Mirror Lake - Oregon & Old Friends

Mirror Lake

Oregon & Old Friends
self-released; 2017

3.5 out of 5

By Corrine Cassels

I love short records. It’s very satisfying to hear a band make exactly the statement it wants to make with no extraneous material. Though the EP format is common across genres, it’s the punk and emo records that make the most of their terseness; the arrangement changes every thirty seconds, foregrounding a new vocal or pausing long enough for a spitfire guitar line. That kind of energy comes best in short bursts, or else you begin to feel bludgeoned with the emotional impact. Bands that can cultivate a mood efficiently, that leave you hungry, tend to be the ones you always come back to.

​Though it’s Cody Loman’s first release as Mirror Lake, it’s evident that he has the talent to elicit that response. Oregon & Old Friends is his warning shot, inaugurating his move westward to pursue music, but it’s also a document of his self-education as a singer and lyricist. The three songs are so evidently attempts to make something personal and worthwhile, and the effort pays off.

“Crooked Branches,” the first track on the record, starts with sizzling cymbals and a knotty guitar riff with the groove later opening up for a vocal. Loman’s voice is throaty and immediate, and he writes for it well—he knows just when to stay soft and when to push it for grit. His deployment of a gang vocal later into the track is only more evidence of his ear for great arrangement. The lyrics read somewhat impressionistically, using the imagery of natural decay to convey emotional isolation. The solo-drum conclusion emphasizes those themes, while also establishing the right-in-the-room punch of the production style. “Crooked Branches” will slot right in on your autumn emo playlist, and is a thunderous way to introduce Mirror Lake.

“Oregon & Old Friends,” the title track, once again starts with intricate guitar, and uses asymmetrical phrasing on the vocal parts for a poetic result. Once again, the gang vocal elevated the track, driving home the nautical imagery of “four months until port,” though other backing vocals seemed less carefully deployed. The intense drumming carried some of the more difficult sections, though, and ultimately the track was a success. I’ll be dog-earing this for a cloudy day.

Closer “Uprooted / Misplaced” front-loads the vocals with a wordy verse, slowing quickly for a refrain of “I’ve had seven states to think and it’s safe enough to say / That I’m ashamed of my station in the scheme of things.” It flows better sung than on the page, especially with the evocative guitars as background—there’s a tremolo-picked part that takes the whole thing stratospheric. In fact, the sparse breakdown of solo guitar chords about halfway through the track was perhaps the most effective moment on the whole record. Loman also sees fit to write about his feelings most directly here. “A day out from twenty-six / And I don’t feel any different” so plainly states the introspective insecurity that makes for the tonal core of the record. “Uprooted / Misplaced” closes the album at a similar high water mark to where it began.

Oregon & Old Friends, though not perfect, has the emotional thrust and instrumental intensity necessary for great emo records, and makes good on that promise with not a second to spare. Be glad it’s only three songs if you’re into this kind of stuff—you’ll find yourself playing it over and over.

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