Self-fulfilling prophecy: The Lumineers became what they critiqued

Part of maturing as a music fan is realizing what was once profound to you now sounds like cliche sayings on home decor from TJ Maxx. The sentiments printed on cheaply stained slabs of wood or mildly inspirational day planners might not be totally disagreeable, but they also might not be very good.

“Automatic,” American indie folk band The Lumineers’ fifth studio album released by Dualtone Records on Feb. 14, leaves listeners feeling like they’re standing in fluorescently-lit aisles of nonsense, trying to feel something staring at yet another “live, laugh, love” sign. 

Kings of the 2010s hipster era of indie folk, The Lumineers have dominated everything from film scores to festivals since their wildly successful debut self-titled album in 2012. The album features songs like “Flowers In Your Hair,” “Stubborn Love,” and of course their mega-hit “Ho Hey.” In 2016, The Lumineers amplified their success with another standout album, “Cleopatra,” and have been consistently delivering on full-form projects since their debut.

The marketing rollout for “Automatic” was perfect for the band’s authentic, bohemian image. It consisted of a careful orchestration of oversaturated, grainy videos of behind-the-scenes discussions and acoustic teasers of some of the songs. In January, the group announced the record with an Instagram caption that promised an examination of the absurdity of the modern world, the lines between real and fiction, and the phenomenon of overstimulation.

The first released single, “Same Old Song” lives up to its name. It follows The Lumineers’ classic track formula: sincere, melancholic lyrics plus an upbeat, acoustic-guitar-driven pulse equals a pleasant coming of age track.

“Same Old Song” is a simple, deft snapshot of the narrator’s depression over the course of his life. From childhood in the early verses, the narrator struggles with needing his parents to pay his rent as a struggling musician, the passing of grandparents, and the typical fears that haunt everyday life. But then the narrator describes himself as being in a “black sedan of depression.”

Wesley Shultz and Jeremiah Fraites, the two founding and active members of The Lumineers, are contemporaries with another folk artist, Gregory Alan Isakov. The three are all based in or near Denver, Colorado, and after years of writing, touring, and even farming together, there is a lot of thematic overlap between their work. The Lumineers’ “black sedan” line here is reminiscent of Isakov’s famous song, “Big Black Car,” a 2009 song about heartbreak which features the lyric, “Heartbreak, you know, drives a big black car / I swear I was in the back seat, just minding my own.” 

While “Same Old Song” references depression as a sedan, a run-of-the-mill, average vehicle with nothing special about it, it drives home a certain annoyance with the narrator’s depressive condition. It isn’t a big black car like heartbreak, a force that drives you. Rather, depression in “Same Old Song” is a subtle disruptor of ease in life: “I don’t know what’s wrong with me / I killed the mood so naturally / Thе guests begin to make mе feel alone.” It’s a tactful, effective sentiment, but the song’s merit stops there. 

Shortly following a solid start to the album is, “Asshole,” a playful love song about the narrator’s first time meeting a lover and the awful first impression. The crass nature of the hook is off putting, especially if you’re listening to the album without seeing each name appear on your screen. But if you can allow yourself to be charmed by the sentiment of the anecdote, this song might be the only other redeemable one on the album.
The second verse delicately tackles topics of aging and the narrator’s conception of love over time, “And all the twenty-something mannequins / Their hearts are barely broken in / But maybe now I’m just a coward envying the brave.” 

This verse alone was worth the number of skips the rest of the album prompted, a striking part of the song that marries nostalgia with reality. The Lumineers are experts at combining deep admiration of muses with a certain charming boyishness that makes their work so digestible and attractive. Once again, this sounds just like something The Lumineers could’ve put out at any point over the past decade of their fame, and this is why it works so well. 

With the exception of the fifth and sixth songs, “You’re All I Got” and “Plasticine,” having their lovely sections for the same reasons as the first two songs, “Automatic” as a whole album lacks a tactful execution of the grandiose journey on which it originally it set out. The record shows the band’s clear understanding of their work and also their failed attempts at breaking out of that box. 

“Automatic” propelled an unattractive result as a longtime fan, an impetus to re-examine why I ever liked this band so much in the first place. Maybe my allegiance is what enables a rose-colored approach to even some of their most average work to date. 

It is hard to dismiss an album from such an established artist with a reliable sound as a “slump” of any kind, especially when the artist has claimed it to be their magnum opus in some ways. Yet, “Automatic” is best digested in bites —  not as a full body of work, which perhaps undermines the whole intent for creating a record critiquing the hyper-stimulated digital era. Though it promised something more substantive, the album leaves listeners stranded in yet another fluorescently lit aisle.