For better or worse, fall is a time for change. People come and go, new chapters begin, leaves change colour—it can be a lot for anyone to handle. All of this makes it the perfect time for Newfoundland emo trio Swimming to release their debut, That’s OK, which is rooted in that very turmoil.
All three members of Swimming share in songwriting duties, often blurring the lines on their distinct roles in the process. Though, if you were to be fortunate enough to watch the band live, these layers typically become more distinct, with Nick Hunt playing the bass, Jacob Cherwick at home behind the drums, and Liam Ryan on guitar.
While each of the three members contribute to discordant, yet effective, harmonies, it’s Ryan’s vocals that are the driving force of much of the album. It’s his frustrated cry that carries the momentum of the album’s most visceral moments, really hammering home the album’s toughest messages.
“These songs are a snapshot of our lives as young adults in Newfoundland,” says Cherwick. “Dealing with the changing of the seasons as we lose old friends to the mainland and find new ones in unexpected places, all while trying to make the most of what we have.”
That approach has resulted in some interesting dynamics. The production swallows the lyrical content at times, but never to a song’s discredit. “Sometimes Things Change,” the album’s opener, as well as “Pursuit of Happiness”, both have a lot of fun departures—prolonged and unpredictable guitar riffs that showcase the band’s more musically intriguing tendencies that are sometimes lacking from the genre. Those same unexpected shifts in tempo, coupled with the often dissonant harmonies flowing through the tracks, lend themselves more to the math rock genre that Swimming also takes influence from.
Combined with the messages at play, it can all really elevate a song. “Winter Is Hell Here” is particularly striking in the way it doesn’t really strike at all—a short and gloomy depiction of seasonal depression. The slow pace and slurred vocals make the lethargy of shorter days completely come to life. In the same vein, the anger and acceptance that comes when a loved one is struggling with addiction in “Little Things” is accented by guitar that switches on a dime between a steady rhythm to sharp and punchy bursts of noise.
“Bigger/Better” serves as the finale to the album, where the band laments the grand exodus of their hometown (particularly that of the popular young Maritimer rite of passage of moving to Montreal) while valiantly swearing to always hold it first and foremost in their hearts. It feels like a moment of growth from earlier declarations on the album—of escaping reality with drugs and aimless driving. It’s a bittersweet sentiment, and, if nothing else, gives them a unique edge in the emo genre—toppling the stereotype of “hating their hometown” with a grand flourish.
And though the stress surrounding change and loss makes up the bulk of the album’s momentum, it’s clear that’s not the final takeaway. Like Cherwick said, the band is trying to make the most of what they have, even if it’s as simple as smoking weed or a nice breeze—whatever makes the ticking of the clock fade into the background.