Clairo's Undertoned Harmonica

Sling

Clairo

GENRE: Pop/R&B

LABEL: Fader Label / Republic

a tender rebellion against industry pressures and ’70s-inspired stillness

“Pardon my emotions,” Clairo demurred on her 2019 debut, Immunity, caught between wanting to just turn off the TV and make a move already and fretting that her crush revelation might mildly inconvenience a friend. Her world then was one of whispers and worried glances, a delicate dance of meanings hiding in the shadows of small talk. (“Getting close to someone is a really sensitive thing,” she once confided to Rookie.) Fast forward to Sling’s lead single, “Blouse,” and the tender thrills of youth have vanished like forgotten homework. Now, she sings with weary bitterness: “Why do I tell you how I feel/When you’re just looking down the blouse?” The dewy-eyed sincerity has curdled, thanks to another unfortunate encounter between a young woman’s trust and an older man’s wandering gaze. Clairo is done being polite, though her plea—“If touch could make them hear, then touch me now”—still aches with the hope for connection.

Growing up, there’s nothing quite as soul-crushing as realizing the wrong kind of attention feels more like a magnifying glass than admiration. Since Clairo’s stumble into fame circa 2017—YouTube! Bedroom pop! POLLEN playlist! Bisexuality!—she’s been reduced to a Gen Z buzzword salad, the poster child for sensitive internet kids. But on Sling, she’s thoroughly over it. On “Management,” she quotes the peanut gallery: “‘She’s only 22,’” in a lament about career burnout. Instead of playing along, she time-travels to the ’70s, soaking up the vibes of Carole King, Joni Mitchell, and the Carpenters. (Clairo 2019 foreshadowed this move with “Mitchell told me I should be just fine.” Present-day Clairo takes her advice seriously.)

If Taylor Swift took eight albums to go full forest-folk chic, Clairo’s ahead of the timeline. Recorded in the scenic solitude of upstate New York with Jack Antonoff, Sling channels minor-key melancholy and pastoral elegance. It’s not chasing hits—“Blouse” feels more like Elliott Smith napping in a snowy cabin than a chart-topper. Gone are the dreamy ambiguities of young love; in their place, Clairo unpacks grown-up stuff like “Motherhood, sexualization, mental health, and my own regrets,” as she confessed in a newsletter. A classic second-album move: proving depth and maturity while politely flipping off the expectations that made her famous in the first place. For Clairo, Sling wasn’t just art—it was survival. “I was fully going to quit music,” she admitted to Rolling Stone.

The album is rich with specificity, peppered with proper nouns and vignettes: her friend Claud, suburban Dunwoody, a Syracuse street corner. Her lyrics are razor-sharp but demand effort to untangle. (See: “Zinnias”’ cryptic “Sorry but I can’t stay here while we wait for June.”) Previously, her songs felt like quiet heart-to-hearts with another person—or a fantasy of one. Now, they’re introspective, steeped in private anxieties. On “Just for Today,” she sings, “I blocked out the month of February for support,” over a lullaby-like backdrop. This is Clairo journaling out loud, leaving some context intentionally out of reach.

Of course, there’s a risk that this tasteful understatement verges on too understated. The hushed delivery can feel like eavesdropping on someone who doesn’t realize you’re there. Critics have grumbled about her stage presence—too shy, too timid—and Sling doesn’t do much to challenge that perception. At its weakest, her voice can sound like a ghost whispering under the covers. But at its best, her harmonies are shimmering and gorgeous, like sunlight glinting through frosty windows.

Sling feels oddly out of sync with a world that’s craving chaos and energy, but that’s part of its charm. On “Bambi,” Clairo captures a moment of poetic yearning: “Rushing so I can beat the line. But what if all I want is conversation and time?” The album’s irregular pacing reflects this sentiment. Sometimes, songs meander before a breeze of new sound or tempo sweeps in, like a surprise dance break mid-stroll. One standout moment arrives in “Wade,” where, after musing about life wasting away, the music slows into a dreamy reverie of woodwinds and gentle relief.

Sling isn’t here to dazzle you with instant gratification. It’s a slow burn, revealing subtle shades and textures with each listen. Its quiet beauty and refusal to pander make it an act of rebellion against the vampiric music industry’s appetite for more, faster. By embracing stillness, Clairo finds a way to let go—and invites us to pause and do the same.