As the current trend of eschewing skinny jeans and side parts in favour of mom jeans and a coifed symmetry that would be the envy of Alfalfa Switzer both demonstrate, everything is cyclical. This is just as true of music as it is of fashion; everything that was old is new again.
This is abundantly apparent on All These Little Games, the new release from Newfoundland’s Virginia Fudge. Take your ears off the ball at any point during the 6-song, 23 minute EP and you might find yourself in another decade.
This isn’t a dramatic return of the big bands of the Roaring Twenties, but a big nod to the far more recent ’80s—full of gated reverb and synths—and everything else is a dabbling within that shoulder-padded framework. It’s a modern album in the same sense that everything from that era was infinitely hyper-futuristic, and authentically so, so long as it’s made de rigeur by contemporaries such as St. Vincent, but made retro by the same coin.
All These Little Games’ opening track, “Dragonfly,” is, perhaps, the album’s best example of this. The song lays the groundwork for the album’s subject matter on the complexities of relationships and the double-edged sword of opportunity cost, with a beautiful slow build—anchored to Fudge’s voice but skillfully driven to a state of elation through a tastefully spartan organ. It’s a testament to nuance and minimalism that not only provides a strong opening to the album but stands out as one of our favourite songs of the year.
Fudge doubles down on the retro vibe for the next two tracks, “Run Hide Fall” and “Smoking,” the latter of which includes a stutter of synths and a bass line Lisa Lougheed would be proud of. Fudge may be lamenting the destructive effects of dishonesty on a relationship, but we’ve been inescapably conditioned by Hollywood to associate peak ’80s synth-pop with the soundtrack to some high-stake late-night BMX chase scene.
“Make Us Work,” the album’s piano-based first single, is another stand-out track, but also the most curious example of that aforementioned blend of styles. Fudge’s plea for resolution amid the chaos of a strained relationship is, of all things, a waltz. It’s as though we’re experiencing a flashback to whatever Yann Tiersen was doing three decades ago. As with the rest of the album, on “Make Us Work” Fudge is, at most, bittersweet; even in moments of devastation, there is an endearing and uplifting sense of hope that can be attributed more to the tone of the song than its scathing lyrical counterpart.
“Chit Chatter” is more of a surprise. Call it a missed opportunity or the merits of releasing an album, but this might have deserved the standalone attention of a single. Another fine example of the St. Vincent-esque nature of the album, the song juxtaposes a mighty reverberance with the sound of a delicate music box-like piano. It has the uneasy quality of an anxious dance party as Fudge continues to ponder aloud the durability of a struggling relationship.
Totally switching gears for the final denouement, “I Think We’re Wild” once again relies on Fudge’s voice to carry the album across the finish line. Rather than being at all out of place, liberated from its jungle of synths, stripped-down to just vocals and an honest-to-goodness piano, “I Think We’re Wild” presents a perfect conclusion to the album. It’s a resolution in more than one way, but incredibly charming in its honesty.
All The Little Games represents an emotional and auditory journey—one that Fudge attributes much to the brilliance of producer Meg Warren—and in just six short songs it feels like we’ve been handed a history of not only Fudge’s romantic misadventures but a brief history of an entire genre of music, if we’re prepared to scrape away the layers. In both regards, it feels as though we’ve progressed from something guarded and artificial to something divinely authentic. It’s good enough to produce chills, and the promise of what the partnership between Fudge and Warren might yet produce is exciting.