Cherry Glazerr Kicks Its Grungy Manifestoes Into a New Gear on ‘Stuffed & Ready’ | Modern Society of USA

Cherry Glazerr Kicks Its Grungy Manifestoes Into a New Gear on ‘Stuffed & Ready’

Cherry Glazerr Kicks Its Grungy Manifestoes Into a New Gear on ‘Stuffed & Ready’

Clementine Creevy, the songwriter, singer and guitarist who leads Cherry Glazerr, has unabashedly grown up in public, claiming allegiances and postures on the way to finding herself. On the band’s third album, that means having far more quandaries than answers but making the struggles mean something.

As a teenager, Creevy was a proud representative of a do-it-yourself Los Angeles rock scene, which had somehow preserved the scrappy idealism of the punk era from decades before she was born. Now, 22 years old and three albums into a career that has also included television exposure (with a recurring role leading the band Glitterish on “Transparent”) and modeling (for the designer Emma Mulholland), she sounds less guarded and more direct than ever, owning up to confusion and insecurity even as her guitar riffs counterattack.

While Creevy’s music has stayed grounded in 1980s and 1990s alternative rock — bands like the Breeders, Siouxsie and the Banshees and the Cure — she has expanded her sounds and dynamics with each album. Live, Cherry Glazerr is a guitar-bass-drums trio, but in the studio, the band uses layers of guitars and occasional dollops of synthesizer to make each song evolve from within: fragile or eerie at one moment, ironclad the next. Creevy’s voice is high and thin but determined, and bolstered by the studio; her melodies take unexpected, angular leaps, while her guitar parts underline her solitude or blast it away.

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“Stuffed & Ready” is Cherry Glazerr’s third album.

Throughout the album, the songs negotiate intimacy and independence, responsibility and personal needs. In “Daddi,” she grapples with her own reflex of deferring to a man. The verses are high, hesitant, whispery lines — “Where should I go Daddi/What should I say” — but a drum stomp and a blaring guitar take over for the chorus: “Don’t hold my hand, don’t be my man.” She worries about her cultural role in “That’s Not My Real Life,” a barreling punk rocker: “The suits, they don’t want me to go/They just want me to bear it all for all the women.” At the album’s midpoint, she slows down to ballad speed and guiltily craves time for herself in “Self Explained” and “Isolation.”

But by the end, she’s back in the fray. In “Distressor,” she moves from home and seclusion — hollow, circular guitar-picking patterns — to the powerful mask of performing onstage: “I just wanna drown in my own noise,” she sings, with a drumbeat looming under her voice and, soon, a titanic, heaving guitar riff. At the end, she’s shouting: “So I can just be!”

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