I wrote a review for Lizzy McAlpine’s Older in 2024, and it is safe to say I was critical. I found that her third album lacked the urgency of her second; she seemed a little too desperate to be free of the pop-girly accusations, and her pacing floundered as a result. However, despite all my issues with it, I must admit that Older still became one of my most streamed albums that year. I returned again and again to its lush sonic world, and for that reason I remained cautiously optimistic for the release of album number four, Angel. 

My optimism was rewarded—mostly. There are some things that will never change. Across the 14 tracks of the album’s runtime, McAlpine’s vocals are masterful, and it is a pleasure to listen to her sing no matter what the words are. Her harmonies drape almost imperceptibly over the lead line, creating a wide yet subtle stereo image that stands out, especially in the opening track The light in the painting and the later Two elevens. In I have a friend, her voice truly blooms; though at first I found the concept a bit quaint, the more I listen, the more it moves me. While I think the song luxuriates a little too long in its simplistic instrumentals, once it gains momentum, McAlpine’s pillow-talk confessions are so beautiful and keening they give me goosebumps. The melody line is swoony yet restrained, and by resisting the lure of a flashy note, the song stays squarely put on the living room floor, like we are sitting together in a square of warm afternoon sunlight on a dusty carpet. 

McAlpine’s five-month stint on Broadway has left a clear impression on her music; the folksy fingerprint of Floyd Collins is all over the album. Most strongly felt in A car wash and a new pair of pants—my personal favourite song from Angel—McAlpine bemoans that her ex-boyfriend dated her for “fame and glory”, as if she is the snubbed hero in the first act of a musical. Her vocal flips recall her performance in Lucky (from Floyd Collins) and the lyrics contain all the grounded narrative imagery that songs like Two elevens and Peach are missing. 

Again and again McAlpine has proven her ability to devastate with a lyric so neat it seems like it was always waiting to be sung, and yet she still lags at crucial points in the album. After all seven minutes of Our strange ways, I’m left simply feeling perplexed; past, present and speculation are mixed together so dizzyingly that I have no grasp of the narrative, and by the time a rhyme rolls around, I’ve forgotten what scheme it’s supposed to be completing. The extended runtime has let her elaborate too much, and line after line reiterates the same tired point. This is exemplified in the chorus where “we would be strangers/in our strange ways” postures as insightful, when really, it’s just repetition. I would accept this in a standard track, but again, Our strange ways is seven minutes long. This is when an artist should be demonstrating their story-telling prowess, not waffling.

If A car wash is the first act of a musical, then The crowd is her 11 o’clock number, when the spotlight comes up on a lone girl at centre stage. The song features only her voice and the piano, and it needs nothing else; the creaks and quiet thuds of the pianist shifting are the details that make this track feel complete. Another standout for me is The moon, with a harmonic richness that recalls her earlier work on Never Gonna Be Alone with Jacob Collier and John Mayer. The marching drums and triumphant bass line summon the fairytale landscape of McAlpine’s “handsome prince and maiden fair”, while vaulting backing vocals of the post-chorus truly send the song into space. And I would be remiss not to mention Over country, a ballad so potent that it already feels like it’s one of the greats, like it’s been around forever. 

Perhaps this is the album’s defining quality; while some moments in Angel feel like hard work, mostly these songs are elemental, told in a musical language that will stand the test of time. Where Older was largely an uphill battle, McAlpine has delivered Angel with grace.