LVSA brings a rush of cinematic neon and visceral heartbreak to her new EP, “Afterlight”. Trading her past as a professional studio drummer for a heavy arsenal of synthesizers, the UK-born, Colorado-based artist taps into a highly specific human frequency: the urge to sob uncontrollably while driving dangerously fast. This collection dives headfirst into the emotional wreckage of failed romance, utilizing the glossy aesthetics of 80s and 90s film scores to amplify genuine devastation.
It is fascinating how physical momentum works as a coping mechanism for grief. Tracks like “Getaway” and “Hold The Lane” are purely instrumental, relying on rapid, arpeggiated loops that simulate the dizzying forward motion of a late-night streetscape. There is a relentless, nocturnal push woven through these grooves. It feels suspenseful. Then you hit “Acropolis, Pt. II,” and the murky night air suddenly clears. The cascading sequences turn soaring, offering a triumphantly bright, retro-futuristic glimmer of victory on a dark highway.
But you cannot outrun the ghost sitting quietly in the passenger seat. When the lyrics actually arrive, the blood flow shifts. The title track channels the sharp clarity of seeing a destructive ex in the rearview mirror. Sweeping low-frequency harmonies build into an anthem of empowerment, eventually letting an expressive solo do the bragging. She paints resilience in bold, rhythmic strokes.
Then comes the real bruising. “In Another Life,” featuring The Bad Dreamers, weaves subtle contemporary jazz phrasing into strict electronic architecture. It vividly maps the isolating silence that inevitably follows setting strict boundaries to heal. A dynamic chorus gives way to an intricate, improvisational solo that fades out slowly. Utterly exhausted. It aches for an alternate timeline where things worked.
Nostalgia is usually a safe blanket we throw over current pain, masking our heartache in warm electronic pulses. Yet this project forces our past trauma and present reality into a strangely beautiful collision. If retro-futurism is ultimately about longing for a tomorrow that never arrived, what do we do when our deeply treasured relationships turn into futures we can no longer touch?
