Faye Webster measures love by what is lost. She loses track of time from endless daydreaming, she loses her sense of self when reminiscing over an ex. On 2019’s “What Used To Be Mine,” she doesn’t just miss a former lover, but the places that defined their relationship. The Atlanta singer-songwriter has always captured romance in this way: as a force that shapes our ambient mode of existence. It’s fitting that her music favors a lounging-around easiness; her blend of soft rock and indie country is an ideal soundtrack for drawn-out sessions being consumed by your thoughts, uninterrupted.
With her fifth studio album, Underdressed at the Symphony, Webster has a stronger grasp on how to convey these obsessive contemplations. She traces and retraces the same vocal melody across “Thinking About You,” singing the titular line so often that it shifts in meaning. On some listens, it reads as desperation, like she’s convincing herself that this is the best use of her time. At others, it feels like genuine relishing. The song itself is cozy and sweet, maybe even a little boring. But that’s why it’s beautiful: as the record’s opening track, it serves as an insightful reminder that life is a collection of mundanities. It’s just that other people—and sometimes the memory of them—can make the smallest moments so emotional.
It is in this understanding that the pain of falling out becomes tremendous. On “But Not Kiss,” Webster wrestles with conflicted feelings after a breakup, her anxieties repeatedly found in zigzagging lyrics (“I wanna see you in my dreams/But then forget”). She longs for a past that seems wonderfully uncomplicated, but settles for wishful thinking and thorny fantasies. If this weren’t sad enough, the clanging piano chords—loping around in circular motion—taunt her dead-end state. Even when she sounds even-keeled, as on the chipper “Lego Ring,” her ability to joke about lasting romance ends with feeling hollow. Alongside childhood friend Lil Yachty, she drenches her voice in AutoTune and longs for something permanent. Most devastating is “Lifetime.” At first, the intimate string arrangement and twinkling keys read as a celebration of newfound love, but they soon feel lonesome, like the only companions in a vast sonic landscape. The loneliness is there in the drummer’s rim clicks, too; they repeatedly echo, always on the precipice of disappearing.
While transformation is at the core of these songs, Webster recognizes that change is difficult to prepare for. On “Wanna Quit All The Time,” she explains that she’s stopped drinking for no apparent reason. And when she says that her overthinking had led to pernicious negativity, she knows that it’s also why she better understands her insecurities. “I think I’ll figure it out,” she sings with assured nonchalance. Incredibly, the music follows suit with this faith in inevitability. An extended instrumental coda appears after a passage of silence, and suddenly the pedal steel and soft percussion provide transcendent levels of yacht-rock breeziness. You can envision her contentment.
That these intimations of progress come slowly for Webster is part of the album’s relatable charm. On the title track, she’s spending all her money, wondering if her ex is surrendering to the same destructive compulsions. “I doubt it,” she sings. When strings briefly swoop in, she comes out the other end with the same somber tone, unfazed. This is supposed to be a moment of grandiose catharsis, but things don’t feel different. It’s only on Underdressed’s closing track that she understands how, despite losing someone to call her own, she does still have something: time. She sings that word playfully, ejecting it from her mouth in short bursts, like the aural equivalent of twiddling your thumbs. She’s waiting around, hoping for something to happen. Sometimes, that’s all we can do.
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