“Howl” is a four-letter word. Merriam-Webster defines it—as a verb—“to cry out loudly and without restraint under strong impulse […].” One may associate its utterance with the lonesome wail of a wolf or feral dog. Allen Ginsberg adopted it as the title of his controversial and legendary long-form 1955 poem. Seven decades later, Ottawa, Ontario-based songwriter Gabriel Comba has again recycled the word in search of new meaning to be evoked and explored.
Comba initially caught my attention by referencing artists such as Songs: Ohia, Red House Painters, Duster, and MJ Lenderman in his press release for this single. As a fan of all the aforementioned acts—one with a particular interest in this new wave of Molina-core indie rock—I was drawn to give it a spin myself. Even the simple black-and-white illustration that adorns the single’s cover art recalls a gem from the golden age of lo-fi/DIY indie (a la early Smog and the Drag City roster). He certainly knows his influences and their collective audience, conjuring a three-chord dirge that would be right at home among the original upstarts of 1990s slowcore.
Throughout the 4:14 runtime of “Howl,” Comba’s tender, yearning voice rises and falls, gradually morphing into more of a pronounced lament than a wild, unrestrained cry in itself. His lyrics are sparse and simple, never explicitly invoking the song’s title by name, reflecting a desire to create space rather than to fill it. Drums and bass follow, plodding solemnly through the minimal chord progression. If there is any howling to be had here, it is through the mangled scream of Comba’s guitar, which politely minds its neighbors before erupting into an anguished blast of fury around the 2:20 mark, exploding in a dissonant yet controlled rage before finally succumbing to a resigned acceptance. The rhythm section brings the journey to a close, Comba’s mournful whistle trailing off in the distance.
Written by Jacob Simons
