Laveda – Love, Darla

I first heard Laveda during a DKFM Dreamgaze event in lockdown and was blown away by their flawless performance of ‘Blue Beach’ in particular. That was the moment I knew they weren’t just another band finding their feet. They had something magnetic that made it through that amazing streamed set on my computer screen.

Formed in Albany by Ali Genevich and Jacob Brooks, the band first found its shape during long winter months in 2018 when they began recording singles at home. Their debut album What Happens After landed in 2020, right in the middle of lockdown. Fair to say I was obsessed with it. Its anxious, bottled-up tension was the sound of a world standing still. By the time they reached their second full length, A Place You Grew Up In, they had drawn drummer Joe Taurone and bassist Dan Carr into the fold, pulling their music closer to the grit of their hometown while also hinting at something bigger. That record closed a chapter for the band and changes were afoot.

Moving to Queens in 2023 gave them a new backdrop: steel, neon, night noise. Out of that shift comes their third and most unrestrained vision yet, Love, Darla. This album switches out those lush dreamy vibes for something a bit edgier. Their PR says,

Let’s drop the needle and see where this change of direction takes us.

The opening track ‘Care’ wastes no time. It builds on feedback and hum before exploding into jagged No Wave guitars. It shares the same reckless lurch of Sonic Youth’s Sister. Genevich sings through the chaos, her voice steady against the scrape of distortion. It feels like the city pressing in, trains screeching underground, sparks bouncing off rail lines. A powerful opening, it sets the temperature for what follows.

‘Cellphone’ punches straight into the discomfort of modern life. Lyrics tumble almost like prose, breathless and jagged, about the pressure of being always on and always visible. Genevich has called it pure angst and you hear that in every corner. Guitars scrape while the rhythm section holds a stubborn, motorik drive. By the end you feel itchy, like you want to throw your phone out the window.

‘I Wish’ keeps the momentum going, but here the motorik energy tilts into something more hypnotic. It feels like a late-night walk with streetlights flicking past in quick succession. The vocals land like fragments of thought drifting into the static. Where ‘Cellphone’ was claustrophobic, ‘I Wish’ leans into trance, letting repetition smooth out the edges.

Then everything folds into ‘Dig Me Out’. A quieter song, softer in its core. The guitars swoon instead of cut. Genevich sings with a weariness that pulls you in close. It’s a heartbroken piece, gravity pulling it downwards, but the beauty sits in that undertow. I found myself quite affected by this one. From the nursery rhyme mantra vocals to that guitar swell at the end I was just sucked in.

‘Strawberry’ rises out of that quiet like a jolt of red and sugar. The drums lock in with a sharp snap, bass swinging across three notes like a metronome. Knowing it came from live jams makes sense. You can almost feel the rehearsal room sweat. Guitars bending into melodic bursts and the lyrics circle around inner demons and escape, and the song itself sounds like a sprint away from something chasing you. Raw, alive, constantly shifting, it’s a clear centrepiece for the album.

‘Heaven’ shares that origin story of being tested on stage, and it carries that same open energy. It rolls with more space though. There’s light breaking through here, the vocals stretching further, reaching for air. This is almost like Laveda of old, but now that dreaminess is tempered by dissonance. You can picture the crowd swaying as guitars climb upward. It’s one of the record’s brighter bursts.

By the time you hit ‘Highway Meditation’, the album shifts lanes. The track stretches out across the speakers, patient and driving. It feels like a long night drive on empty roads, headlights glowing against a black horizon. The guitars are looser, almost wandering, yet the rhythm keeps the wheels turning. It’s meditative and kinda sleepy, the kind of song you want when you’re trying to leave something behind. Then as we enter the final verse the band hit the gas and we’re off. Pure exhilaration.

‘Bonehead’ drags you right back into heaviness, but not until the band ease us in gently. Guitars and bass rattle, and the drums sound like they’re pounding through concrete. This feels like a march in places, then we’re floating in others. I love that contrast and great to hear Brooks voice enter the fray here too.

‘Tim Burton’s Tower’ comes as a strange dream. I just love the title and that title fits the mood. It’s eerie and playful, with tones that tilt toward the surreal. Genevich sings like she’s wandering through crooked hallways and flickering shadows. It’s one of those tracks that lingers after it ends, like the afterimage of a film.

The album wraps up with ‘Lullaby’ and it doesn’t calm things so much as let them fade. The guitars soften but still hum, like machinery powering down. The melody is tender, almost whispered. It feels like the record is finally letting you step away from the chaos and then we’re pulled back in as the band create a sonic vortex that engulfs us. Then its over.

Love, Darla is Laveda at their most unfiltered. Every track carries the sound of New York’s noise pressed into song, yet the intimacy of their earlier work hasn’t gone anywhere. The feedback, the rush, the cities grind all frame lyrics about searching for meaning when the world feels unstable. It’s an album that holds contradiction: both harsh and delicate, restless and still. By the end, you feel like you’ve been on the subway with them, sweating under fluorescent lights one moment, watching the skyline open the next. Love might be fractured, but Laveda makes the ride unforgettable.

Love, Darla is out now on vinyl and CD via Bar/None Records. Follow the band on the Laveda Bandcamp page.

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Photo Credit

Mars Alba