LL

Which really makes the album feel like a saving grace of the past and of now is the found material. They've always had a knack for sampled mayhem, like on 2021's “Tu Tu Neurotic,” which sped up the divine hairs of Opus III's 1992 new-age house classic “It's A Fine Day” into an urgent nocturnal-core anthem. la la lasmall. They fill the album with a bunch of unexpected nods, from the clipped Skrillex screams of “Halo” to the ASMR sound of “Rllynice.” The teal synthetic lead on “STUNN” hits like RUSTIE sugar. The hauntingly beautiful “Shadow” reconnects a wisely sad acoustic ballad uploaded to Instagram by Victoria Davidoff in a torrent of witch bass. “I'd kill to see you sit,” he moans, each syllable snapping like a dazed cyborg. It sounds made for a damn Jane Schoenbrun movie.

Bragging about making music that's shockingly new and then filling the album with indie throwbacks and electronic flickers is a bait and switch. As if by mashing up all their favorite influences, they wanted to somehow overcome their past, to make a mutated rodeo of sacred relics. It doesn't quite work, because the way they combine analog and synth, fried beats and raw sensations, isn't a new aesthetic. But the passion shines through, with melodies and songwriting that are smarter and more inventive than most of the hyper-rock crowd. To truly build their vision, LL could use more memorable lyrics. They gravitate towards amorphous sensations and experiences—amorous languor, existential inertia, power dynamics—with details fuzzy enough for everyone to fill in the blanks to suit their own circumstances. Occasionally, they'll stumble upon something specific or odd, like the way Dillon casually declares, “I came in to say/Everybody here's a tweaker,” on “Ether,” and pleads, “You make a lot of money/Could you buy I like a little game?' on “Sinamen,” before the track turns into a maelstrom. Storytelling is sidelined in the service of creating big, bittersweet anthems.

Before LLhellp cultivated so much lore that it almost diminished the music. Dillon and Lucy had humble origins as construction and grocery workers who slept in cars or on “rat-infested floors.” Their early music reportedly served as inspo for Frank Ocean Blonde era and co-signed by Kanye West. Then there was their proximity to influencers like tastemaker Luka Sabbat and their videos, like one where Dillon runs down an endless road in the Arizona desert, strips and collapses on the cement. This album unfolds like a long, spasmodic, triumphant exhale. It feels like both a love letter to certain inspirations and a love letter to their growth as artists, remembering the early days of getting it down and recognizing where they are now. After all these years of waiting, Hellp have finally delivered their manifesto, and it's sweeter than most of the “indie sleaze” they've mistakenly taken alongside.