A Decade Half-Spent: Pillow Queens’ In Waiting

In the years since releasing their debut album In Waiting, Dublin indie darlings Pillow Queens have opened for the likes of Phoebe Bridgers and Pavement, performed on The Late Late Show with James Corden and released two more critically-acclaimed records, 2022’s Leave the Light On and 2024’s Name Your Sorrow. Those latter two LPs were put out via Royal Mountain Records (also home to Alvvays, Wild Pink and Mac DeMarco, to name a few), but for my money, Pillow Queens’ self-released first album is also their best. 

Beyond the record’s sonic excellence—we’ll get to that later, trust me—the reasons it’s my favorite LP of the decade so far are, of course, deeply personal. I’ve loved the four-piece’s music since shortly after Pamela Connolly (lead vocals, bass, guitar), Sarah Corcoran (vocals, guitar, bass), Rachel Lyons (vocals, drums) and Cathy McGuinness (vocals, lead guitar) formed the band in 2016. As a queer woman living in Ireland and still sloughing off the shame engendered by a Catholic upbringing, their music spoke directly to me. The urgent “Rats,” off their first EP Calm Girls, remains one of my favorite songs ever written. Its rousing chorus pokes fun at internalized homophobia and rejoices in the messiness of a drunken hookup, all while begging the listener to chant along: “​​I’m not a rat if you’re not a rat / I won’t say nothin’ if you touch me like that.” I’m still furious that in one of my many moves I lost my vinyl version of their sophomore EP State of the State (2018), which was half cotton candy pink and half baby blue (if you moved into my Bushwick apartment and found it… DM me). Pillow Queens were even the first band I ever interviewed for Paste. 

Needless to say, my mates and I were fervent fans when In Waiting came out, and it instantly became the soundtrack to our friendship. The record felt like a culmination of something when it was released in September of 2020, about six months into lockdown. Those 10 songs shone like a ray of light, a bit of hope creeping in. Woven together with booze-soaked antics, hometown pride and torrid love affairs, the album reminded us what life was like before things changed irrevocably. It begged us to hang on just a little while longer, to dare to imagine that circumstances could improve. We listened to Pillow Queens’ debut so much that we had inside jokes about certain songs, based on our own mondegreens or made-up lyrics. I’m not exaggerating when I say that In Waiting was instrumental in getting us through some of our darkest days. And as much as I love listening to the album, I also find it somewhat painful—not necessarily because of lockdown associations, but because In Waiting so easily pierces me to my core. 

Anyone who’s woken up after a night out wracked with anxiety about all the humiliating things they may have said or done will relate to the LP’s opening track, “Holy Show.” Connolly recalls having possibly made a fool of herself the evening before, the salty grit of her voice giving an edge to her rueful, hungover lament: “If you remember a thing about it / Tell me that it’s not bad / Why’d I even say that?” Organ-like synth at the start, emboldened by reverb-laden bass, leans into a literal interpretation of the song’s title—though in truth “holy show” is an Irish phrase for having embarrassed yourself (e.g. “I made a holy show of myself last night when I downed a bottle of wine and sang the Wicked soundtrack from start to finish”). And despite all the potential for shame, there’s also a sweetness and sensuality to the track. Connolly reminds us that forgetting your inhibitions isn’t all bad as she sings, “I’ve got your eyes and cheeks in front of me / Filling the space between my thighs.” “Holy Show” is an excellent preview of what’s to come on the album: soul-stirring harmonies, yearning guitar, robust drums and cinematic crescendos of sound. 

The following song, “Child of Prague,” reminds me yet again why I love Pillow Queens so much: They wear their Irishness on their sleeve, not in a way that panders to international perceptions of their country, but because it’s simply who they are. In fact, that goes for their music in every regard—Pillow Queens’ music is effortlessly imbued with their Irishness, their queerness, their political passions and everything else that makes them them. There are no facades here, no posturing. Their music comes across as a startlingly honest representation of who they were at the time of writing. As for this track, the title “Child of Prague” is a reference to a certain statue of the baby Jesus, which has been recreated and is quite popular amongst Catholic households in Ireland—it’s even referenced in the Season 2 Derry Girls episode “Ms. De Brún and the Child of Prague.” There’s also some fun superstitions around it, including that if you bury the statue upside down in your garden before tying the knot, you’ll have good weather on your wedding day (it works, by the way—my mother-in-law buried the little guy and I got married on the hottest day of the year). The song itself sounds like buttery sunshine, all lackadaisical, summery guitar and winsome lead vocals courtesy of Corcoran. She sings of unrequited love, but also cheekily alludes to the fate of the titular statue: “You ruined it by leaving me outside in the snow / Now my head’s in the ground, my neck is weak.” The back-and-forth between guitars at the end—driving on the one hand, and silvery and delicate on the other—showcases Pillow Queens’ balanced, many-layered approach to songwriting. 

“Handsome Wife” starts almost in medias res, as we’re immediately greeted by buzzing guitar and the group’s exquisite harmonies. Connolly takes lead vocal duties here, and the lyrics are unrepentantly romantic: “Nothing like a kiss goodnight / It tastes like ‘til the day I die.” Originally titled “Pregnant With,” “Handsome Wife” makes allusions to Catholicism—in Ireland, most people grow up culturally Catholic even if their families don’t practice—that add a richness to the lyrics. It’s also a reminder that while the Church is a horrendous institution, there’s plenty of gothic beauty to be found in Catholic imagery. You’d be hard-pressed not to scream-sing along to the chorus: “I may not be the wife you want / But I’m pregnant with the virgin tongue.” Connolly’s voice is a force to be reckoned with here—triumphant, longing and breathtakingly powerful. The guitar breakdown near the end of the song is pure, rip-roaring fun, before the joyous noise of “Handsome Wife” abates, closing on a simple drum machine beat. Thoughtful little touches, like the quiet percussion outro here, are what make In Waiting a truly excellent album. That production choice lends the song extra fullness; even though “Handsome Wife” kicks off firing on all cylinders, it has a distinct beginning, middle and ending, reminding us that Pillow Queens are sonic storytellers at heart. 

Lyons’ drums are full-force in your ears for “HowDoILook,” a bouncy, electric reflection on self-consciousness and personal anxieties. Corcoran’s lyrics are utterly relatable as she observes just how untrustworthy our own brains can be: “I just can’t let my mind wander / It always takes a dodgy street and I get nervous / And just retreat.” The bridge builds beautifully, Pillow Queens’ silky “ooohs” punctuated by angular jabs of guitar. The very end of “HowDoILook” features the four singing the chorus of the next track, “Liffey,” a capella. It’s a moment I’ve heard live at many a Pillow Queens show, yet it never fails to leave me speechless. The way the band members’ voices blend together is simply sublime, and Connolly takes center stage with her rough-edged, plaintive performance. 

“Liffey” is named for the river that Dublin was founded on over a thousand years ago, and which bisects the city into the Northside and Southside. Just as the body of water is the geographical and historical heart of Dublin, “Liffey” is undoubtedly the heart of In Waiting. It’s part hymn, part folk song and all rock anthem. Wavering, organ-like sounds lend the song an air of gravitas before pounding drums and robust guitars bowl over the listener. The verses surge with an irresistible sense of anticipation, and the pay-off is monumental. The slow-building clamor gives way to the pummeling, all-consuming energy of the chorus. The band members’ voices join together with a fateful air, Connolly’s at the helm, foretelling a ruinous future (replete with imagery evoking the beheading of John the Baptist): “Someday you will have my head / You will have my head on a silver plate.” I find myself cleaved in two by “Liffey,” much like the city is by the song’s namesake. I’m open and raw when listening to it, yet somehow that frightening vulnerability makes me feel stronger than before. 

Flipping over to side B, the aural doom dissipates, but the sense of oncoming disaster remains as Corcoran sings of Ireland’s housing crisis on “A Dog’s Life.” It’s an issue that’s only become worse over the last four years, with the Irish Times reporting that the country reached a record high of nearly 15,000 unhoused people in November of this year. As for the song itself, feedback gets the hair on the back of your neck bristling before devil-may-care guitar saunters in. Corcoran lays out the sorry state of affairs, singing, “We dream: of self sufficiency / We lean: a collective deficiency.” And yet, even as young people move away from Ireland in droves in search of a better life, there is resilience, both in the song’s upbeat atmosphere and the lyrics themselves: “We’ve an unwillingness to / Give up and fail and fade.” 

Next up is “Gay Girls,” a beloved queer anthem featuring reverb-drenched guitar and ticking percussion. Every now and then, a crunchy guitar riff zigs in on the verse, satisfyingly punctuating a particular line. Lyons’ insistent drums lead up to a glorious chorus filled with tongue-in-cheek lyrics like, “I won’t worry about the gay girls / I pray for them when I wring my hands.” The climbing guitar on the bridge tees us up for one of the most transcendent moments on the album: The band sing raucously as one, giving us the sense that we’re all in this together. Next up is the romantic, ’50s-inspired number “Harvey,” named for the love interest from Sabrina the Teenage Witch. You can practically picture couples slowdancing at a prom, pastel streamers above them and balloons at their feet. It’s such a dreamy song, including the final minute-plus of silvery, steady percussion and gentle, lullaby-ready guitar. That wistfulness carries on into “Brothers,” which celebrates the men in Pillow Queens’ lives and was written after the loss of a loved one. Given the emotional repression that the patriarchy demands of men, there is something so beautifully subversive about the openheartedness of this song, especially as Connolly proclaims, “There goes the man I want to be / I love my brothers and my brothers love me.”

Finally, we’re seen out by “Donaghmede,” which shares its name with a suburb in northern Dublin. It’s spare to start, just Connolly’s jaw-dropping voice and guitar. “Stay for a week / in sunny Donaghmede with me,” she implores. Guitar reverberates with the comforting regularity of waves as Connolly continues, “Stay, stay, stay / ‘Cause I feel so safe In the warm embrace of the northern bay.” Buzzing, zinging guitar lifts up the melody on this slow burn of a track before distorted fuzz, layered vocals and punchy drums all come together to create a spectacular, overwhelming wall of sound. As the song closes, kinetic until the very last moment, there’s an incredible feeling of release. Pillow Queens did it. We were there to witness it. What an utter joy. None of us know what the rest of the decade holds, but when I need to be split in two with emotion then glued back together again to face this harrowing world, I’ll always turn to In Waiting.

Clare Martin is a cemetery enthusiast and Paste’s associate music editor.