Every track on ’s debut seems as if it’s still in the process of rendering. Electronic static whirrs and purrs like fireflies sparkling in the distance. Drums loop in warped grooves, revealing the collapsed textures between their slowed-down beats.
“I imagine what would have sounded like if had a MacBook Pro,” the artist said of his music in a recent . The hum of a laptop lingers beneath his soft, jangly songs, but urika’s bedroom doesn’t fixate too much on digital details. His music is wide-eyed and intimate, repurposing the tonal fabric of communication breakdown until it’s as snug as a quilt on a cold night.
While not much is known about the L.A.-based songwriter (real name Tchad Cousins), urika’s bedroom has emerged amid a crop of similarly dreamy new songwriters.
He’s toured with , , and , in between producing and writing songs for fellow California up-and-comers untitled (halo) and Ded Hyatt. Like those artists, urika’s bedroom takes a dissociated, post-club approach to indie, folding in blurry fragments of hip-hop and electronic music, and yielding the kind of acoustic guitar jams that only come pouring out after a 5 a.m.
molly comedown. His Auto-Tune croon hits like before he’s had his coffee, capturing the same internet-afflicted innocence of his misty film scores for Jane Schoenbrun. On , Cousins attempts to make artificial coldness as bright as the sun.
Trip-hop beats heave against tenderly stroked acoustic guitars, while patchwork electronics.
