Some albums sound like they were built in a studio. Pylon sounds like it got dragged through real life first.
Beabadoobee has stopped trying to smooth out the rough edges here. The guitars have more bite, the quiet moments feel more exposed, and there’s a restless tension that never fully lets up. It moves between nostalgia, frustration, affection and uncertainty, sometimes within the same song. What makes it work is that none of it feels calculated. It sounds like Laus is still figuring things out and decided to leave the cracks showing instead of covering them.
The title track sets that tone, building slowly into a wall of guitars, before “Sun Has Set” brings the first real bite. “Estranged” pulls things back, capturing that uncomfortable gap between caring about someone and feeling completely cut off from them.
Then “Switchblade” kicks the door open again: loud, nervous, and impatient. “Write Me A Letter” has a scruffy punk energy, while “It’s Alright” feels almost deliberately unconvincing. Everything isn’t alright, and the song knows it.
“Memories” is one of the real highlights. Warm and nostalgic without tipping into sentimental, it has that strange pull of making you think about an earlier version of yourself and wonder where that person went.
“Nothing To Prove”, with Hayley Williams, adds another burst of energy. “Radio” leans into ’90s alternative rock. “Powerlines”, featuring Brendan Yates, brings back that push and pull tension.
By the time “Satellite” fades out, I’m not looking for a big conclusion. I’ve spent the album moving through the noise, the nostalgia, and the uncertainty, right alongside Beabadoobee, and I’m fine leaving it there. Some records hand you an answer. This one just leaves you sitting with the question.
What gets me is a memory I hadn’t thought about in years. I can feel the cold wall against my back, the rough edge of the bedsheet under my hand, and headphones a little too tight around my ears. The room is almost dark except for the blue-white glow of my phone. I remember the stale taste of the last sip of whatever I’d been drinking, the quiet hum of the radiator. Someone I loved was on my mind, and I remember wondering how two people could once know every small thing about each other and somehow end up strangers. Pylon put me right back in that room.
When the album ends, I leave the headphones on and stare at the ceiling. For a few seconds there’s just the faint hiss of silence and the feeling of being somewhere I thought I’d left behind. Nothing gets fixed. I don’t think the album is trying to fix anything. It just makes the past feel close enough to touch again, and that’s what stayed with me.
Review by Karen Edmond
