Miya Folick - Roach

Miya Folick’s 2018 debut ‘Premonitions’ doused a straightforward indie sound in colourful theatrics, a shift that retroactively, given the content of ‘Roach’, her long-awaited second record, looks a lot like escapism - but of what? In embracing buried insecurity Miya ditches happy-go-lucky pop perfectionism in favour of a bed of art-pop and calamitous, soft indie rock, where she scrawls in her journal until the scribbles make sense, and rolls around in relatable, guttural, tearful - and actually, incredibly liberating - self-loathing. Aside from its empowering frustration, its allure is in its profundity: as Miya seeks faith and direction on ‘Oh God’, builds a picture of shame and desperation on ‘Nothing To See’ and waxes lyrical on her indecisive existentialism on ‘2007’, she forges connection with her listeners. Like a hangover, ‘Roach’ lulls around in this contemplation in the dusky corners of a rough Sunday morning, yet it remains laced with a little intoxication: experimental production hides behind its corners, making ‘Roach’ a little more interesting. And elsewhere there exists moments where sunlight cracks through the drawn curtains: ‘So Clear’ is poppy fantasia that could well be a MUNA track, while pick-me-up ‘Cartoon Clouds’ shakes away depression and soothes anxiety. Incredibly wise, Miya, with ‘Roach’, invites the listener to embrace untidy adulthood – namely, living as a woman in modernity – and push through whispering hungover epiphanies to survive.