Jekyll

"Jekyll" drops into one of the group's most emotionally shadowed corners — a room where duality is the only honest architecture. Bender's bass coils rather than walks, and the percussion carries a barely-contained menace beneath its polyrhythmic surface. Nai Palm's performance here is among her most expressively controlled: she doesn't lean into the drama, she holds it at measured distance while still letting it saturate every vowel. The Jekyll and Hyde frame is rendered not as cliché but as genuine reckoning — singing to someone (or herself) whose capacity for care and capacity for damage occupy the same body. Chord voicings shift chromatically in ways that evoke unease without becoming dissonant for its own sake, a difficult balance that the Melbourne quartet navigate with complete confidence. The arrangement has the tightness that only accumulates from thousands of hours of ensemble playing, each musician intuiting space. You reach for this when you're sitting with the complexity of someone you love — the version of them that shows up and the version that doesn't. The song doesn't resolve neatly. That's precisely its emotional truth.