Chris Farren’s most riveting album to date, Doom Singer tackles midlife trepidation with crisp sensitivity

It was no fun creating a full-length LP in a cramped, lonesome place such as his “closet-size” home studio. Every instrument you hear on his previous records he played in the spirit of a finicky perfectionist; he’d tinker with minor details until he could think of nothing else but them. This endless fiddling wasn’t always effective, because certain parts of the final product sounded impassive and unmoving, as if Farren had over-elaborated them to the point of exhaustion. Luckily, when ideas for his fourth solo release began to thrive, he finally saw a change in the creative process: Frankie Impastato of Macseal and Melina Duterte (who goes by Jay Som) offered to oversee the instrumentation alongside him.

Doom Singer is Chris Farren’s first step into the world of studio-quality production and its ensuing collaboration with a broader range of musicians. The threads of power-pop and alt-rock synthesis are the foundation on which his musings of midlife trepidation, loneliness, and olden-days nostalgia bloom. “The time release, the afterglow / I wanna glitch out of the world I know,” he mourns on lead single “Cosmic Leash”, a volcanic spasm of long-gone ties, imagining a life of ripe resolutions and yearning for new beginnings. “Get Over U” finds himself glued to the past: “What if I never get over you?” he questions. “Why am I falling to pieces?” It’s an anthem for wistful and confused people who are apprehensive of what lies ahead.

Creating the album in a new setting where there’s ample space and equipment gives Farren the right medium to refurbish the instrumental backdrop of his music. Sonically, this is the most riveting work of his solo career, an embellished musical piece that gambols under the haze of 90s and 00s alt-rock. He sings “Are We Ever” with crisp sensitivity à la Oasis; writes “First Place” in conversational monologues like Camera Obscura; strums the electric guitar on “Bluish” with the intensity of early-day Weezer. These songs would be a joy to dance along live due to their frisky tunes and huge choruses, but the extroverted playfulness sometimes results in structural monotony that works against them.

Despite Farren’s dynamic nature, the melodic switches are so prominent that they can become less of an anticipation and more of disinterested arousal. When one listens to a song’s climax on repeat for long enough, for example, the pleasure it stirs will eventually wane. The same applies to a few tracks on Doom Singer, namely “Screen Saver” and “My Beauty”, where the excitement of climactic releases is ripped off by the ones that come before them. The closer “Statue Song”, however, is of a different gene; the slow rush and rhythmic enigma allude to his willingness to explore. It seems to oddly imply the commentary as well: if not for its hackneyed template, Doom Singer is both a contemporary splendour and a propitious prophecy – his flourishing comes with experiments and charisma.