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Review: Soccer Mommy “Sometimes, Forever”

Indie darling Soccer Mommy is back, and she’s bringing her signature quirky lyrics, soaring soprano, and reverb-heavy guitars to her newest effort, titled “Sometimes, Forever.”

Honestly, on first listen, Soccer Mommy sounds a lot like Alanis Morisette? Which is totally fine, but every time I hear Alanis Morisette, I wind up having flashbacks to the time I lost my virginity to “Jagged Little Pill” in the bed of my secret girlfriend’s pickup truck. That was wild, man. We were both freshmen in college, back home on fall break, and we had just driven the truck out to a literal cornfield to awkwardly get it on.

After we finished (and by “finished,” I mean the album, not each other, because frankly, the sex was deeply unsatisfying and weird) we wound up driving back into town for the annual Harvest Festival. You know, the whole like, rural small-town kind of affair where everyone pretends the entire geographical area isn’t wildly economically depressed, and instead of an idyllic autumnal paradise? Bobbing for apples and crafty shit and pumpkins that are actually pretty impressive? One of those.

Now normally, that would be a decent and very Saphhic post-coital activity, but this happened to be the ‘96 Harvest Festival where there was a tragic chainsaw sculpture accident. We rolled up in her truck pretty much at the same time as the ambulance. There was a lot of blood, and Old Gary went from the foremost stump artist of the tri-county area to just another grizzled dude with one hand who would use his accidental amputation to scare children for the next three decades. He did end up having a decent acting career as the creepy old gas station attendant in the slasher-revival era of horror movies, though.

My girlfriend wound up jumping into the scene to pick up Gary’s amputated hand and honestly I think she liked handling that kind of gore a little too much, so that was the end of that relationship. You can’t really forget a woman you loved grinning while that close to that kind of viscera, you know? But I’ll never be able to hear Alanis Morisette without thinking about the most mediocre fingerbanging of my life, followed by a graphic image of Old Gary’s dangling wrist tendons and shit.

Soccer Mommy also has that effect by the transitive property of soundalikes. That’s too bad.

SCORE: -1 hands