Pure X’s fourth record, their first in six years, has arrived. The eponymous titling of the record is fitting, not only because this feels like a new start for the band, but also because the record exudes a hard-earned sense of perspective. “I forgive myself for how I hurt myself,” goes one line in “Hollywood,” for instance—and the contentment is a good look for them. Their most emotionally mature album, Pure X is, not coincidentally, also the band’s best album overall, period.
Throughout their career, Pure X has put out music of a consistently woozy, sunburnt nature. Their songs have always felt like nighttime songs–listening to them is like taking a midnight walk in a humid Texas summer. I recall seeing them at a house show at a SXSW around the time they released their first record, 2011’s Pleasure. The band passed a joint as a machine filled the room with fog, a perfect visual pairing for their foggy, faded music.
Reflecting on the band’s previous work, 2014’s Angel, with its turn toward the pastoral, now looks like a major breakthrough for the band. On that record, which found a newfound sonic sophistication, it seemed like they’d also remembered what made their earliest songs so memorable and haunting: a zen-like directness, a simplicity that hints at unseen depths. This record is an evolution of that breakthrough, at times evoking that stoner philosopher king, Kurt Vile, or the slyly earnest wit of Cass McCombs. There’s no strain to be witty or clever, or cool. Just direct.
Meanwhile, over the past decade, the emotional tenor of Pure X has evolved from tense, to tortured, to totally blissed out. From the resigned clarity of “Middle America” to the carefree “Angels of Love,” Pure X is practically buzzing with appreciation and purpose. The koan “Every flower grows out of the dirt” pops up in “Free My Heart,” the closest Pure X has ever veered to the domestic calm of Real Estate. It’s a beautiful song about letting love in, and a release from the dark anguish of some of their previous work.
The only moment on the record that isn’t suffused with golden rays is the final song, the haunted “I Can Dream.” But even in reminiscing about having once loved someone who is now just a memory, there is a profound sense of appreciation for what has been. It feels like a moment of private gratitude, an acceptance of the fogginess of life.
