Burning her candle at both ends, the Nashville native has penned a poignant ode to unrequited love under the frantic fumes of spontaneity.
Short and sweet, an undeniably emphatic combination, and a compound that this one woman show is fully proficient in. On her opening night, Liz Moss has delivered a masterclass in sonic authenticity, melding the starry-eyed charm of bedroom-pop with that pseudo-vintage granularity of modern-indie folk that has made contemporaries Phoebe Bridgers and Clairo so revered.
Despite being based on an adrenaline-induced emergency situation, Smoke Alarms is succinct without sounding rushed, brief enough to keep you gripped but packed with spades of sentimentality and raw emotion. It’s hard to believe this a first attempt, if I hadn’t of known, I’d assume it was a prelude to a long awaited third album.
Smoke Alarms is, in the simplest telling, a bittersweet vignette about unrequited love. It follows a girl who sets off her building’s fire alarm in hopes that she’ll see her crush during the evacuation. To her dissatisfaction, they do not make the connection she’d hoped to forge, even after doing everything she could to get to know her crush.
A smoke alarm, by design, is meant to draw your attention and provoke a reaction, so in a way unbeknownst to her, you could say Moss has fulfilled the nuance of the title. Guitar in hand, her honeyed inflection acts as the glue that binds you to its stylish simplicity, driven by an impalpable sense of mysticism. Though romantic at first, this tale of yearning carries a sting in its tail, hindered by the lack of a fairytale ending, but that’s okay, this isn’t a melancholic lullaby. It’s more of a berceuse-esque soothing refrain, fueled within a cutesy bubble of twilight kisses and soft-centred ruminations.
Coming in at just under 2 minutes, it’s the quickest source of dopamine around, and i’m positively addicted.