by David Wilikofsky
The Epoch isn’t a name that is thrown around much these days, but there was a time where it felt like everyone in Brooklyn was talking about them. A loose collective of musicians and artists, they produced some of the finest music from the borough in recent memory. Florist is perhaps the best known project to come out of the group, but there were (and are) many more worthwhile ones in their universe. Told Slant was always my personal favorite. Led by drummer Felix Walworth, their music featured a mastery of dynamic tension and Walworth’s distinctive vocals. Their first album in four years, Point the Flashlight and Walk, is a welcome return that expands the band’s sonic universe in exciting new directions.
Told Slant albums have always felt “DIY” in the best sense of the term; their recordings captured the rawness and directness of the band’s live performance. It’s clear that Point the Flashlight and Walk is a new direction for the project, feeling downright cinematic from its opening moments. Chimes slowly crescendo out of a gentle background hum. Soon Walworth’s vocals and other instruments join in, only to fade out again before the track ends. The hallmarks of the band’s sound remain, but that background hum becomes a throughline. Unlike previous releases, it makes the album sound like an organic whole rather than a collection of songs, ebbing and flowing naturally into one another.
Walworth has stated that the album is about devotion, and explores this idea through the prism of relationships. Some are intact, others are on brink of collapse, and still others have already ruptured. The emotional heft of these situations is often reflected through the natural world, a major presence throughout the album. Walworth often finds themself walking through the darkness, the titular flashlight guiding the way forward. Broken lines of communication become whirlpools, twisting words before they can reach the other side. Walworth’s devotion is an invisible anchor, sticking them to the bottom of the sea. These more metaphorical passages are juxtaposed with moments of startling directness. For instance, on “Bullfrog Choirs”, Walworth paints a picture of wandering through the backroads of an unnamed town. It feels idyllic until they sing “For the rest of my life / Will I gnaw at this bone / That I am always alone”, instantly changing the emotional heft of the song. There are similarly piercing lines throughout the album, their impact greatest when they come as a surprise.
“I could pack up my life into the Honda / Leave you upstairs, and drive by the moon” Walworth sings on “No Backpack”. Like many moments, this could be a beginning, ending or both. The album posits that devotion is often an active choice, filled with characters considering whether to continue on or begin anew. This idea is even embedded in the structure of the album. As the final track comes to a close, the same chimes from the opening come to the fore, mingling with static until they abruptly stop. If you play the album on a loop this leads back into the beginning perfectly, creating an unbroken circle where you always have a choice to make: do I keep going or end it here? Much like the decisions the characters must make, each person will have to come up with their own answer to that question. Personally, I always choose to keep listening.