On Raw Honesty, Unrequited Love, & Dancing: Kevin Atwater’s ‘Blush Red’
Kevin Atwater writes for the midwestern queer youth.
The indie pop singer quickly became popular in online circles after posting some of his original ballads, his storytelling both vivid and universal. Atwater’s discography covers the spectrum of the queer experience in frank detail – on his sophomore album, Blush Red, “I’m not where you’re at" describes a clandestine connection with an older man, while “Molotov” delivers a devastating account of a relationship with a boy struggling with internalized homophobia. Atwater’s previous songs have struck listeners for a number of reasons, but his ability to cut straight to the heart with his diaristic lyricism remains unmatched in this record.
“Even the light knows how to catch you,” he sings as his first word on the album. “basement bar” lulls listeners into a false sense of security, promising a hushed record of Atwater’s familiar falsetto before catapulting into the vitriolic "I don't want to watch you dance.” The album is a series of pushes and pulls – resentment butts violently against admiration, while an overwhelming love clouds any self-awareness. The head and the heart are in constant opposition as Atwater recounts desperate nights with a careless lover; a building virulence is in fierce competition with the need to be held. Blush Red is a maddening, all-too-relatable cycle of knowing you deserve better and going back anyway.
The result of this pattern comes in the form of an escalating bitterness that is never fully verbally expressed but finds its way into the music anyways. “I don’t want to watch you dance” features a rapidly swelling bridge that sets Atwater up for one violent, howling final chorus; instead, the release of his resentment comes in a way that feels more gradual than cathartic. There’s no indignant shout, no frantic release – the outro is more of an exhale than a yell. Much of Atwater’s music is based in exhaustion and reluctant acceptance of this cycle he finds himself in; it’s incredibly fascinating to watch that resignation be personified in the orchestration.
“house with windows” – a song about a lover whose internalized homophobia prevents their relationship from progressing – continues this leitmotif. The song’s bridge features a gorgeous, surging string composition that becomes unexpectedly dissonant, fading to the background as Atwater delivers the outro. The sound is not unlike an off-kilter kettle, and its incomplete progression leaves listeners wondering: when’s the boiling point? How long until this resentment gives to outright vindictiveness? Anticipation grows as Atwater continues, grounded by weeping strings in between verses.
Blush Red’s lyrics are littered with references to dancing and sexual tensions, an interesting juxtaposition of expression and performance. “I don’t want to watch you dance,” Atwater sings on the aforementioned second song; then, later in track six, “romance tape”: “Do you wanna dance the way I want to?” Dancing, for the lover, is vengeful, a cruel form of peacocking meant to attract wandering eyes and hurt their partner, who craves exclusivity. For Atwater, it’s freeing. In the final track, “time to kill”, the metaphor becomes unmistakable – “We should go out dancing / I know we never will / But I dream of it all still.” By the end of the song, the chorus transforms, becoming instead, “in another life we will.” In its purest form on Blush Red, dancing is representative of queer expression; Atwater craves it, wants to love their partner in the open, and yet the constraints of small-minded suburbia prevents them from doing so. It’s a tale many queer kids know well, and Atwater tells it with a striking empathy for his ex-lovers (even if that empathy often comes at his own expense).
Blush Red is Atwater’s most mature project yet, not only on account of its trademark storytelling but also for its saturated, lush instrumentation. Though Atwater has been criticized in the past for playing it safe when it comes to his arrangements, his sophomore album delivers fuller orchestration, evoking Phoebe Bridgers’ Stranger in the Alps on some tracks (“I don’t want to watch you dance”, “God in my Head”) and pulling from the likes of Sufjan Stevens and his indie folk predecessors on others (“stripper”, “til august”).
Atwater’s narration thrives when it’s backed by flourishing clarinets and fuzzy guitar; “stripper,” “God in my Head,” and “til august” are undoubtedly the album’s standouts. Blush Red is a clear evolution for Atwater, stunningly intimate and undoubtedly a must-listen for summer depressives and queer 20-somethings everywhere.
You can listen to Blush Red on all streaming platforms now. Catch Kevin on his North American tour this autumn, and keep an eye out for the European leg this winter.
