It’s very tough to offend the four members of the buzzy, post-punk throwback band Brigitte Calls Me Baby, because they’ve already heard it all. “People say, ‘Oh, it’s like Elvis had sex with the Strokes, who invited the 1975 and Interpol to the orgy,'” says frontman Wes Leavins, “not realizing what that ends up doing is piquing people’s curiosity — because I don’t know any band that sounds like those combinations.”
That eclectic fusion of influences, which also includes a healthy dose of the Smiths, has helped Brigitte Calls Me Baby rack up millions of Spotify plays, an appearance on The Kelly Clarkson Show, invitations to open for the Strokes, Muse, and Morrissey, and a string of sold-out club shows all across the world even though they formed a mere four years ago. At the moment, they’re taking a very short break following a long run of dates in Europe, where they travelled across the continent by van and lugged around their own gear.
“It’s exhausting,” says bassist Devin Wessels. “But it’s also the only thing that we really know how to do, and the only thing we want to do. And it’s a dream to be that far from home and people know who you are.”
Home, for Leavins, is the tiny East Texas town of Nederland, right across the border from Louisiana. As a kid in the early 2000s, he listened to everything from disco to Nineties hip-hop to punk. But as he got a little older, he gravitated more towards Eighties post-punk and new wave. “For me, that’s the beginning of alternative music,” he says. “Guitars became something different, and there was the invention of certain synths. It was an innovative time.”
Cable television was his window into a world far from Nederland. “I watched MTV, MTV2, even BET, and all those things,” he says. “The videos that would come on were the Strokes, Modest Mouse, and Arctic Monkeys. And I just loved that. It lit me up. It was this reality that some people had, and I knew that I’d like to be a part of it.”
Leavins took a big step towards that dream in 2016, when he landed the part of Elvis Presley in the traveling production of the Broadway show Million Dollar Quartet, which is a fictional retelling of the legendary 1954 Sun City Records jam session between Presley, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, and Jerry Lee Lewis.
“It was a nice opportunity to make some money and get out of where I was from in Texas,” he says. “Being in front of people every night for a year at that age, I realized that your voice is a muscle and there is a craft to this. It was constant dopamine to experience something new every night.”
The timing of all this was very fortuitous, since director Baz Luhrmann was in the early stages of planning his Presley biopic, Elvis, and didn’t yet know if he would land a lead actor capable of delivering the vocals. Veteran Nashville producer Dave Cobb — who has worked with everyone from Chris Stapleton and Sturgill Simpson to John Prine — became aware of Leavins because of Million Dollar Quartet, and thought he’d be perfect for the vocal role.
This ultimately became moot, since Elvis lead actor Austin Butler proved quite capable of doing the job himself, but it still brought Cobb and Leavins together. “He was the first person who was successful and very involved in the industry that saw something in me,” says Leavins. “We had a lot in common, and we’d talk about the Cure and the Sundays and Cocteau Twins. I was just shocked to hear how eclectic his tastes are.”
By this point, Leavins had moved to Chicago, and he formed Brigitte Calls Me Baby after working on an under-the-radar solo record with Cobb in 2021. (The band name comes from an unlikely pen-pal relationship that Leavins developed with French actress Brigitte Bardot when he was a teenager.) They played their first gig at New York’s Mercury Lounge in the summer of 2022, and followed it up with a Lollapalooza afterparty back in Chicago where they shared a bill with Inhaler. Within weeks, they built up enough buzz from their high-energy live set and eclectic fusion of influences that they landed a spot opening for Muse at the 2,500-seat Riviera Theater. “That was mind-blowing because it was our fourth gig,” says Leavins. “But I didn’t feel any pressure. I just felt excited.”
That excitement continued when they signed with ATO and went into the studio with Cobb to record their 2024 debut LP, The Future Is Our Way Out. Soon they were watching their debut single, “Impressively Average,” hit Number Nine on the Adult Alternative Airplay chart and score nearly 1.5 million plays on Spotify. They even opened for Morrissey at three European shows, including the singer’s hometown of Manchester, England.
Leavins has been endlessly compared to Morrissey because of their similar singing voices. (He also styles his hair in a pompadour much like Moz circa 1985.) “My voice is particular, and I’ve known that since I was a teenager,” he says. “When I was younger, I wanted to sound like Victoria Legrand or Damon Albarn, but I don’t.” He ended up embracing the similarity: “When you hear Morrissey sing, you know it’s him. When you hear Jeff Buckley sing, you know it’s him. When you hear Alex Turner sing, you know it’s him. And so to live in any of those worlds in anyone’s mind is flattering to me.”
When they finally came face-to-face, Morrissey didn’t mind. “He was very warm to us, very welcoming, very funny,” says Leavins. “He did a lot for us, putting us on those shows and giving us that platform. I think some of that audience shows up to our gigs now.”
The group, which also features Jack Fluegel on guitar and Jeremy Benshish on drums, released their second LP, Irreversible, this March. “It’s different in so many ways,” says Wessels. “On the first record, we were finding ourselves. Wes came to us with a lot of these songs he had already written. They were great. But it was nice to go into the second record as a band. We sat down as a band and decided what we wanted this record to be. To have that intention and to have the luxury of time and be able to set a roadmap for ourselves … that made a huge difference.”
Their new single, “I Can Take the Sun Out of the Sky,” originated as a voice memo that Leavins and Wessels recorded in just a few minutes while waiting around to head off to an airport. “We had the song structured, arranged, and the bulk of what you hear on the recording track,” says Leavins. “We refined it over the course of maybe five days.”
The video shows a young woman flipping through a magazine where the members of the band appear and lyrics to the song appear on most every page, even in the ads. “It’s like a magazine where you can enter the world of the band,” says Leavins. “And we thought, ‘Well, it’d be kind of fun if we made this a magazine that’s sort of like the greatest of the most inventive critiques that we’ve ever gotten.'”
They welcome the critiques about their sound. “The worst thing we could do is run from that,” says Wessels. “Of course, we love great music, who wouldn’t? And we’re inspired endlessly by all sorts of different artists. And if people want to brand us a certain way, well, they’re welcome to do so, but it’s not all that bad.”
For now, their focus is gearing up for a long string of American dates across April and May, including a sold-out show at New York’s Bowery Ballroom. They’re still traveling by van and staying in cheap hotels, and they don’t mind. “I just want to keep playing the shows,” says Wessels. “I want to keep writing songs. And if I had to travel in a van and share hotel rooms with these guys for three more years, I’d do it. This is what I want to be doing.”
Leavins feels the same way, at least for now. “The $50-a-night hotel rooms are fine, and we make do and share rooms,” he says. “But I am very much looking forward to staying at the Four Seasons. I’m not going to pretend. That sounds wonderful.”
Whipped Cream*
Pop Albums Are Getting More Ambitious. Can Audiences Keep Up?
This Music May Contain Hope, the second album from British songstress Raye, makes great demands of its audience. The record nearly runs the length of a feature film and most of the 17 songs sound like they could soundtrack one. When the credits roll at the end — she thanks each and every person who helped create the record for six and a half minutes on “Fin.,” — they conclude a gloriously disorienting listening experience. For most of the album, Raye is asking you to come along as she fights and prays through despair and self-criticism to keep hope alive.
Sometimes that battle is filtered through songs that sound like show tunes or gospel hymns. In the case of “Click Clack Symphony,” they crescendo into a dizzying Hans Zimmer composition. There’s a level of patience and reciprocity the album requires from its listeners: At once confrontational and confessional, This Music May Contain Hope is not designed for detached consumption — and it’s part of a surge of recent releases that find artists creating ambitious records that encourage intentional engagement.
Last year, Hayley Williams released Ego Death at a Bachelorette Party as 17 individual singles. Fans created their own sequencing and narratives guided solely by the themes and sounds they chose. A few months later, Rosalía released Lux, a captivating 18-track record performed in 13 languages. It shares a musical complexity with This Music May Contain Hope and an interrogative spirit with The Apple Tree Under the Sea, the debut album from Hemlocke Springs released earlier this year. Each record is as all-consuming as the ideas they’re engaging with — mental anguish, faith and religion, internal and interpersonal implosion.
Raye often describes music as medicinal. Backed by the London Symphony Orchestra and Flames Collective choir on “I Know You’re Hurting,” her melodies and harmonies are bandages and sutures. When she instructs the listener to “close your eyes and let this music get to working,” she exudes the wisdom of an elder passing home remedies through generations. At a time when easier access to music often means increasingly passive listening, these albums replace momentary distraction with connection and compassion. They give the audience something to return to.
Raye included the voices of her grandparents at the start of “Life Boat.” The portion her grandfather contributes, where he says, “I’m living, not giving up,” was recorded just days before his death. More voices flood in across the next four minutes. They all repeat some variation of “I’m not giving up, yet,” some with more desperation than others. “Say it,” Raye says, stern and direct. “Say, ‘I’m not giving up, yet.’” The mantra is set against the kind of thudding club beat that defined the earliest phases of her career. Drums and synthesizers are interspersed with delicately arranged strings, but there’s something transcendent about the contours and echoes of Raye’s voice.
That kind of vocal power is something Rosalía speaks about often: Duende. The flamenco term refers to a type of enchantment delivered through an especially evocative vocal performance. It’s not necessarily about technical prowess, or precision. “There’s something so ethereal and divine about el duende,” Rosalía told The New York Times last year. “El duende is something that visits you. It’s something that comes to you.” It makes the listening experience feel targeted and personal. This funneled into Rosalía on Lux. The record unravels in a way that transcends the barrier of language.
Rosalía begins “Mundo Nuevo” in Spanish. Its translation reveals she’s searching for a hint of truth. She finishes “De Madrugá” in Ukrainian with something searching for her this time. “I’m not looking for revenge,” she sings. “Revenge is looking for me.” The London Symphony Orchestra and the Escolania de Montserrat i Cor Cambra Palau de la Música Catalana choir bolster the album, their arrangements ranging from anxious and erratic to soothing and hypnotic.
Rosalía introduced Lux with the first single “Bergain,” which splinters across German, Spanish, and English. When Yves Tumor’s voice cuts through on the song’s outro, the persistent repetition of “I’ll fuck you till you love me” is harsh and abrasive against the preceding moments. Rosalía chases that friction across Lux. Like her mix of languages, she challenges the listener with existentialism and ruminations on the afterlife. It might turn some listeners away, but the ones who stay are rewarded.
Most of the record was inspired by saints, like Teresa of Ávila or Joan of Arc. Their history adds a third layer to the depth of Lux; Hemlocke Springs similarly fixates on religious motifs on The Apple Tree Under the Sea. She weaves in medieval tales and impulsive adventures made for a storybook. Positioning herself as a character in her fantastical stories gives her audience someone to root for while creating some distance between fiction and reality.
In that sense, The Apple Tree Under the Sea shares a theatrical ease of access with This Music May Contain Hope. Raye’s cautionary tales about traitorous South London men who should be banned from WhatsApp play into the same spectacle as Springs’ “Head, Shoulders, Knees and Ankles” and “Moses.” There’s a prelude towards the end of The Apple Tree Under the Sea that features the voice of a man who sounds far away as he preaches about sin and final judgements. It gets even harder to hear him when the sounds of running horses and marching feet cut through. The suspense builds into an orchestral outro that leads into “Sense (Is),” a booming, optimistic song about making the most of a clean slate and a glass half full.
Springs’ journey is the shortest within this set of albums. It spans 10 songs in just over half an hour, but retains its complexities with winding plot twists. Where she leans into communicating through stories and allegories, Raye through a version of theater, and Rosalía essentially through multinational cathedrals, Williams’ Ego Death at a Bachelorette Party brings listeners into an excruciatingly vivid reality. The achingly haunted “True Believer” walks the streets of Nashville. It moves down Broadway and past repurposed clubs. It attends the churches and questions the rhetoric presented in them. It runs parallel to the moments across the album that brings listeners into a home with fragile glass walls.
The album’s most shattering moment arrives towards the end: “Good ‘Ol Days.” It’s not as distressing as “Negative Self Talk,” or as sobering as “Whim.” It glides along a warm groove and drops burning one-liners with pointed specificity. What fortifies it the most is an appearance from Williams’ grandfather midway through the song. “You are so tacky/I think that’s why I love you so much,” he says in a voicemail message. “I just had to call you first on my new phone/I love you, y’all have a blast, bye.” The interlude emphasizes just how interior the content of the record is, made up of real moments, people, and feelings.
There’s a false perception in pop music that the best way to connect with the masses is to keep things broad — that vague generalizations are easier for people to latch onto. But the hyper-specificity and confrontation on these albums form real connection, creating the feeling that the listener is being trusted with someone else’s secrets and struggles — and safe to embrace their own, too.
There’s bravery in how these artists are driven by conviction. They understand the reach their platforms provide, but have little interest in idolatry. They each use different formats to craft a sense of togetherness even in their most intimate moments, like it means more to show someone they aren’t alone than to tell them. They ask for patience as they remind listeners it’s commendable to try. Some people don’t come to music looking for this; it can be challenging to have an artist in your ear telling you to bring your most shattering emotions and memories to the surface. But those are the kind of records that endure over time.