On his new album “Social Touch”, Chicago vocalist and songwriter Sacha Mullin navigates the fragile geography between wanting to be seen and dreading the scrutiny. Mullin has spent years working across the intersections of art-rock, jazz, and experimental performance, but here he bends those intricate instincts into immediate, luminous pop forms. His voice remains the centerpiece: an agile, commanding instrument that glides from a grounded chest register into airborne falsetto, never sounding detached from the blood and muscle behind it.
The record thrives on sudden emotional pivots. “Joy” opens the sonic canvas with shimmering indie-pop chords and an upbeat pulse that treats another person’s radiance as an emotional sanctuary. Yet that buoyant warmth doesn’t linger without complications. On “Don’t Wanna Hurt U,” crisp new-wave rhythms carry an undercurrent of panic, framing romantic devotion as a potential hazard. Mullin’s stylistic curiosity refuses to sit still: “Hypocenter” veers sideways into the intricate, angular guitars of Midwest emo to dissect guilt and relational wreckage, while “Mime” collapses into a frantic squall of glitchcore and dance-punk, using abrasive digital stutters to channel the claustrophobia of emotional exhaustion.
Nowhere is this balance sharper than on the theatrical title track, “Social Touch.” Beginning with contemplative low phrases before climbing toward impassioned vocal runs, it unpacks the ache of reaching out for warmth only to be misunderstood. That vulnerability turns alchemical on “Tears Into Platinum,” an electropop anthem determined to salvage euphoria from internal self-doubt, while the swirling dream-pop of “Bed All Day” charts the tender panic of consuming attraction. Elsewhere, “Odd Radio Circle” translates unresolved memories into sweeping synth layers that pulse like intercepted distress signals. Even the bonus selections expand this orbit: “Let’s Cruise!” dances with reckless abandon in the face of cosmic insignificance, while “Tall Ask” wraps weary spirits in airy, cascading reassurance.
Pop music frequently insists on smoothing out human friction, but Mullin does the opposite, transforming neurosis and yearning into expansive, cinematic theater. In a world where connection is perpetually mediated, can an album this nakedly honest bridge the gap?
