Cherry Glazerr Derive Poetry From Private Suffering on I Don’t Want You Anymore

Nothing can clear a musician’s schedule for self-reflection like a pandemic. When society shut down, rehearsals fell to the wayside and the din of fans storming barricades faded away, creatives were left with three companions—the metaphorical me, myself and I—indefinitely. It’s company that Clementine Creevy met, consoled and cross-examined when writing Cherry Glazerr’s fourth full-length album I Don’t Want You Anymore, a labyrinthine trek through the crevices of the frontwoman’s psyche. The Los Angeles band’s first LP since Stuffed & Ready in 2019 weasels through wounds from Creevy’s past relationships, sometimes applying a salve to the damage, other times unspooling her own stitches and picking at the scabs. Yet whether Creevy’s eking out an epiphany or bent on her own destruction, I Don’t Want You Anymore successfully embodies the private suffering that precedes any semblance of healing.

As Creevy counts her perceived shortcomings, much of the record assumes a slouched, defeated posture, reflected in Creevy’s cohesive assortment of rock styles. Her thoughts dart in tangent with subgenres, curdling to leaden grunge or perking up—if only for a moment—with glimmering synth-rock at the mention of her treasured “Bad Habit.” The record is the first that Creevy’s co-produced since Cherry Glazerr’s 2014 debut LP Haxel Princess, a notable assertion of control—as her emotional willpower wavers within the lyrics. (Yves Rothman also played a major role in the album’s production, working solo or alongside Creevy on each track).

“I could eat you like a pill,” she muses on “Eat You Like A Pill,” one of the album’s many allegories that equates adoration to addiction. Power lingers in “could,” a loaded little modal verb with the power to catapult Creevy to a momentarily high or torpedo her well-being for the foreseeable future. But Cherry Glazerr never linger in this limbo for long. “Ready For You” stuns her, churning a punishing mixture of sickness and shame as she reveals the gutting lines “I’m so embarrassed all the time / Wish I could meet you with my eyes.” On “Sugar,” she breaks through her paralyzed state, swallowing self-reproach long enough to recklessly tempt fate and her lover. “You make me wanna push my luck / Break my heart / I don’t care,” she demands with an air of nonchalance, before her nerves bubble through an uneasy cackle that punctuates the song’s final notes.

Suckers for tortured romance will recognize this unnerving joy that accompanies being batted around; “I like you killing me,” Creevy confesses in circles on “Soft Like A Flower,” an acknowledgment that it’s often more satisfying to endure piercing heartache than to feel no adrenaline rush at all. Even when the title track tries to force some distance between Creevy and this faceless foe, I Don’t Want You Anymore wraps on a nebulous note. “Always find a place for you throughout my life,” Creevy sings, leaving listeners unsure of whether or not this tormentor remains in her life. Frankly, she might not know for certain either.

“I’ve spent these years taking a hard look at myself, at my relationships, and writing about it,” Creevy commented about the album. “I guess I’m coming to terms with a lot of my bullshit.” Here’s the thing about bullshit—when you’re upfront about it, it’s just called honesty. There’s little more anyone can ask from an artist than their own unsightly truth. Whether Creevy wants to dress her wounds or dig her fingers into the festering gashes, it’s a rare privilege to witness anything this human.

Victoria Wasylak is an award-winning music journalist and editor with bylines in Vanyaland and The Boston Globe. She’s also written over a dozen episodes of the world-renown music and true crime podcast, Disgraceland. She recently appeared in Forbes’ inaugural 30 Under 30 list for Boston. You can find her on Twitter @VickiWasylak.