“Put me on a pedestal and I’ll only disappoint you”, shouts Courtney Barnett on the album’s lead single, ‘Pedestrian at Best’. She certainly doesn’t disappoint, delivering a debut record that finds poetry in everyday life, turning the mundane into the magical. 2015 was a fantastic year for music, with the likes of Tame Impala, Grimes, and Kendrick Lamar releasing outstanding albums. But none of them could match Courtney’s dry, deadpan wit.
The Australian-born singer, songwriter, and musician spent most of her youth immersed in American music. It wasn’t until she discovered the music of fellow Aussies Darren Hanlon and Dan Kelly that Barnett was inspired to write her own music. Barnett’s first explorations into music were as a guitarist in the Melbourne-based grunge band Rapid Transit. She graduated from there into the psych-country band Immigrant Union, a musical project involving Brent DeBoer of The Dandy Warhols. Barnett’s musical groundings are evident in her solo work, but they provided no indication of her songwriting talents.
Barnett founded her own record label, Milk! Records, alongside fellow musician Jen Cloher in 2012, using a loan from her grandmother to fund it. Under the label, she released her debut EP, I’ve Got a Friend Called Emily Ferris. A piece of slacker-folk, the EP introduced the world to Barnett’s lyrical wit, combining her frank humour with languid melodies. Barnett’s stock soared further in 2013 with the release of her second EP, How To Carve A Carrot Into A Rose. The EP contained two breakout tracks; ‘Avant Gardener’ and ‘History Eraser’. The former provides relatable ruminations on the often mundane nature of life, which can become a suffocating cycle, all told through Barnett’s deadpan wit. The latter is a powerful, grungy number full of alcohol-influenced anecdotes.
Barnett spent a year writing Sometimes I Sit And Think And Sometimes I Just Sit, but only showed her songs to her band a week before they recorded, seeking to capture a fresh sound. The lead single, ‘Pedestrian At Best’, was written at the last minute, the recorded version being the first time that Barnett sang the words out loud. Recorded in just over a week in Melbourne, the album’s title was inspired by a poster in her grandmother’s bedroom. The album was eventually released after several delays in March 2015, receiving instant critical acclaim.
It’s a down-to-earth record, surreal, relatable, and bitingly funny, drifting from the sardonic to the sarcastic while tackling brave topics such as anxiety and depression with humorous candour. Musically it’s wonderfully ragged, highly rhythmic and full of languid melodies, all tied together by Barnett’s deadpan drawl. Barnett puts the insignificant under the microscope in a creative manner, yet it never feels boring. It’s self-referential but in an off-hand way, like she’s a visitor in her own songs. Barnett shows a penchant for storytelling and invites you into her narratives.
The album opens with the pounding rhythm of ‘Elavator Operator’, a song written about a friend of hers who likes to go to the roof of a building, one day getting in the elevator and scaring an old lady who thought he was going to jump off the roof. It’s an immediate introduction to Barnett’s wry, black humour and her ability to bring characters to life (“Vickers perfume on her breath/She looks him and up down with a botox frown”). While the song is written about a friend, the sense of mundane malaise Barnett creates is instantly relatable; even when she’s anecdotal, she’s accessible. ‘Pedestrian at Best’ is an abrasive, punky track full of crunchy guitar riffs while Barnett turns her deadpan delivery into something of a snarl. It’s a witty take on her newfound fame, which though humorous, has some biting moments (“Under-worked and over-sexed”). Barnett is as self-aware as she is funny.
‘An Illustration of Loneliness (Sleepless in New York)’ is a lovely, languid, melodic affair with its gently rumbling bass line and fuzzy guitar lines. The song sees Barnett perfectly encapsulate the streams of consciousness you experience when struggling to sleep, from ruing past lovers to counting the cracks on the walls. ‘Small Poppies’ is a sugary, psychedelic-infused slow burner, where Barnett muses on society’s need to pull down successful people, lamenting, “why can’t we just talk nice?”. ‘Depreston’ is the album’s most sentimental moment, Barnett’s voice tender and mournful. Barnett guides us through a neighbourhood into a home she’s viewing, her eyes drifting from “the handrail in the shower” to “a photo of a young man in a van in Vietnam”. These sad memories are briefly lingered over before Barnett moves on, singing in the refrain about knocking down the house and rebuilding. It’s a song that starts as something small and moves into a broader metaphor of life, where old life finishes and new life springs up in its place.
The short, punchy ‘Aqua Profunda!’ follows, a tremolo-laden effort where Barnett tries to impress a fellow swimmer, before acknowledging her lack of athleticism. ‘Dead Fox’ combines gentle melodies with screeching, howling guitars as Barnett takes a swipe at capitalism and big business, suggesting, “Maybe we should mull over culling cars instead of sharks”. ‘Nobody Really Cares If You Don’t Go To The Party’ is a classic homebody anthem, as Barnett sings about an extroverted friend and compares her to her own introverted nature. It’s a musing on human relationships, recognising friendships aren’t destroyed by differences but are sustained by mutual understanding.
‘Debbie Downer’ is another catchy, melodic effort; it builds on the themes of the last song in a way, Barnett addressing her insecurities. It’s a shot at people who lack empathy, a middle finger to people who tell you to cheer up when you’re miserable. ‘Kim’s Caravan’ slows things down with its slow, ominous build-up. It’s a hazy, psychedelic track that explodes into a wall of screeching guitars at the end, which feels appropriately apocalyptic as Barnett sings about the desolation of the Australian coast. The closer, ‘Boxing Day Blues’, is a quiet folksy ballad, providing a sad, reflective ending. The song is about the death of Jen Cloher’s mother (Cloher was Barnett’s partner at the time) on Christmas Day, with Barnett apologising for not being there. It sees Barnett at her most vulnerable, singing, “I’m not what you’re looking for/My House has an open door/You need a lock and a key”.
Sometimes I Sit And Think And Sometimes I Just Sit is a fantastic debut, full of subtle emotional twists and turns, shifting from withering to sentimental. The record has a lovely flow, with melodies melting into each other; it’s spacious and languid, allowing Barnett’s contemplations to be the centre-piece. Barnett writes about topics that have been explored before, but there is something unique about her witty ramblings. She elevates the normal and nonsensical, bending them into broader metaphors of life with wonderful dexterity.