanism for all seasons, the kind of art-pop-rock that balances nostalgia with a trip on the cutting edge to strange and laudable effect. Indeed, with each surprising shift in style, dePalma seems to touch different planes of consciousness. Fortunately, he and his crew are so skilled at pulling them all together with solid hooks and grooves.