AND I DON’T CARE WHO KNOWS IT.

by Shelby [Redacted]

Sincerity Alert: Today we’re talking about High Land, Hard Rain by Aztec Camera—an album that makes me so deliriously happy I can’t even be acerbic about it. It’s tooth-achingly sweet, unabashedly jangly, and works at least as well as an antidepressant (or that’s what I tell my friends when they gently suggest a trip to the doctor). If one were feeling critical—say, if one were in a dark enough place to be completely numb to life’s small pleasures—I could be persuaded to admit that the album is occasionally uneven, repetitive, maybe even a bit predictable. But I just listened to High Land, Hard Rain, so I’m not in the mood for that right now. Instead, I want to talk about how this record feels like a direct injection of summertime joy, straight to the veins. There’s something sparkly and magical about it that makes me want to hang up my cynicism—just while it’s playing, don’t worry—and go frolic.

Released in 1983, High Land, Hard Rain is the debut from Scottish outfit Aztec Camera, led by 19-year-old vocalist, guitarist, and songwriter Roddy Frame. Bursting out the darker landscape of post-punk and new wave, these songs shimmer with youth and freshness. The album opens with its most successful single, “Oblivious,” which is so instantly jaunty that I dare you not to be uplifted—go on, try. It’s unquestionably one of the album’s best—bright and plucky, it sounds to me like tiny, intrepid caterpillars wiggling through a field of wildflowers. In truth, much of this album sounds like brave little insects to me. After “Oblivious” releases its little tapping fingers from my ears, the next two tracks are just as good—sweet, pure, curative, etc. If I’m ever in such a black mood that the three-song run of “Oblivious,” “The Boy Wonders,” and “Walk Out to Winter” can’t lift my spirits at least marginally, someone needs to check me into psychiatric care immediately.

The next song, “The Bugle Sounds Again,” is my least favorite—not because it’s bad, but because it’s one of the few songs where the vocals feel a little flat against the music. The verses are almost too simple, while the chorus feels messy and cluttered by comparison. But I’m even grateful for this dip, because if it went straight into “We Could Send Letters” after the first three tracks, I’d be afraid my little heart might burst clean through my chest. That was the first song I ever heard from this album, and it is just so damn sparkly. The verses have a real ping-pong ball bounce to them, the chorus shimmers, and then, towards the end, when the guitar gets all twinkly and gorgeous? Well, now I guess I have to be in a good mood. 

In the middle, the album mellows out, so while the next three songs don’t get me quite so in-danger-of-a-DUI-high-out-of-my-mind, the drop in energy helps the album breathe. “Pillar to Post” is froggier and slantier, “Release” is bonier and jazzier, and “Lost Outside the Tunnel” is just fluffy fun. (I swear to god, these are the exact adjectives I wrote in my notes, so if you’re a little lost, I’m right there with you.) But boy, does “Back on Board” get me right back up there. It is a kitten with a ball of yarn, it’s frogs and lily pads, it’s crickets at dusk. I fucking love this song—the way it swings into the chorus and then oh-so-charmingly transitions into our last song (no! already??), “Down the Dip.” This saccharine-sounding closer should be downright intolerable to a bitch like me and yet—and yet. Probably the simplest song on the album, it’s only vocals and acoustic guitar, and somehow no less intoxicating than the others. The pronunciation of the word “orange” in this song could sustain me on its own. I find it that charming.

So yes, I raved about High Land, Hard Rain for a while there—but look: putting out an album this unabashedly sincere, this un-self-consciously optimistic, is honestly just so fucking cool. It’s inspiring, even. And Spotify, before you serve me another twee daylist, know that this feels different—it’s completely unaffected, unembarrassed, purely joyful. So please, readers, heed the advice of one seasoned cynic whose heart has been melted by Aztec Camera, and add this to your rotation—to listen to outside in the sunshine, surrounded by summer flowers, butterflies, maybe a babbling brook. Or, if you’re like me, let it brighten the bleak gray light of early morning streaming through your grimy car windows on the way to work.