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Photo: Luke Rogers

Setting always overperforms in memories, the temporal rooting of our emotional architecture so the where of feeling is so distinct. For us and Ashe it began on a Hollywood rooftop—a too bright overexposed day, her fighting the heat in her own impossible way (a bright turtleneck sweater), the distant hum of industrial-size HVAC quickly overpowered by Ashe’s dynamic voice and piano chords reminding us that “sometimes people suck.” Nothing could remove the stickiness of that sonic souvenir, a true before and after moment that feels purposefully intertwined with everything we do, and with the release of her third album Willson, a work that will certainly be a contender for all the album of the year lists, we are left with a collage of scenes, sights, and sounds to celebrate her once more. 

“Please don’t fall in love with me,” the first track off the album, might be a good warning but for most of us, but it’s too late. Additional warning to those who are pained by affection denned up into words, for this will read as a love letter to an artist who always reminded us how celebratory we should be, living, breathing, singing, and playing to the very fabric of what we do, a warm blanket wrapped between creator and editorialist. But what a song to begin with, a micro cataclysm of her artistry, sweet and coy over delicate piano, then rapturous and provocatively honest and back again. Followed by the smash single “Running Out of Time,” a wildly fun tale of risk-taking, desperate to some, courageous to others, with a driving beat and some sailing choruses, it's the cheerful bold statement for this album in full.

Contextual interlude here: much of this album, released by Ashe herself, is about the “precious hard middle” of the past few years—personal crises, the death of a sibling, a global pandemic that paired with a cross-continent move, a tour canceled, a label left behind, new love, engagement, a woman owning her own business, personal and otherwise. The turbulence of that time, how it capsizes even the best within us, is partially encapsulated in another pop gem with country bunting, “I Wanna Love You (But I Don’t),” but also in the precious hard middle of the album itself, a purge of various neuroses on languidly and sweet “Helter Skelter, the dark pop polish of “Dear Stranger,” and what we believe to be the sleeper hit of the album, the '80s sounding, vibey bridge filled radio jam “Honest Nest.”

The backend of the album does have a feeling of a third-part resolve, starting with the chaotically sad “Castle” which is filled with explosive firework-feeling drums and guitars, a quite loud track that pulls the sharp narrative together beautifully. Followed by the delicately earnest single “I hope you die first,” a string and acoustic guitar that pulls your heart in every direction, which carries on in “Devil Herself,” a piano-framed composition that takes religious metaphors for love unabated and unrequited and slowly screws the delivery into a final vocal nail. 

Ending on the self-named moniker “Ashe,” a song about and to herself, which couldn’t be a more appropriate outdo to this permissive journey, both physically and mentally. A song that expels, expunges, and even has a cry mirror a bodily exhale. Ashe has spoiled us on so many levels that it's hard to surmise its impactful joy, championing success made easy, a good person becomes a great artist and every accolade feels true. Willson takes us through the past like a relief map of memories, the places and happy architecture, a course correction, or two, but always making the setting, where we were, where she was performing, feel like home. 

Listen to Willson below: