The Plain-Spoken Magic of Cautious Clay’s “Deadpan Love”
Image courtesy of Lightning100.com
It’s inferable enough that Cautious Clay takes his name from the great boxer Cassius Marcellus. He has yet to gain fame equal to that of his namesake, but the 28-year-old writer and producer from Cleveland, Ohio has proven worthy of his moniker. From his enduringly popular debut single “Cold War,” to the two EPs and multiple collaborative singles he put out in the following four years, to his first full-length album, Deadpan Love, which he released this June, it seems that Cautious Clay can’t help but make great music.
Most of the songs on Deadpan Love have an NPR Tiny Desk Concert quality to them. The production of the album is as candid as its lyrics, such that we can hear all of the tools used to create the songs while Clay’s husky, melodic voice stays front and center. It makes for a stripped, intimate sort of sound that lets listeners appreciate the attention to detail that went into the music. Every miniscule element seems to arrive exactly at the right moment.
All 14 songs indisputably belong on the same tracklist, yet the album is still able to successfully traverse through different moods and vibes. Much of the first half of the album is noisy, upbeat, and even funny. Clay sings “Could be easier to drive you back / like I’m Jason Statham,” on “Dying in the Subtlety,” wondering how he should react to what he interprets to be romantic signals from a friend. In the music video, he holds up a cardboard cutout of Statham’s face. On “Strange Love,” which features the album’s only collaborator, Saba, Clay nonchalantly examines his own patterns of unfulfilling consumerism, name-dropping designer brands on the chorus.
The latter half of the album brings a much different tone as Clay further explores the confusing nature of human relationships and touches on his desire to numb his emotions. Grounded by a gorgeous acoustic guitar, “Wildfire” sees Clay wax poetic about a lover, nervously confessing feelings before revealing his uncertainty that their actions are genuine: “You’re starting up a wildfire in my heart / hope it’s what you want / not just what you do.” On “Whoa,” he admits to the all-too-relatable habit of repressing his overwhelming feelings. The light piano melody on “Spinner” creates the perfect vehicle for the soft falsetto Clay floats into. Lastly, the album’s closer, “Bump Stock,” effectively ties together what Clay has been expressing the entire time: “I don’t wanna love / I don’t wanna hate / I don’t wanna feel anymore.” Somehow, these songs aren’t sad to listen to. They’re just honest.
Back in 2017, “Cold War”—which is, in my opinion, an uncommonly perfect piece of music—demonstrated Clay’s skill at making distinctly emotional music without sacrificing nuance. Deadpan Love further illustrates that skill, masterfully encapsulating feelings of confusion, ennui, and wanting to feel nothing at all. Grappling with how exhausting one’s own emotions can be, not to mention decoding those of other people in a world where too many people conceal what they really feel, Clay’s album is refreshingly forthright and often startlingly beautiful.