On Church, Don’t Blink casually dissolves genres. The album unspools like a basement transmission from a parallel universe where lo-fi psych, indie rock, and gospel soul collide in slow motion. There’s a rawness to the production—tape hiss lingers, instruments bleed into each other, vocals feel both intimate and untethered—but it’s all in service of a vision that’s hard to pin down and easy to get pulled into.
The opener, “Over and Over,” announces itself with conviction. It’s a love song, sure, but not one that leans into cliché. Instead, it builds on a steady, hypnotic groove, the kind that feels just slightly off-kilter in the best way. When the vocalist sings, “It’s the power of our love,” it doesn’t land like a declaration—it lingers, melancholic and strangely uplifting. That duality—hope entangled with sorrow—runs throughout the album, carried largely by the singer’s idiosyncratic voice, which wavers between wearied and weightless.
“Push Me, Pull You” follows in a similar emotional register, bolstered by warm organ swells that stretch out like sun through stained glass. The rhythm section stays grounded, allowing the arrangement to breathe without losing its pulse. It’s a subtle high point, one that rewards close listening.
Elsewhere, Church sharpens its edges. “Be Careful What You Wish For” surges forward on a restless, dynamic groove, its guitar work sharp and expressive without ever slipping into indulgence. “The Truth of You” leans into distortion with a textural richness that recalls early My Morning Jacket or even Pink Moon through a broken speaker. And then there’s “The Turnaround,” a taut, slippery funk-inflected track with a bassline so kinetic it threatens to launch the whole song skyward.
As the record moves into its back half, Don’t Blink continues to stretch. “Caught in the Backslide” toys with restraint and release, while “And A Bird Can Sing” dips a toe into woozy, psych-folk territory. The title track, “Church,” feels like a thesis statement: meditative, sprawling, unafraid to take its time. It all culminates in “Grey Skies,” a tender, slow-burning ballad that closes the album on a quietly devastating note.
Don’t Blink have made a record that doesn’t rush to explain itself. Church lives in its own world, unconcerned with trends or algorithms. It’s a record that takes its time—and asks you to do the same.
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