Remi Wolf has never been one to do things quietly. On Mud, her third album, she’s caught between getting her life together and making a spectacular mess of it. The cover says it all: she grins at us, caked in mud, looking less concerned with cleaning herself up than enjoying the situation. Bad habits, doomed romances and questionable decisions run through the record, delivered with the theatrical conviction of someone who knows she’s being ridiculous and refuses to apologise for it.
On Bottle, Wolf begs for nicotine before attempting to convince herself to get out of bed. She knows what she’s doing wrong; that doesn’t mean she’s going to stop. Cigarettes crop up throughout the album, alongside whiskey, wine and other questionable comforts. On Champagne, the prospect of crashing a car with a cigarette in hand comes wrapped in an almost infuriatingly catchy melody. Wolf makes self-destruction sound like a brilliant night out. Twiggy has little interest in taking the high road either, turning breakup bitterness into petty insults and gloriously unfiltered anger. It’s funny, a little unhinged and all the better for it.
The jokes don’t always hold. Jamie begins with the kind of romantic narration you’d expect from a period drama, only for Wolf to undercut the sentiment with a thoroughly modern punchline. Her vocals can be enormous, playful and theatrical, but on Guess they sound properly bruised. She’s trying to make sense of a relationship in which nothing she does seems good enough, and the frustration cuts through the production. There’s no witty escape hatch here, just the exhausting business of trying to understand someone who keeps you guessing. Wolf can be ridiculous and sincere in the same breath, sometimes within the same song.
Warm guitars and country twang give Mud a different flavour. Moon So High, featuring John Mayer, is a highlight, his instantly recognisable guitar lending the track a softness that recalls the folk-pop sound many of us grew up with. On Covered in Mud, Wolf admits that her writing doesn’t sound like the hits on the radio. Is that a complaint or a humblebrag? Either way, she doesn’t seem especially interested in sanding down her edges to fit the mould. The album is at its best when its impulses are allowed to run wild, from lovesick confessions to bizarre romantic fantasies and choruses that refuse to leave your head.
Yellow Rose closes the record on a gentler note, but don’t mistake that for a complete turnaround. Wolf is still caught up in bad habits, romantic delusions and the occasional spectacular lapse in judgement. Mud has little interest in the triumphant arc of a woman who finally gets her shit together. Wolf would rather wallow, laugh at herself and turn the whole ordeal into a song. She may be covered in mud, but she’s clearly having a good time in it.
