![]() But when Shauf sings, “All that time spent wondering / How things could be completely different / Don’t let it get to you,” it sounds almost as if the narrator is talking to Himself.Norm, the eighth album from singer-songwriter Andy Shauf, is a shimmering arc with unsettling silences that complete its story, the pop and hiss of a needle on a turntable after the song ends, emptiness like a trap door into something tender and terrifying. On the gentle, almost languid “Don’t Let It Get to You,” God offers one last piece of guidance. Beginning as piano ballads, “Norm” and “Daylight Dreaming” are lifted by dreamlike digital orchestration. “Wasted on You” and “Halloween Store,” the best two songs on the album, are grounded by acoustic guitar but both feature lush instrumental breaks and repeating hooks. The trick of “Norm” is that it functions on two levels, never digging its heels in the narrative at the expense of its sound. On “Daylight Dreaming” and “Long Throw,” we hear from the other side of Norm’s obsession, as our new narrator sings vaguely about an aforementioned blue car and a callback to “Telephone.” On the final track, all three narrators return to the album’s central question: “Was all of my love wasted on you?” Shauf nails the punchline in his signature deadpan: “At least I locked one door.” Take “Halloween Store,” which, in its first three verses, tells the story of a guy who gets in his car, realizes he forgot to lock the house, then locks himself out of the car. Of course, “Norm” also showcases Shauf’s mastery of finding melodrama in the mundane. On the title track, Norm has a revelation while drifting asleep on the sofa watching “The Price Is Right,” as God “speaks into his dream.” “Stop these wicked ways and I will lead you to the promised land,” God tells Norm when the TV goes silent, and you get the sense He derives some sort of pleasure out of spooking him. In Shauf’s world, God is a voyeur, a counselor, a flawed being with deep regret, revealing Norm with each subtle narrative twist. Can either of our narrators can be trusted? ![]() “Three rows behind / And the lights are still not down / He sees you turning around / Slides down his seat, tumbles to the ground,” Shauf sings. The omniscient “Paradise Cinema,” with eerie woodwinds and a guitar riff that crawls up your spine, follows Norm as he follows his love interest into a movie theater. With each turn, Norm shifts from down bad to just bad. He’s taking you outside the city and telling you how long he’s loved you for. He’s following you through the grocery store. But as he sings of playful pranks and light conversations, we start to wonder if Norm is heartbroken over a fizzled flame or if he’s on a sinister pursuit. It becomes apparent later on that we’re listening to the album’s titular character, Norm. “I want to hear your voice reaching late into the night.” “I wish you’d call me on the telephone” he sings over sparkling synths, with hopeless desperation. On “Catch Your Eye” and “Telephone,” the album comes down to Earth, our narrator now a man yearning for human connection. The song is so slick and catchy it’s easy to miss that it’s about mourning a child and wondering if humanity is a lost cause. ![]() “Maybe I’ll send You down / Give them a clue / Then they’ll kill You,” Shauf sings, assuming the perspective of God. On its surface, the shimmery album opener “Wasted on You” might sound like a sorrowful lament after a romantic split: “Was all my love wasted on you?” But listen closely and the verses tell a much deeper story, about a father-son relationship. When given closer attention, the album unfurls into an anthology of dark, interconnected tales of loss, unrequited love and casual brushes with the divine. Upon first listen, “Norm” is a gorgeously produced collection of short folk-fiction.
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