Snoey review: bizarre pop excellence”>
Zack Villere. Photo by Nate Guenther
It’s been a good year for weird pop music. Dijon, Nourished By Time, skaiwater, james K, and Maria Somerville have all turned in very different albums that masterfully conduct their eccentricities. Add Zack Villere‘s Snoey to the pile: For his first album in over five years, the Louisiana artist offers a zooted patchwork of lo-fi touchstones that’s cozy, infectious, and singular.
The concept of Snoey is as follows: A yeti who lives in a land without music is banished. In his exile he comes across a human being and her iPod, and discovers music. This story is established in the opening track, a skit fit for Cartoon Network wrapped in psychedelic noise and snippets of beautiful ballads. The track’s conclusion sets up the album as the yeti’s first experience of humankind’s music.
Snoey‘s success lies in how frequently it makes you feel like the yeti. The connections it forms in loose, shaggy knots are utterly intoxicating, tight but never constricting. The guitar is Villere’s primary instrument and he wields it gently, whether he’s crafting paisley space-rock (“Ooey Gooey”) or a glittering bossa-flecked ballad (“Satsuma.”) It illuminates the hip-hop excursions like “Unusual,” a truly stunning 454 collab that sounds like a Frankenstein of Brent Faiyaz’s sensual vocal runs and classic soul licks.
Boosted by a total lack of cynicism, Snoey is made entirely on its own terms. But it also clearly wants to be that record for someone, the one that doesn’t just uplift but pulls the curtain back, revealing the endless frontier that’s accessible to anyone. That’s a rare ambition, and one that’s hardly ever as successful as on Snoey.
