Beabadoobee finds clarity on This Is How Tomorrow Moves

Look ahead on the standpoint of 2017’s “Coffee”, her first guitar song, and you’ll notice how far away from it she is now, standing on the beachside in Malibu, much happier and more confident in herself. It’s where she worked on the new record with veteran alt-rock savant Rick Rubin, a dream-come-true collaboration. Despite leaving her comfort zone – London, that is – retrospection still stands firm as her greatest inspiration. Where Beatopia, her gorgeous sophomore output, addressed her childhood dreamland on an experimental sonic ground, This Is How Tomorrow Moves reverts back to her earliest days’ approach to music making – an attempt to view the past on a larger canvas.

Laus’s songwriting at the time had the crudeness of bypassing thoughts that appear whenever we’re waiting for the next train, or sitting idly in the park. Beatopia steered clear of such simplicity for the most part; its complex concept demanded intricacies that established the exact atmosphere she had in mind. On TIHTM, however, the old style makes a surprisingly pleasant return, embracing the beauty of everyday easygoingness once again. You won’t hear refrains crammed in between each line of a verse à la “10:36”, or unpredictable tempos and simultaneous vocal layering à la “Tinkerbell Is Overrated”. Instead, we get traditional verse-chorus tracks like “Tie My Shoes” and “Coming Home”.

Less complicated song structure means more room to highlight Laus’s newfound wisdom and clarity of thought. Beneath the standard indie-rock soundtrack on “One Time”, she looks past the conviction for her failed relationship and begins to acknowledge her own culpability. “Wandering through the cheap escapes,” she sings, slightly dragging on each syllable as if reluctant to admit it, “Just avoiding all the things I say.” She then accepts and takes care of herself “at her own pace” on the record’s only piano ballad “Girl Song”. Eventually, like a coming-of-age novella with a happy resolution, songs after it revel in hard-earned compassion and love that will extend to everybody within her vicinity.

Thanks to Rubin’s acoustic method, which encouraged Laus to play solely on an instrument before working on the production, most pieces have attained what may possibly be called “skeletal beauty”. The tuneful compositions make them sound great on basically anything, from performing with a full band to strumming the chords on a guitar, a testament to Laus and Rubin’s commanding sense of melody. The sumptuous key change on “Real Man”, the tickly pause before skating into the first pre-chorus on “Ever Seen”, the ruminative “he said, she said” on “Post” are all little moments that feel essential to her budding niche: youthful, protean, empathetic – a summer fling with the troubles.

Regardless of the new additions, these introspective songs still bear an instrumental resemblance to those on Beatopia. “Ever Seen” is the ecstatic big sister to “Lovesong”, as with “A Cruel Affair” to “the perfect pair”. Some might dismiss the new record for this superficial sameness, but there’s so much more that insists on disagreeing. Angst appears lesser than ever, and TIHTM is now teemed with the first spring of adulthood. “Coming Home”, a subtle homage to the Philippines’ folk dance tinikling, perishes the blame game and settles on a shrewd reassurance that she herself will be better. This, as she beautifully suggests, is how tomorrow moves: with wilful acceptance, crisp sensibility, and elan.