Laura McElroy is most commonly known for her role as bassist and vocalist in experimental hardcore act Comrades. Her solo work, by contrast, is the essence of singer-songwriter fare. With naught but voice and a single guitar, McElroy crafts songs with beautiful simplicity. This latest album is a collection of “desert prayers” oscillating between hope, doubt, fear, and peace. As to be expected, this is a lyric-driven album.
Maybe we were made for this: Betrayal, struggle, Judas’ kiss.
These are the first lyrics on the record. It’s clear McElroy isn’t afraid to tackle challenging topics like the ecclesiastical struggle with a fair bit of poetry. “Fig Tree” sees McElroy wonder if her life is bearing fruit or if God would wither her like the tree in Matthew 21. In the end she acknowledges her ultimate need for grace.
But rest assured, these are not cheesy takes on the Christian tradition in the slightest. While McElroy’s faith is presented a bit differently than Comrades’ approach, the same care is apparent in theses lyrics—perhaps even more so, as they’re essentially the third instrument of this album.
And McElroy’s lens is always a telephoto; take “Stay,” a song about the unpredictable dynamics of friendship. It’s not written from some aloof perspective but instead come from her personal experiences. Now, this is basically a necessity for any compelling singer-songwriter album—but McElroy bares her soul with refreshing vulnerability. In a similar vein, “Whitewashed (Tombs)” is confessional, wrestling with the fallen nature of humanity. It’s easy to point the finger at other people, but this is far from commentary on society at large—it is a magnified look at the most common of individual experiences.
This is certainly a contemplative album, one that seems more written for self rather than audience. It’s soft, tender, pining, serious. It’s not an album for casual consumption by any stretch. While there are moments of worship, the emotional spectrum present here is much broader and some of the darker moments are challenging, even if they’re very real. But hope is never far off, as evidenced especially on the album closer “Wooden Halo.” Much like life, Slow Medicine is not a predictable or easy journey. But it’s rewarding when taken in full, even in its lulls and aches. Slow Medicine does not rush past pain nor hide it away—it wrestles with it earnestly. But much the same, hurt is not glorified here. It’s a delicate balance, but the approach pays off. This is an album years in the making that continues to highlight McElroy’s thoughtful songwriting in its more bare form. And while I’d love to hear some strings and piano at play, the minimalist nature of these songs only heightens the sense of emotional imminence.
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