Collapsed in Sunbeams might be a COVID era release now, but the vulnerability is no less present after a few years – let’s take a look back on this gorgeous release.
There’s a quiet bravery in how Collapsed in Sunbeams presents itself. No fireworks, no flashy production tricks, just soft instrumentation and the kind of lyrical honesty that feels like reading someone’s notebook in the best possible way. It’s the debut album from Arlo Parks, but it didn’t, and doesn’t, feel like one, more like the sort of thing an artist releases when they’ve already made peace with the noise and just want to speak clearly.
The first thing you notice is the voice. Arlo doesn’t belt or contort herself into dramatic shapes. Instead, she delivers every line with calm precision, like she’s talking to you in a bedroom at 2AM. There’s a stillness to her sound that’s almost disarming. Tracks like Eugene and Caroline drift in on gentle guitar lines and subtle beats, never rushing, never asking for your attention, but holding it anyway.
Lyrically, it’s intimate without being indulgent – a nice surprise from a self-confessed former emo kid, just like this reviewer. She writes about mental health, relationships, grief, identity – admittedly all the usual subject matter, but filtered through a lens that’s deeply specific, very personal and revealing. There’s poetry here, but not in the flowery sense. More like a friend who happens to be better at articulating your own feelings than you are. It’s disarmingly devastating at times. Black Dog, for instance, manages to be both a soothing presence and a gut punch in under three minutes.
The production is minimal but clever. There’s a bit of soul, a bit of indie, a bit of trip-hop in the DNA all gently woven together to serve the mood rather than define it, serving up tastes of Arlo’s influences from Joni Mitchell through to Radiohead. Bass lines hum along quietly, drums shuffle politely, and the occasional synth glimmer adds just enough colour to stop it becoming too muted. It’s not trying to be edgy or genre-defying, it’s just doing its own thing. And that in itself feels refreshing without getting fatiguing.
What’s impressive is how consistent it all is. There aren’t any huge highs or crashing lows, just a warm, steady stream of good songs that know when to arrive and when to leave. Even the interludes and smaller tracks feel deliberate. It’s an album that respects your time and your space. There’s no filler (already a surefire way to a high score from this particular reviewer), no posturing, just thirty-something minutes of soft-spoken introspection.
That said, if you’re not in the mood for introspection, Collapsed in Sunbeams might drift past you a little. It doesn’t demand attention in the way more maximalist albums do. There’s no “big single” energy here, no anthemic choruses or hands-in-the-air moments. But that’s kind of the point. It’s not trying to shout above the noise. It’s trying to offer something better: calm.
There’s also a surprising confidence in how it refuses to dress things up. Songs like Hope and Too Good touch on messy emotional spaces without a hint of melodrama. There’s sadness here, yes, but also resilience, a sense that things can hurt and still be beautiful. If you’re looking to shake off the incessant shuffle and algorithm spoon feeding of streaming services, this is a fantastic album to do that with. It won’t be for everyone. If you’re looking for sonic fireworks or radical reinventions, you won’t find them here. But if you’re after an album that sounds like a long exhale, or a conversation you didn’t know you needed, then Arlo’s got you covered.
Collapsed in Sunbeams is a debut that doesn’t try to impress – it just is, and that’s what makes it so quietly brilliant.
Author: Tom, Cardiff Store
