Jones is an album that sounds like your therapy notes read themselves aloud
Boylife returns with Jones, and let’s just say: if Prince and Frank Ocean had a wonderfully weird little baby raised by Bon Iver in a sun-drenched LA studio, his latest release would be its slightly disheveled, gloriously genre-confused teenage diary. This isn’t just a follow-up: it’s a full-blown identity crisis dressed in velvet, soaked in reverb, and served with a sly wink.
From the get-go, Jones doesn’t just open, it emerges. Like a fog creeping in over Mulholland Drive at 2AM, the first track wraps you in gauzy harmonies and emotionally frayed edges. It’s less “intro” and more “emotional onboarding.” Then the album starts shapeshifting.
One minute you’re basking in honey-dripped falsettos over lo-fi bedroom beats, and the next you’re sideswiped by vocal manipulations that sound like Frank Ocean having an existential crisis in a cathedral made of synths. There’s a lot of space, awkward, cinematic space where melodies aren’t afraid to breathe, pause, or completely fall apart just to reassemble as something even more emotionally precise.
Midway through, Boylife flirts with gospel, but the kind you’d find in a deleted Black Mirror scene with glitchy, ghostly, and entirely too intimate. A few tracks later, you’re in voicemail land: warped messages layered like dreams half-remembered, drenched in nostalgia, regret, and possibly one too many voice notes sent at 3am. And somehow, it all works.
By the time you reach the closing moments, Jones feels like it’s actively disintegrating, or perhaps transforming, into something bolder, messier, and more defiant. The final two tracks stomp on any expectation of cohesion, embracing noise, distortion, and discomfort with the confidence of someone who knows the art school critics will lose their minds (and their monocles).
It’s all held together by a threadbare emotional core that is both vulnerable and disoriented, but strangely at peace with the chaos.
The album Jones is a sonic fever dream, from tender to deranged yet still gorgeous and unsettling. It’s the kind of record that makes you wonder if your speakers are glitching… in the most artistically intentional way possible. It’s flawed. It’s fearless. And it low-key slaps.
Listen loud. Or don’t. But either way, Jones will rattle around your brain like a late-night voicemail you’re not sure you were supposed to hear.
“Jones,” out now.
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